Elle had described the holiday rental to me as a ‘mews cottage on an exclusive private road’, but really it was a two-bedroom end-terraced house on a nondescript development of new-builds. The house had a driveway, which I managed to squeeze onto in between two parked cars. Reversing out of there wasnotgoing to be fun.
As instructed, I unlatched the narrow gate to the side of the property to find the key access box, which was caked in a layer of grime. Following the passcode instructions, I tugged the plastic tab upwards to find a key nestling inside and let myself in through the yellowed UPVC door.
First impressions? It was… underwhelming. The heating must’ve been off for quite some time, and there was a distinct aroma of bleach in every room. Well, at least it was clean.
Elle had said something about the place being more basic than she’d have preferred due to recently imposed expenses constraints, which was fair enough. I was only going to be here for a couple of nights, anyway. And I couldn’t help but think that the crappy standard of accommodation would probably give me at least one funny thing to write about in my article. Speaking of which: I really needed to come up with an efficient trope-ticking plan for the next couple of days.
I heaved my suitcase up the stairs and dumped it in the only room with a bed in it before sticking my head round the door to the bathroom. Bloody hell, there wasn’t even any loo roll in this place! A trip to the shops was definitely in order.
I considered wandering along to the nearby Co-op to pick up a few bits, but then I remembered about the Big Tesco with the petrol station off the ring road. I needed to top up Dad’s tank, and the BP garage that used to be at the end of Scarnbrook’s high street had been turned into a Lidl.
I somehow managed to reverse off the narrow driveway without needing to leave my insurance details on anyone’s windscreens, and headed back to the dual carriageway, my inner satnav remembering the way to the supermarket. The car park was starting to empty given there were only forty-five minutes until closing. I’d have to be quick.
I grabbed a shallow trolley and headed inside. A blast of industrial heating hit me as I crossed the threshold, the glare of the harsh, fluorescent lighting burning my tired eyes following all the day’s driving. And that’s when the realisation hit me, too. The realisation that people might stare if they recognised me. After all, I was connected to one of Scarnbrook’s saddest historical chapters.
Unless they’ve all forgotten.
More than anything in the world at that moment, I wanted to be back in my draughty but familiar London flat, wrapped up in my bobbly slanket and watching a plasticine-faced man with a felt-like beard fix the broken-down car of a rosy-cheeked owner of a small-town inn. I considered performing a dramatic U-turn with the trolley and hiding outside to collect myself – or scarpering altogether – but the wind was picking up again and my stomach was growling with hunger. I took a shaky breath, cast my eyes upwards and glanced around. It wasn’t too busy at all. I relaxed a little, and focused my attention on scooping up my essentials as quickly as possible, as if I was a contestant onSupermarket Sweepbeing cheered on over the Tannoy.
At the end of the final aisle, I guided the trolley to an empty till. And there he was: perhaps the only person Ihadn’tmentally prepared myself to bump into – Tom blimmin’ Brinton – stood with his own full-sized trolley at the adjacent checkout.
As his eyes briefly met mine, my insides did a flippy-floppy thing I hadn’t felt since school. I unloaded my collection of processed foods while trying to give off an air of calm indifference, while internally I was trying to figure out if my tummy had ever felt like this with any other man. I wasn’t convinced it had. I’d always put that down to the fact that I was now, apparently, a fully grown woman rather than a stupid teenage girl with a ridiculous, unrequited crush. But perhaps not? I thought I detected a glimmer of recognition as Tom flashed his trademark dimply grin and continued to fill the conveyor belt in an admirably practical order with the heaviest item first – which appeared to be the world’s largest frozen turkey – and a loaf of fresh bread at the very end.
Back at school, I’d always found him endlessly interesting to look at. He was attractive, but less conventionally so than some of his peers, with an angular, pointy face and strong, straight nose. His rich, conker-brown hair was always perfectly tousled – short round the sides but thick and wavy on top, just crying out to be mussed, though I reckon I would’ve struggled to reach it given the height difference. His understated eyebrows sloped down towards his slightly protruding ears, one of which had glinted with a small, gold stud. He had generous, mouth-hugging dimples under both cheekbones when he grinned, which was often.
But it was his piercing, ice-blue, almost silver eyes that had always entranced me the most. Constantly glinting with humour and ideas, if I happened to make eye contact with him my stomach would fizz with a high that I’d enjoy for the rest of that day, as if his energy was contagious.
Double English had always been the highlight of my week as it meant I got to sit opposite Tom Brinton for two entire hours – the most direct contact I ever had with him since neither our friendship groups nor any of our other lessons crossed over at all. It also happened to be the only class I didn’t share with Elle.
Back then, I’d manage to convince myself that, sometimes, it felt as if he was looking in my direction. And, while we didn’t have much in common on the surface, quite often we’d quietly chuckle at each other’s witticisms.
Despite his rebellious streak – which often saw him in detention – I’d always sensed this underlying essence of niceness. He was the kind of person who could make anyone feel at ease, even people like me who he’d never even had a single conversation with.
But the very idea of him ever being interested in yours truly was frankly hilarious – even to me. Because you probably couldn’t have chosen two people who were any less likely to fit together as friends, let alone anything more. There I was: short, clumsy and sat at the front of the coach on school trips thanks to my history of travel sickness. And there he was: tall, effortlessly confident and right at the back of the coach thanks to his innate popularity and cheekiness. Yet, he’d appeared to glide through any situation or academic challenge with an ease and self-assurance I could only dream of – until he left suddenly a term or so into sixth form, when we were seventeen.
Because I’d kept my secret infatuation to myself – with the exception of confiding in Livvie, who knew everything about me – I couldn’t ask anyone where he’d disappeared to. So that was that – he’d instantly vanished from my life like an elusive bubble suddenly popping mid-air.
As we bagged up our respective groceries – his into one of those expandable, colour-coded shopping trolley bags – there was that undeniable fizz once more, as his eyes caught mine for the second time. For a moment, I forgot that the only thing that was likely to make me memorable to Tom Brinton was the stuff that had gone down with my family two decades ago.
I attempted to coax my hair to hang over my face to cloak the ever-deepening shade of crimson it was turning as all these memories swirled around my head. Meanwhile, Tom finished his transaction ahead of me – he was exceedingly nice to the chap on the checkout, of course – and turned to give me a gentle wave. In my attempt to casually wave in return, I managed to fling my debit card out of my hand and towards Tom Brinton’s face. In a display of characteristic competence, he somehow caught it and handed it to me in one swift motion.
‘And for your next trick?’ What was I even saying?
I inattentively passed the card to the checkout lady as Tom chuckled and said, ‘Trying to fit this lot in my car,’ gesturing towards his overflowing concertina bags.
‘Ha, good luck with that!’
‘I’ll need it!’
And he walked out of my life once more.
I sighed and turned back to my own conveyor belt, packing my groceries into my raggedy canvas bags.
The checkout lady passed me back my card. ‘It’s contactless, love.’
‘Oh right, of course.’
As the receipt tumbled out of the till, she looked at me with kind eyes and smiled.
