Page 26 of Where Do We Go From Here?
‘How jet-set is all of this, eh?’ Jill asks, gesturing at their surroundings. ‘Quite the change after Luton, I can tell you. English airports are always so scummy, aren’t they? All chipped Formica and worn lino. Why is that, do you think?’
‘This way,’ Wendy says, guiding Jill by one elbow towards the exit. ‘Unless you’re hungry or thirsty or need to pee?’
‘No, I had an easy-sandwich and a gin and tonic from the easy-bar so I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Absolutely disgusting. The sandwich, that is. Not the G&T, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ Wendy repeats – a little repetitive joke of theirs. Old friendships are much like marriages in that way.
They cross the arrivals hall and step outside, walking over tramlines towards the various car parks.
‘Drizzle!’ Jill remarks. ‘Did you order that for me? To make me feel at home?’
‘Of course. I know how you like it.’
‘You shouldn’t have. Really.’
‘The forecast is terrible, actually,’ Wendy tells her. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘You should have gone further south,’ Jill says. ‘Alicante or Tenerife or Rwanda or something.’
‘I nearly went to bloody Norway,’ Wendy says. ‘So consider yourself lucky.’
Once they have found the Renault, negotiated the ticket barriers and a couple of manic roundabouts, Wendy asks how the flight was.
‘Fine. On time!’ Jill says. ‘It was even a bit early, which is a miracle these days.’
‘That is a miracle.’
‘But the sandwich – lord, it was epically awful. Why do they do that? I mean, it’s a sandwich… It’s hardly complicated. Two bits of bread and some cheese. But no. Plastic simulated cheese between two slices of rubbery bread. It was virtually inedible. My teeth kept bouncing off.’
‘Yuck,’ Wendy says vaguely, distracted by the heavy traffic.
‘Ooh, ooh!’ Jill says, visibly remembering something exciting. She pulls a bottle of Bombay Sapphire from her handbag. ‘A little something from the easy-kiosk.’
‘You!’ Wendy laughs. ‘And guess what? I bought a bottle, too. Though mine’s the other one. You know, the one everyone used to buy before they started bombarding us with a thousand different brands of gin. They all taste the same to me anyway.’
‘Oh, Gordon’s, then?’
‘Got it.’
‘That’s true, actually,’ Jill says, unscrewing the top of the gin bottle. ‘Gordon’s was all we had in the olden days, but we somehow survived, didn’t we?’
‘Stop that!’ Wendy tells her, glancing over concernedly. ‘You’ll get me pulled over!’
‘I’m only sniffing it, dear,’ Jill says, proceeding to do just that. ‘Umm!’ she says. ‘Better than Chanel No 5.’ She then tips the bottle and takes a swig all the same. ‘God, I love gin,’ she says as she screws the lid back on. ‘Did I ever tell you that?’
‘Not as such, but I somehow knew,’ Wendy laughs, fumbling for the windscreen wipers.
‘Somehow. You’re quite the psychic, really, aren’t you?’
‘Now, shush a minute,’ Wendy tells her. ‘There are wa-a-ay too many roundabouts along here.’
‘I wonder why they drive on the wrong side,’ Jill says. ‘I mean, I wonder who made that decision and when. “I don’t like this side anymore. I think I’d prefer it over there.” Must have been mayhem.’
‘I believe…’ Wendy says hesitantly as she indicates, changes lanes and then exits the roundabout, then checks her mirror and GPS, ‘that… um… that we’re the ones who swapped sides. On our horses, way back when. So we could stab people going the other way more efficiently with our swords. Without, you know, all that impractical having to reach across.’
‘Nice,’ Jill says. ‘A friendly nation, the English. Welcoming.’
‘We are!’
