Page 36 of Pull Me Under
‘Probably.’
‘We don’t even like each other.’
‘Definitely.’
‘You’ll complain about my driving the entire way.’
‘Likely.’
‘And my music.’
‘What music?’ He’s looking at my ancient radio with genuine concern.
‘Exactly. Two hours of silence there, two hours back.’
‘I can talk.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’
But I’m already starting the engine, because apparently I’m an idiot who lets Jude Harding invite himself on my boat-buying expedition. He’s buckling his seatbelt, settling in, a wide-ass grin on his face.
‘For the record,’ I say, pulling out of the harbour parking, ‘this doesn’t mean we’re friends.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘And you don’t get a vote on the boat.’
‘Unless it’s obviously terrible.’
‘All boats are obviously terrible. That’s what makes them boats.’
‘Spoken like a true Trelawney.’
It should be an insult, probably is, but it sounds almost affectionate. Which is definitely my imagination, definitely the lavender shortbread sugar high, definitely not Jude Harding being anything other than protective of his town’s resources.
We’re barely out of Sea Salt Bay when he starts: ‘You’re riding the clutch.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are. And that grinding noise—’
‘It’s character. Personality. Something you’d know nothing about.’
‘I have personality.’
‘You have obligations. Not the same thing.’
He goes quiet at that, and I immediately feel guilty. But before I can apologise, he’s speaking again: ‘Turn left at the roundabout.’
‘Plymouth’s straight on.’
‘Trust me.’
‘Said the spider to the fly.’
‘It’s a better route. Scenic.’
‘Longer.’
