Page 89 of Everything That Kills Me
“Requirements to drive in France in case we break down.”
They laid their suit bags on top of everything. It seemed a bit mad to take the tuxedos but a waste not to.
“They might come in useful,” Jack said as he got back in the car.
Zeph doubted it.
Jack glanced at him. “One night we might put them on and go for a meal. I’ll dare you.”
And didn’t that make Zeph’s heart sing!
Before they left Cambridge, Jack stopped at a supermarket to buy snacks and drinks for the journey. Zeph insisted on paying and topped up the car with fuel.
“Where are we heading?”
“A place called Villers-sur-mer. I booked an Airbnb for the night. We can chat about where we’d like to go after that.”
As they reached the motorway, Zeph said, “Are we there yet?”
“Let that be the last time you ask that question.”
“Or?”
“Or else.”
Jack was navigating with his phone, though there was a sat nav screen in the car.
“Like to listen to a podcast?” Zeph asked.
“Why not?”
Zeph checked on his phone. “Beef and Dairy Network? Cereal? Barn door maintenance? There’s plenty of choice. Which one?”
“Remind me why I like you.”
Zeph laughed. “What about an Ologies Podcast on drunk butterflies or slug sex? The woman that does those is very funny. Or we could record our own.”
“What would we talk about?”
“Things we don’t know about each other?”
“You start. But don’t record.”
“I love maths and animals. I hate football and rugby. I don’t believe in God. I don’t like beards. Or cigarettes. I love bread. Warm bread in particular. But warm milk makes me heave. I like reading thrillers. I have a particular interest in Scandinavian serial killers. Well, not the killer, but the policemen who catch them. I don’t like celebrity autobiographies. I don’t think most famous people’s lives are anywhere near as interesting as they think. My favourite book at the moment isThe Penguin Lessons.But that changes monthly. My favourite colour is blue and its many shades. And I… I had cancer when I was a little kid.”
Jack shot him a look. “Really? You don’t like beards?”
Zeph snorted. Jack’s hand slid onto his knee. “What sort of cancer?”
“Ewings sarcoma. Bone cancer. My leg.”
“Ah. The scar. You’re okay now?”
“Yes. I can’t say cured because no doctor can promise cancer will never come back, so I’m in remission.”
“You seem very…accepting.”
“What’s the point in being otherwise? I’m not going to spend my life worrying about stuff that might never happen.”
