Page 6 of Fletch

“You got recovery?” his friend asks, and I sigh, giving my head a small shake. I meant to sort it last month and kept putting it off. Fletch replaces his helmet, and I narrow my eyes. He’s seriously just gonna leave me? He steers his bike in front of my car, up onto the pavement, and onto the forecourt of a garage. I glare at the big sign reading ‘Chaos Cars’. This must be God’s way of pissing me off. “Oh, would you look at that,” his friend says with a wink, “a garage.”

“Yeah, well, thanks, but I can sort my own car out.”

The biker shrugs and follows Fletch onto the forecourt. I watch as they dismount, then I pull out my mobile and call Peter, my fiancé. He answers on the fourth ring, but he sounds busy by his tone. “Yep?”

“Hey, it’s me,” I say, glancing around at the garage as both bikers are now pushing up the shutters on the front.

“I’m in a meeting,” he says firmly.

“Right, it’s just I’ve broken down.”

“Jesus, Gemma,” he spits, and I hear him moving around until a door opens and closes. “What did I say to you about upgrading that damn car?”

“Yeah, I know, but I love this car.”

“It’s a bloody hazard, and now, you’ve broken down. I’m calling the scrap guys to come and take it, and this weekend, we’re going car shopping.”

“I’d rather you just come help me.”

“Help you?” he spits. “You realise I’m not a fucking mechanic, right?”

“I think it’s the battery, I just need a jump start.”

“Can’t you ask someone passing?”

“I’m asking you,” I hiss, trying to keep calm.

“I am at work,” he spits, like I’m stupid. “Yah know what, your life is fucking chaos,” he snaps, and I roll my eyes at the lecture I’m about to get. “Unless it’s to do with that fucking job, you don’t show any interest. I reminded you about the breakdown coverage, I told you to sort the car, and now look, you’re calling me to come rescue you. Where are you?”

“I’ll send you my location,” I mutter, relieved to pull the phone away from my ear for a second’s peace while I ping him.

“Are you kidding me?” he roars, and I wince at his tone. “You’re right next to a fucking garage.”

“I can’t use them,” I mumble, making sure to turn away in case Fletch is watching me. “We raided their place this morning.”

“You better swallow that massive ego and ask them to look at your heap of shit car. I have an important job too.” He disconnects, and I sigh heavily, turning back to face the garage.

I take a deep breath and shake out my shoulders before heading towards the small office connected to one side of the building. The rest is the workshop, and there are already two cars on the ramps.

I push open the door and step inside. Fletch looks up from the computer, and when he sees it’s me, he looks back down and continues what he was doing.

“Erm,” I sigh, “could you take a look at my car . . . please?”

He looks back to me, a smirk pulling at his lips. “We’re busy.”

“Right. When can you fit it in?”

He picks up a thick book and slams it on the counter. He opens it and stares at the bookings. “Maybe next week.”

“Next week?” I almost screech.

He shrugs, slamming it closed again. “Sorry we couldn’t help.”

I growl. “Wait. Okay, fine. Next week is fine.”

“It’ll cost . . .” he adds, reopening the book and flicking through the pages.

“You don’t even know what’s wrong with it.”

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