The Road Trip: The heart-warming new novel from the author of The Flatshare and The Switch by Beth O'Leary (i have read the book .txt) 📗

‘So are we going to try one of these aberrations, then?’ Marcus says, pointing to the sign advertising Greggs vegan sausage rolls.

‘I thought they went against your philosophy,’ I say, falling into step beside him.

He grins at me. ‘You ought to know I never stick to one philosophy for long.’ His smile drops as we enter the service station doors. ‘Dyl . . .’

He glances behind him; the others are still crossing the car park, Addie’s glasses glinting in the sun. She’s unfastened the top of her dungarees to cool off, so the top part hangs down, flapping at her waist; underneath she’s wearing a tight white crop top that clings to her skin and the ruched fabric of her bra.

‘You know your dad offered me a job?’

I turn back to Marcus, faltering mid step. ‘My dad?’

I watch him resist the urge to say something facetious – I can see the words on the tip of his tongue, then the thought that swallows them back.

‘Doing what?’ I ask.

‘Copy-writing for the company’s new site. It’s just a six-month thing, but, ah . . .’

It’s a job my father has offered me countless times: the best I can do for an English graduate who’s got no work experience. I’m sure offering it to Marcus is intended as a jab for me – why else would my father care to offer one of my friends a lifeline?

‘I really need it, Dyl. I’ve got no money coming in from Dad still, and a criminal record,’ Marcus says, pulling a face. Even Marcus – the man who makes things happen – could not get the police to drop the charges when he drunkenly smashed up the front of an estate agent’s office.

‘Well, then take it.’

‘I didn’t realise you two weren’t speaking.’

‘Luke has cut him out too. When he and Javier told Mum and Dad about their engagement, Dad said he wouldn’t come to their wedding. So . . .’

Marcus winces. ‘Fuck. I . . . I didn’t know. Luke must be . . .’

‘Yeah. It’s been tough. But he deserves more than half-recognition from his father. For what it’s worth, I think cutting Dad off has been much healthier for Luke than seeing him and never being able to bring Javier home.’

‘I should call Luke. I’ve been – I need to call him.’

We walk on in silence. Luke forgave Marcus long before me, but then, it’s easier to forgive when it wasn’t your life that was ruined – and living thousands of miles away in the States can’t hurt, either.

‘If . . . if you don’t want me to take the job . . .’ Marcus’s eyes are pleading.

For a swift moment I’m tempted to say, No, don’t take it, and see how much his loyalty to me will stretch, but I don’t. I’m not that man. And I suspect he may well have already accepted.

‘Of course you should take it. It’s a good opportunity.’

We’ve wandered into Waitrose, drawn by the cool blast of the fridges; Marcus opens the door to the milk and makes a show of trying to climb in, and despite myself, I laugh.

‘Remember when you made me down four pints of milk after a night out at Wahoo?’ he says, rubbing his back against the cool glass like a bear against a tree.

Wahoo was one of the Oxford nightclubs – actually a sports bar that transformed itself for students at night. It always smelled of sweetcorn and inexplicably played the shopping channel on its TV screens while the DJ blasted out something by Flo Rida.

‘I did not make you down four pints of milk,’ I say, glancing at the tills. A young woman in a Waitrose uniform gives us an uncertain look; she is presumably trying to work out which rule Marcus is breaking by attempting to insert himself into the milk fridge.

‘You definitely did,’ Marcus says. ‘Why else would I have done it?’ He flashes me a grin that says he knows what I’m going to tell him.

‘Because you’re a senseless hedonist,’ I say, and his grin widens. ‘Come on, get out of there, the woman behind the till is trying to work out if she needs to section you.’

I flinch at my choice of words, but Marcus doesn’t clock it; he throws the woman at the till a look.

‘Eh, she’s harmless,’ he says. ‘Wouldn’t call security even if I pinched a two-pinter. Which I won’t,’ he says, rolling his eyes as my smile drops. ‘Christ, what will it take to convince you I don’t do that sort of thing any more?’

Addie, Rodney and Deb come into the shop and pause as they catch sight of Marcus trying to pull the fridge door closed with him inside. I give him a pointed look as he registers their expressions.

‘Well, if you were hoping for a full personality transplant, you might as well give up on me now,’ he says, and he’s not grinning any longer. ‘But I’m hoping you’ll meet me halfway.’

‘Excuse me,’ says the lady at the till. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Oh, would you?’ Marcus calls back. ‘I just need a foot up and a few milk cartons shifted and I reckon I can wriggle into the second shelf.’

‘I’m not . . . I don’t think you’re meant to be doing that,’ she says, perplexed.

To my surprise, I can hear Deb and Addie laughing. I glance at them and the sight of Addie hiding her giggle behind a hand, her bracelets sliding down her arm, sets off something warm deep in my stomach, like the moment hot water hits tea. That laugh sounds like comfort, easy pleasure, the delight of somebody you love loving you back. I’d forgotten the way her eyes narrow when she laughs.

Marcus is right, I think – I’m pushing him too hard, expecting too much, or perhaps expecting the wrong thing altogether. He’s Marcus. That’s not going to change. And, quite honestly, as I watch him reason with the bemused shop