Part 90 (2/2)
He laughs. ”Yeah. So, you're stuck, huh?”
”No, I'm waiting for a rental car.”
”Cool.” He pulls out a chair and sits opposite me. ”You were crying.”
I snap my head up. ”I wasn't!”
”You were wiping your face with a sleeve and your eyes are red.” He digs his fingers into the chocolate cake and eats. ”You're travelling back to London, right?”
”Correct.”
”I'll give you a lift, if you want. I'm heading that way.” He licks the chocolate off his fingers. ”Long drive. Weather's s.h.i.+t. You don't want to leave here late and drive in the dark.”
Travelling with Nate for over five hours wouldn't be pleasant but would guarantee I'll get home tonight. Can I? ”Um. That's nice of you to ask, but I'm okay.”
”No you're not. Why not make the most of my good mood? It's pretty s.h.i.+t what's happened to you.”
”Yes, it is.”
”Let me help out.”
Bodys.n.a.t.c.hers maybe? Why is he being nice to me? He has a selfish streak as wide as the Nile; is there some compa.s.sion inside after all?
And still no response from the car rental company.
”When are you leaving?” I ask.
”When I've eaten your cake?” He digs in again. ”Surely we can be polite to each other for the journey?”
I waver. ”This is kind of you, Nate, but-”
”But you're being stubborn. Suit yourself.” He stands and picks up the remaining cake from the plate. ”I'll wait at reception in ten minutes. Drop the pride and hitch a ride with me.” He pushes the steaming coffee towards me. ”I might even be nice.”
Nate walks off, with cake, and I stare after his tall figure. Perhaps the Nate I caught glimpses of on the tour two years ago still exists. Deeply buried, but there.
7.
RILEY.
I drag the seatbelt across my lap and buckle into Nate's silver Range Rover. Wild ride? Who knows? Uncomfortable, that's for sure. Nate settles into the driver's seat and adjusts the mirror.
”Just us?” I ask in the vain hope his invitation extended to anybody from the crew left at the hotel.
”Yeah. We're last to leave.”
Not looking at me still, Nate s.h.i.+fts to pull his phone from his jeans pocket and slings it next to him into a s.p.a.ce between the seats. He punches a couple of controls on the dash and the car fills with the sound of Ruby Riot. I blink at the a.s.saulting volume as Nate starts the car.
No chance of talk, thank G.o.d.
I pull my phone out too and flick through my messages as the car pulls away. Five hours of this. Fun. At least Nate's seats are comfortable and the drive smooth. The sleet outside turns to snow as the journey continues, the motorway cutting a path through the growing snow either side.
I text Mum to let her know how long I'll be and cross my fingers the weather doesn't worsen.
The hum of the car engine lulls me to sleep. Two nights on tour and I'm ready to sleep for a week. This always happens when I'm stressed. I end up exhausted and spend my free time sleeping. Those are the times the mother-guilt edges in, but I'm doing my best for us all.
A change in car movement and tick of the indicator rouses me and I open my eyes. A sign at the junction as we take an exit from the motorway catches my eye and I straighten in my seat.
”Where are we going?” I ask.
”I'm hungry.”
”Can't we stop at motorway services?”
Nate makes a small noise in his throat. ”No.”
”Why?”
”Food's s.h.i.+t.” He turns onto the main road, away from the direction we were heading. I twist and look behind as the motorway slides into the distance.
”Where, then?”
”There's a pub I like not far from here.”
”A pub? Nate, it's snowing badly and you're heading into the Yorks.h.i.+re Moors.”
”I'm driving. I call the shots,” he says gruffly.
I bite back a retort and slump down in my seat. The snow swirls around heavier than earlier and, as we leave the main road for a narrower one, panic sets in.
”Nate!”
”What?”
”Please go back.”
”We're almost there.”
I rub my head, visions of the car trapped in snowdrifts not helping my anxiety. ”You're not invincible. The weather does apply to you too.”
”This is a Range Rover and we're hardly off-road driving. Relax.”
I have never known anybody so b.l.o.o.d.y-minded and with such an inability to admit they're wrong.
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