‘All right?’ he asks me, as if he’d never come in to check on me.
‘Yes, fine, thanks.’
Dylan opens the car door for me and I move to climb into the back seat, careful not to jar my wrist.
‘Hang on,’ I say, pausing, ‘I should drive. You’re not insured.’
‘It’s fine,’ Dylan says. ‘I can just . . .’
But I’m climbing out again. Marcus is already in the front passenger seat. I glance sidelong at him as I settle behind the wheel. He’s slumped down in the seat like a bored kid, but when I wince as I try to let off the handbrake he flinches and his hand is over mine in half a second.
‘Let me,’ he says.
Behind me I hear Dylan shift in his seat.
‘Thanks,’ I say to Marcus, pulling my injured hand back into my lap.
Driving with a sprained wrist proves to be . . . challenging. Tears stand out in my eyes as I change gear. Marcus doesn’t flinch again, just stares out the window.
‘Is that my phone?’ I say suddenly.
We’re speeding down the motorway now. I wince as I feel around behind me on the seat with my good hand, holding the steering wheel carefully with the other. My phone is in the back pocket of my dungarees.
‘Do you . . .’ Marcus begins, seeing the problem, reaching to help me as I try to tug the phone out.
‘I’ve got it,’ Dylan says, leaning forward between the seats. His hand settles over mine and I goosebump. The hairs stand up on my neck as he slides my phone from my back pocket.
‘Hello?’
I wait, tensed.
‘Deb’s fine,’ Dylan says to me, and I flop back in my seat.
‘Thank God,’ I mutter.
Dylan rings off. ‘Unbelievably, Rodney found her,’ he says.
‘Where was she?’
‘Guess,’ Dylan says.
‘Umm . . . at the Budget Travel already?’
‘No.’
‘Walking up the motorway?’
‘Nope.’
‘Hitchhiking?’
‘Incorrect again. You’re underestimating your sister’s knack for seeking out the absurd.’
‘I give up,’ I say. ‘Where was she?’
‘She was having a pint with Kevin the lorry driver.’
Kevin had written his number on the back of her hand, apparently. In the lobby of the Budget Travel, Deb tells us cheerfully that it was a damn good job she hadn’t sweated it off. The first person she passed on her trails across Lancashire lent her their phone, and she called him right away to rescue her. The only hold-up was that he was in Lancaster and there was a lot of stationary traffic around the area. Obviously.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask, giving her arm a quick squeeze. ‘I’ve been beside myself.’
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ she says.
‘How did Kevin get as far as Lancaster?’ is my second question. ‘We left the picnic at the same time as him! And we only got to bloody Preston!’
Deb shrugs placidly. ‘Kevin is a talented man.’
‘And where’s Kevin now?’ I ask, looking between her and Rodney.
They both look terrible. Deb has her other breast pump – the non-battery-powered one – plugged into the wall and chugging away at her chest, but there are milk stains on the front of her dress, plus a long streak of what I hope is mud down the front of her shin. The sole of one of her shoes has come off. Meanwhile Rodney has actual pondweed tangled in his belt. His jeans are sodden. They’re starting to dry from the top down, creating a sort of tie-dye effect. He totally reeks. God knows what everyone thought when he stumbled into the pub where Kevin and Deb were having their pint.
‘Back on his way to Glasgow, with his chairs,’ Deb says. ‘He did offer to take me to the wedding, but I thought I should wait for all of you, really,’ she says graciously.
‘Oh, thanks.’ I check the time on my phone and swear. This is just my standard reaction to checking the time now. ‘It’s eight. How is it already eight? Where is the time going?’
‘Well, you went to A&E,’ Rodney begins, ‘and it took Kevin a little while to . . .’ He trails off under my glare. ‘A rhetorical one?’ he says.
‘Yes, Rodney, a rhetorical one. We need to get back on the move as soon as Deb’s done.’
‘But I’m starving,’ Marcus whines. He’s lying on his back on the carpet, arms and legs outstretched like a star. Gone is the subdued man in the car, the strange new Marcus who cared when my wrist hurt. He’s disappeared as suddenly as he came.