The Funny Thing about Norman Foreman by Julietta Henderson (sci fi books to read .TXT) 📗

and with the Fringe already in full swing, after a surprisingly quick confirmation that the place I’d booked in Edinburgh could accommodate us a night early, we decided to push through. Of course, there might also have been a little part of me that wanted to put as many miles between Norman and Adam Linley as possible, just in case he decided to come after us with his scooter and a paternity test. Because even though I’d secretly conceded he wasn’t quite as bad as my first impressions, I definitely wasn’t ready to think beyond that just yet. Or maybe ever.

By arriving in Edinburgh sooner, we’d have two full days and two nights before Norman’s show at the Duke, and he’d also be able to check out a few other people’s shows to ‘get him in the zone’, as Leonard put it. I was a bit worried about the possibility of that making him feel worse about his own show, but who knew. At this stage, certainly not me.

What I did know was that the thought of a gaggle of eager Facebook fans trampling down the doors of the Duke to catch Little Big Man’s show was tying my stomach in absolute knots, and I made a mental note to get some antacids at the next pit stop.

As the Austin settled in to eat up the four hundred and sixty-odd miles to Edinburgh, Norman huddled in the back seat and began going over his notes for the millionth time. After checking the road ahead for stray Ocado vans first, I quietly relayed the news to Leonard that, thanks to Adam, his humble Little Big Man Facebook event was suddenly threatening nearly three hundred punters in one tiny cellar room in a pub. And I’ll tell you right now that a problem shared is not a problem halved at all, because Leonard immediately looked every bit as worried as me. Which of course had the effect of making me even more antsy about it all. The macramé party in my stomach ramped up the fun and invited the neighbours.

When we stopped for a toilet break at a roadside café, as usual I was the first one back to the car. Norman was standing on the forecourt talking to an old lady who’d climbed out of her car with a cat on a leash, and I’d left Leonard having a very civil one-sided conversation with the attendant about how a Mars bar used to be 20 per cent bigger, and where was the justification in increasing the price by 40 per cent and dropping the size? It had looked like it was going to be a bit of a wait, but the attendant must have declared a surrender because Leonard made it back in second place.

We sat in the car in silence, waiting for Norman. Me concentrating on trying not to chew a third antacid too fast or too obviously and Leonard staring out of the windscreen at an invisible point beyond the motorway. He appeared completely lost in his own thoughts, so when he spoke it took me by surprise.

‘Sadie, it’s all going to be OK, you know.’ I swallowed a chalky chunk of antacid whole. ‘Somebody once told me that if you have a problem that can be fixed, there is no use in worrying. And if you have a problem that cannot be fixed, then there is no use in worrying.’ Leonard laughed softly in the direction of the motorway. ‘Smart woman, my Iris.’

I didn’t think I was imagining that the slack skin around his jowls appeared to be sagging a little more than usual, but then he turned and looked me directly in the eyes.

‘We are all of us stronger than we think, Sadie.’

More often than not, Leonard made a lot of sense and I was usually fairly impressed with the things he had to say. But this time, no matter how well meant his words were, I would have much preferred to hear something along the lines of, ‘Iris says if you have a problem heading your way at a hundred miles an hour, run at a hundred and one miles an hour in the other direction.’ Which sounds like much better advice to me, and far more what I was used to.

Norman climbed back in the car, bringing a whiff of cat and old-lady lavender with him, and we headed off down the road a great deal slower than a hundred and one miles an hour, and still in the very same direction as our problem. And half a packet of antacids hadn’t even touched the sides.

My task at this stage of the journey should have been to start thinking about calling or texting the next possible father. Also, the last possibility. But the thought didn’t inspire me with anything other than dread, considering the results to date.

It was nothing personal, though, because, despite the briefness of our brief encounter, my memories of James Knox, who, according to Leonard’s research, was probably still kicking around Edinburgh, weren’t entirely unpleasant.

Way too cool for me had been my first impression when I’d spotted him setting up with his band in the pub. All crazy spiky hair, tight leather jacket and musical angst, or at least as much as you could have when you’ve chosen the road to jazz. But after five large vodkas I’d decided to do my worst anyhow – even though, somehow, it cost me a job and probably quite a good bit of my dignity. The next morning he brought me a cup of tea in bed and I told him about my father. It was kind of a funny thing to talk about after a one-night stand, but there you are.

It had been right in the middle of the Fringe, if you’re up for that bombshell revelation. And if you believe in fate, or God, or meaningful signposts along a pretty barren road, then you might see the fact that, whoever was responsible, Norman