The Road Trip by Beth O'Leary (books for 6 year olds to read themselves .txt) 📗

I pause for a moment. ‘Umm.’

‘Yeah,’ Dylan says.

‘He’s an adult,’ I say. ‘He wouldn’t drive off without us.’

We all think about it.

‘Maybe you should stay with him,’ I say. ‘Just in case.’

Dylan

The first emergency phone call comes from Rodney, approximately forty minutes after he and Addie have left in search of Deb.

‘Oh, hi? Dylan?’

‘Yes?’ I say patiently, watching Marcus pacing the perimeter of the car park, kicking an empty Coke can as he goes. He’s antsy, which is concerning: if he doesn’t find entertainment soon, he’s going to create some. A line of poetry takes root as the sun beats down on my neck – Heavy-handed heat/Drumbeat, a Coke can skits between his feet . . .

‘Oh, hi, it’s Rodney. Umm? I think I’ve, I think I’ve found something. Was Deb wearing white trainers?’

I squint against the sunshine. Marcus is doing keepy-uppies now, very poorly.

‘Yeah? Maybe? I can’t really remember.’ I take a swig of water. The kind lady on the Budget Travel desk let me refill our bottles, and said she wouldn’t charge us for parking, in the circumstances. That might have had something to do with Marcus flashing her one of his oh-so-charming smiles, usually guaranteed to get him his way.

‘Because I’m in the river,’ Rodney begins, ‘and I think I’ve found one of Deb’s shoes. Is it possible she may have drowned?’

I spit out the water.

‘What?’

‘Well, in films, when you find someone’s shoe on a riverbank, it’s usually because they’re dead?’

‘Bloody hell, Rodney. Hang on. Are you sure it’s her shoe?’

‘It’s a white trainer,’ Rodney says. ‘Wasn’t she wearing those?’

‘I don’t . . . can you send me a picture? Maybe she just kicked them off and went for a dip to cool off.’

‘Where’s the other shoe, then?’ Rodney asks helpfully.

On her corpse obviously, according to my overactive imagination. No, that’s clearly ridiculous – Rodney is, after all, a completely ridiculous person.

‘Send me a picture of the shoe, maybe. I’m sure it’s fine, Rodney.’

‘OK. Thanks, Dylan! Speak soon!’ He rings off, casual as you like. I blink down at my phone.

‘Any news of our runaway?’ Marcus calls, kicking the Coke can at someone’s four-by-four. I flinch as the can catches the bumper.

‘She didn’t run away, technically,’ I point out. ‘We ran away from her. And no, Rodney’s just being weird, he thinks he’s found her . . . shoe . . .’ I finish, looking down at the photo Rodney has just sent over to me. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’

I hit dial.

‘Hello, Rodney speaking! How can I help?’

‘What? Rodney, it’s Dylan. That shoe. It’s a man’s shoe. Obviously. What size does it say on the bottom?’

There’s a pause.

‘Eleven,’ he says. ‘Oh! Does Deb have very big feet?’

‘No,’ I say, as patiently as I can manage. ‘No, Rodney, she doesn’t.’

‘Great! It’s someone else who must’ve drowned, then,’ Rodney says, sounding cheered. ‘I’ll get out the river, in that case.’

‘You’re . . . in the river? Actually in it?’

Marcus perks up at this and sidles nearer.

‘I’m trawling! For bodies!’

‘You’re . . .’

‘No need now though, if it isn’t Deb.’

Rodney’s absolute conviction that there is a dead body in the river is really throwing me.

‘OK. Thanks, Rodney. Keep at it.’

I pull a face at Marcus as I hang up. He laughs.

‘That man is truly pathetic,’ he says. ‘A wet flannel in human form.’

‘Leave him be,’ I tell him. ‘He doesn’t mean any harm. Would you stop kicking that? You’ll scratch their paintwork.’

‘You’re your father’s son,’ Marcus says, quirking his eyebrow and giving the can another kick. He sees my expression and relents, dribbling the can away again across the car park. It’s so hot we’re both sweating through our T-shirts, and I glance enviously towards the cool, air-conditioned lobby of the Budget Travel Hotel.

‘Come on, let’s sit in there,’ Marcus says, already heading inside. ‘Maggie at reception will be delighted for some company. Maggie, my darling Maggie,’ he coos as we step through the doors. ‘We’re melting.’

‘Oh! You poor loves. Won’t you come in? Sit in the lobby. Can I get you boys a drink?’

Maggie the receptionist has already fluttered off in a cloud of cheap perfume and the clatter of beaded necklaces. Marcus and I sit down on the plastic seats in the carpeted lobby of the hotel, and we stretch our legs out in unison with a groan; given all we’ve done all day is sit down in a car, I feel astonishingly exhausted.

‘How do you do it?’ Marcus asks, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘With Addie?’

‘Do what?’

‘You don’t even seem angry. After what she did to you. I just can’t understand it.’

I press my lips together and watch Maggie flit back and forth in the doorway behind the front desk, carrying various bits and pieces – glasses, ice-cube trays, and, at one point, a bottle of hairspray.

‘It’s complicated,’ I say. ‘Just leave it, Marcus.’

‘She cheated on you.’

I wince. ‘She . . .’

‘You know she did. I showed you the fucking photograph, Dylan.’

‘I know you did,’ I snap, before I can stop myself. ‘And have we talked about why you were there? Why you cared so much what she was up to?’

He goes still. After a long moment his hands shift, and he begins to tug at the thin loop of black leather he wears around his wrist, but he doesn’t lift his gaze towards me.

‘I’ve always had your back,’ he says eventually. His voice is quiet.

‘Yes, well. I think that rather went beyond the call of duty, didn’t it?’

Maggie descends with water glasses.

‘Oh, Maggie, you’re an angel. An angel,’ Marcus says, and it’s like the conversation we’ve just had never happened. I once wrote about that, the way that Marcus’s mood would shift lightning-like. A cloud ripped, gone/and the sun’s back/exposed, raw as joy/until the wind blows.

‘Thank you,’ I say, taking the glass of water from Maggie.

She hovers in front of us, all flushed cheeks and sensible shoes, blossoming under Marcus’s gaze. I’m saved from any more flirtation by my phone ringing. I