Page 18 of The Next Chapter

‘Ginseng tea?’ I ask Seb, holding out the flask I’ve made for him. We’ve decided to take his car, because he refuses to be a passenger. Apparently, I drive too slow and this is already an eight-hour journey.

Yes, eight hours. And I get car sick. Because of course I do.

Plus, Seb’s car is some old red vintage thing with absolutely zero suspension. Like, zero.

His eyes dart to me.

‘Some what?’ he asks.

‘Ginseng tea,’ I tell him. ‘I thought you’d like to try it. It’s really nice.’

‘Nicotine suppressant, right?’

‘Well, er, n-not exactly,’ I stutter. He’s wearing a black T-shirt. If he was a bit taller, he could be a model, all pale skin and high cheekbones. Like a young Dracula. The roof is down on his car and his hair just lightly ruffles. Mine loses the plot entirely and stands basically on end. ‘I just read that it can interfere with the dopamine receptors in your brain so I thought it might help and I had some in the cupboards already…’

Another look.

‘Okay, I ordered some especially on next-day delivery—’ I hold my hands up ‘—but it was no trouble and really, don’t you think it’s worth a try?’

‘Why do you have to be so fucking nice all of the time?’ he asks.

‘I’m not nice,’ I tell him, even though his words are music to my ears. I work very hard at being nice. I help myself to a seaweed thin and a travel sickness tablet.

Seb just huffs out a laugh.

‘God, I really hope the person renting the other cottage is hot,’ he says.

‘I mean, that’s not really what this weekend is about.’ We’re having to shout over the wind from having the roof down.

‘Can we put the roof up?’ I ask.

‘Shush, stop ruining my fantasy. As if you couldn’t do with a little summer of romance. Guys really go for your whole Zooey Deschanel thing, and it might loosen you up a bit, a good orgasm.’

‘I’m loose!’ I protest, now definitely shouting. ‘I’m so loose.’ I realize I’m sat ramrod straight in my car seat while my neck fan buzzes. I concentrate on slouching and the pile of travel sickness bags on my lap slips. I slink down a little further. ‘And anyway, I only just broke up with Colin.’

‘It’s been nine months.’

‘What?’

‘NINE MONTHS.’

Seb relents and pulls over to put the roof up. Thank the lord.

‘That’s really quick to get over a break-up,’ I say as we set off again.‘I thought he was the one.’

Another huff. ‘He was too square. I still have nightmares about that time he showed me his Monzo account. All those fucking pots. Who saves a pound a week for “professional oven clean”.’

‘Er, I would do that, because I’m also square.’ Colin was actually perfect for me. We were on the same page about everything.

And anyway, people like me, we don’t end up with the sexy lumberjack types that Seb pines for. We end up with people who are in possession of lifetime saving ISAs and favourite mugs. We end up with a Colin. I’m not exactly sure what went wrong other than that I was too absorbed with grief for Dad to put any effort into a relationship. But when I’m feeling better, I’ll be perfectly happy with Colin mark two.

‘Your squareness is a coping mechanism,’ Seb answers.

I stuff my mouth full of seaweed thins to stave off the sickness that’s hitting me before we’re even free of Manchester and also to avoid having to think too much about replying. It’s cloying, seaweed dust.

‘Hey, what happened with that woman you met at the pottery class last week? The one in her nineties. Is she going to go for a memoir?’

‘Nope.’ He pops the ‘p’. ‘Her granddaughter had the bright idea of just setting up an Instagram account and flooding it with pictures. That way it’ll be more “interactive and accessible” for them. Fucking social media. Instagram will be the end of us all.’