Page 20 of Jenny James Is Not a Disaster
“Yeah. All of those things. Am I being silly? Or selfish?”
“I’m not one to judge,” Luke says calmly, smiling at me. “I used to have a boring job too... well, no, it wasn’t boring, but it was big, and demanding, and it was chewing me up and spitting me out. Things happened in my life that made me see that more clearly, made me realize how unhappy I’d been. I opted out, and I enjoy this lifestyle—but it’s not for everyone. You need to not mind solitude, and you need to be willing to accept some practical limitations, and you need to be comfortable with minimalism. Having hardly any stuff around you is fine for most people when they’re on holiday for a week or two—it’s different when it’s permanent.”
“Well, I’ve got a leg up on that one, I suppose. I am currently Little Miss Minimalist. But you’re right. I don’t know if it would suit me. What if I get scared at night? What if something breaks and I can’t fix it? What if I get stuck down one of those country lanes you mentioned? What if I start talking to myself and adopt fifteen cats and die alone in a supermarket parking lot?”
He laughs and replies: “Well, that wouldn’t be good, would it? I mean, who’d look after the cats then?”
“I know—poor kitties! I’m sorry, by the way. For turning up here and loading all this on you. I bet you wish you’d gone and stayed on a different field entirely and avoided all this.”
“And miss out on a monologue from the Amazing Crap Woman? Never! Look, I know this isn’t easy. A lot has happened to you in a very short space of time.”
I nod and finish my coffee, placing the mug down at my feet. Betty runs over and sniffs it, decides she’s not interested, and takes off to investigate a blade of grass instead.
“You’re right. It has. It’s like I’ve been cruising along on a nice quiet B road for the last decade, and suddenly I’m in the fast lane on the motorway blasting along at ninety miles an hour, with no particular destination in mind. I’m scared I might crash.”
“You won’t. And anyway, right now, you’re not on that motorway—you’ve stopped off for a break, haven’t you?”
Huh. Maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s a good way of looking at it—I need a break for sure.
He stands up, and that fresh citrus scent wafts toward me.
“I’m going to get biscuits,” he announces. “Everything is better with biscuits.”
“That,” I reply, grinning, “could be your life motto!”
He laughs and picks up my mug. He emerges a few minutes later with a refill and an old-fashioned biscuit tin. It has pictures of little black Scottie dogs all over it, all wearing tartan coats. He opens it up and passes it across. A veritable feast of chocolate digestives and pink wafers and bourbon creams stares up at me.
“That tin was my gran’s,” he says, looking vaguely embarrassed. “Whenever I used to go there as a kid, it was always full of those kinds of treats. When she died, I was about fourteen and we were told we could choose something from her house to remember her by. That’s what I emerged with, and it’s kind of become a thing—I always keep it full.”
“What a nice idea,” I reply, fishing out a digestive. “If I believed in such things, I’d say I hope she’s looking down at you, proud of your biscuit barrel.”
We sit silently together for a while, and I enjoy the peace of it all. Luke is right: I have pulled into a parking area and need to relax for moment.
“So,” he says, leaning back in his chair, “I think I’m going to leave at the end of the week. That’s kind of the only rule I have—I don’t stay anywhere longer than two weeks.”
“Worried that Interpol might finally track you down?”
“Exactly. I’ve got away with that art heist in Vienna for so many years, it’d be a shame to blow it now... but actually, it’s just that now summer’s finally decided to arrive, I’m feeling a bit of wanderlust.”
I’m not proud of myself, but my first reaction is utter disappointment. It’s selfish, but I don’t want him to leave. I barely know him, and maybe that’s why this works for me—he has become, in a short amount of time, someone I feel safe talking to. Perhaps meeting someone in the extreme circumstances we met in heightens things, speeds up the process of connection. I have a slight suspicion that he could have saved my life, and he’s certainly been a good sounding board. I realize that I will miss him, even though I have no right to, and even though this time last week I’d written him off as a grumpy git.
I gaze over at him, see that he is looking serious and thoughtful, and, despite all this, also find myself noticing that he has really long fingers, wrapped around his mug. My mind is made of mush.
“Oh, right—well, that’s cool. Off on your new adventures?” I say. I think that was the right response—it’s definitely better than “Please don’t leave, kind stranger who makes me feel less mental.”
“Yes. No idea where yet, which is all part of the charm. But I was wondering, and this is a completely new thought thathas literally just appeared in my mind, so bear with me... I was wondering if you and Charlie would like to come with me? You could just join me for a week or so, see how you get on with the motorhome, the lifestyle? It could give you a sense of whether it’s for you or not. Please don’t feel obliged to say yes—it was just a random idea, and I’m sure you have better things to do than take off into the unknown with a complete stranger.”
“One who has freely admitted to having a plentiful supply of duct tape and rope.”
“Indeed. Guilty as charged.”
“But, well... why? Why would you possibly offer such a thing?”
He frowns a little and shakes his head. “Honestly? I’m not completely sure. I’ve never exactly made myself approachable...”
“I noticed that. Before, I mean—you didn’t wave back or say good morning!”
He grimaces and replies: “Yeah. I know. But I was planning on staying a few weeks and didn’t especially want to end up having to make small talk every time I was out, to be honest—I like staying in places that are empty. I find it simpler to avoid too many people...”
