his shoulder at the south bank.
On the north side, the Cortina edged along the polluted streets of Chelsea. She checked the car behind: still the Volvo. The road bent slightly to the left and now the cars behind the Volvo came into view: a navy Renault, a red Peugeot and behind the Peugeot, a black Rover. She peered into the wing mirror but the car was at the wrong angle to make out the numberplate. She glanced at Jim. He was staring straight ahead, keeping his eye on the road now, muttering about the smear of squashed insects on the windscreen. They swung right at a set of traffic lights. The Volvo peeled off to the left. The Peugeot turned right behind them. So did the Rover.
‘Is that car following us?’ she asked,
‘Which car?’
‘The one behind the Peugeot. The black Rover.’
He didn’t check the mirror. ‘Nope,’ he said.
Had he clocked it already? Dismissed it? Anyway. Black Rover. There had to be more than one of those in the world.
She faced forwards again, beginning to feel relieved that they had almost made it to the station without engaging in a slanging match.
‘So what about this friend of yours, then?’ Jim demanded. ‘The one that’s tagging along.’
‘Tom?’
‘Yes. Him. What does he do?’
‘He’s just finished his A-levels; like me.’
‘Then he’s going to university in September.’
‘No. He’s taking a year out.’
‘A year out? So he’s taking it easy in between farting around at school and doing bugger all at college.’
Jim slowed down for an amber light.
‘No, he’s looking for work experience that might help him with his career.’
‘What career is that then?’
‘He wants to be a journalist.’
Jim slammed his foot on the accelerator, sped across the junction as the light turned red.
‘What did you do that for? You could have killed us.’
Jim ignored her. ‘So he’s a journalist,’ he said. ‘A bloody gongfermor. A night-time trawler of cesspits.’
‘I said he wants to be a journalist,’ she replied, backtracking from what, she surmised from his reaction, was not the best career choice for someone he was about to share a holiday cottage with.
‘Wants to be – is. Same thing, isn’t it?’
‘No. It’s like me saying I want to be a barrister.’
‘You don’t want to be a bloody barrister, do you?’
‘I was just trying to illustrate the difference between having an aspiration to be a journalist and actually being a journalist,’ she said, with exaggerated patience. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with being a barrister?’
‘Barristers. Bunch of crooks. Masters of pettifoggery.’
‘I thought they were on the same side as you.’
Jim puffed out his cheeks and shook his head at the naïveté of his daughter.
‘Are there any careers you do approve of?’
He sucked his teeth. ‘I’ll think about that one.’
‘Thanks. Might be useful to know.’
She stared out of the window. Why on earth was she asking a secret policeman for careers advice?
They crawled past the Kensington Olympia exhibition centre. The Mind, Body and Soul experience.
‘You won’t say anything to your mate about…’ Jim said.
‘No, I won’t say anything.’ How the bloody hell did he think they were going to manage a week crammed into a holiday cottage together without anyone talking about what Jim did for a living? She took a deep breath. There was a whiff of hot-weather bad drains in the air.
‘Journalist on the make. Now that is bad news,’ Jim said. ‘You’d better check what he’s got in his pockets when we leave.’
She muttered ‘piss off’ under her breath.
Stuttering down the slip road to the station, she peered in the rear-view mirror and spotted the Rover gliding smoothly past like a shark. Maybe she was just being paranoid after all. They parked.
‘Get your bag out the boot,’ said Jim. He handed her the car keys, started fiddling with something under the driver’s seat.
She hauled herself out of the Cortina, walked around
On the north side, the Cortina edged along the polluted streets of Chelsea. She checked the car behind: still the Volvo. The road bent slightly to the left and now the cars behind the Volvo came into view: a navy Renault, a red Peugeot and behind the Peugeot, a black Rover. She peered into the wing mirror but the car was at the wrong angle to make out the numberplate. She glanced at Jim. He was staring straight ahead, keeping his eye on the road now, muttering about the smear of squashed insects on the windscreen. They swung right at a set of traffic lights. The Volvo peeled off to the left. The Peugeot turned right behind them. So did the Rover.
‘Is that car following us?’ she asked,
‘Which car?’
‘The one behind the Peugeot. The black Rover.’
He didn’t check the mirror. ‘Nope,’ he said.
Had he clocked it already? Dismissed it? Anyway. Black Rover. There had to be more than one of those in the world.
She faced forwards again, beginning to feel relieved that they had almost made it to the station without engaging in a slanging match.
‘So what about this friend of yours, then?’ Jim demanded. ‘The one that’s tagging along.’
‘Tom?’
‘Yes. Him. What does he do?’
‘He’s just finished his A-levels; like me.’
‘Then he’s going to university in September.’
‘No. He’s taking a year out.’
‘A year out? So he’s taking it easy in between farting around at school and doing bugger all at college.’
Jim slowed down for an amber light.
‘No, he’s looking for work experience that might help him with his career.’
‘What career is that then?’
‘He wants to be a journalist.’
Jim slammed his foot on the accelerator, sped across the junction as the light turned red.
‘What did you do that for? You could have killed us.’
Jim ignored her. ‘So he’s a journalist,’ he said. ‘A bloody gongfermor. A night-time trawler of cesspits.’
‘I said he wants to be a journalist,’ she replied, backtracking from what, she surmised from his reaction, was not the best career choice for someone he was about to share a holiday cottage with.
‘Wants to be – is. Same thing, isn’t it?’
‘No. It’s like me saying I want to be a barrister.’
‘You don’t want to be a bloody barrister, do you?’
‘I was just trying to illustrate the difference between having an aspiration to be a journalist and actually being a journalist,’ she said, with exaggerated patience. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with being a barrister?’
‘Barristers. Bunch of crooks. Masters of pettifoggery.’
‘I thought they were on the same side as you.’
Jim puffed out his cheeks and shook his head at the naïveté of his daughter.
‘Are there any careers you do approve of?’
He sucked his teeth. ‘I’ll think about that one.’
‘Thanks. Might be useful to know.’
She stared out of the window. Why on earth was she asking a secret policeman for careers advice?
They crawled past the Kensington Olympia exhibition centre. The Mind, Body and Soul experience.
‘You won’t say anything to your mate about…’ Jim said.
‘No, I won’t say anything.’ How the bloody hell did he think they were going to manage a week crammed into a holiday cottage together without anyone talking about what Jim did for a living? She took a deep breath. There was a whiff of hot-weather bad drains in the air.
‘Journalist on the make. Now that is bad news,’ Jim said. ‘You’d better check what he’s got in his pockets when we leave.’
She muttered ‘piss off’ under her breath.
Stuttering down the slip road to the station, she peered in the rear-view mirror and spotted the Rover gliding smoothly past like a shark. Maybe she was just being paranoid after all. They parked.
‘Get your bag out the boot,’ said Jim. He handed her the car keys, started fiddling with something under the driver’s seat.
She hauled herself out of the Cortina, walked around
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