Mike Hickman

Valet

by: Mike Hickman

£14. A quick spruce and a brush up. Check everything’s ready for winter. “I’ll take one in red, if you have it.” They have it.

The one line email had gone to the wrong account. “Just passing it on,” Linda had said. More words than usual. There’d also been the reminder about letting the electric company know about the joint account. £14. A special offer for the season. But you hadn’t even been that bothered with it – you’d been more annoyed that she’d send you something so unnecessary. Except – Sally had said something about the car. Her dad’s is a five door. And it beeps when reversing. And had DVD and wasn’t scuffed and scratched and otherwise falling apart. Sally had said that.

And she’s five.

So £14 didn’t seem like such a bad deal. A quick spruce and a brush up. For the winter. It was about time you did something about it. You’d seen no need to reply to Linda’s email. She just wanted it gone. It’s like that now. Neither would she say anything about being peeved with the bills, or that you’d neglected the timescale you’d agreed to that last meeting for getting everything transferred. For taking responsibility. It had only been three weeks then. Sally hadn’t yet seen the house, of course. Neither had you been allowed to meet her. It was still early days with Courtney, and you’d been told that her daughter would be staying out with her grandparents for a night until things were settled. So she knew nothing of the boxes and the damp and the spreading stain on the bedroom carpet from that first night you’d been alone. The one where you’d ended up in Accident and Emergency. You’ve had a clear-out since, so Sally wouldn’t call you “silly” when she did come round. When things had “moved on” enough for her to see where you live.

“Oh, well, yeah, if you’ve got terms, then I’m interested in terms.” The besuited salesman opposite will no doubt be talking about you later. This’ll make his week, you think. It’ll certainly do something for his sales targets.

You wonder how he’ll describe you. If they ask. Later. Will they? Will you give them reason? The old car sits outside, in the forecourt. They’ve changed the air filters, run the vacuum round, or whatever it is they do. It’ll at least smell of something other than menthol cigarettes and desperation/anticipation when you drive it over to Courtney’s later. Sally will be there. Now Courtney is more certain of how things stand. And there will be dinner. And you’ll be buying.

If this is what you want, Linda had said, then you’ll have to take it all on. You’ll have to tell the landlord, too. And the bills will be your responsibility, too.

Although you’d wondered if it was a test. Seeing how much you wanted this.

Forms are not your thing. Linda had always signed. Rental agreements, credit card applications, the mortgage you’d got between you and then so royally screwed up because of what happened with the job. When you’d taken on too much there. Not a problem for you anymore, of course.

“Everything is settled, isn’t it?” Courtney had asked, and you’d said yes, even though you’d only been three weeks in by then, but it had made your mind up for you. Made Linda’s up for her, too.

“Sign here and here,” the suit says, pushing the form over to you. He’s drawn crosses next to the requisite boxes. Big crosses in black felt tip. You almost expect a smiley face. Maybe you’ll get that later. Tonight.

This is going to cost.

More than £14.

And you’ve not even checked to see if the smell has gone. You’re thinking of going into the bank. Maybe on the way back. The garage can’t give you the car today. The suit has explained that. He’s told you that it’ll be mid-way through next week before it’s ready. More paperwork. He’d been surprised you didn’t want a test drive.

You sign. In both boxes. You’re surprised at the steadiness of your hand. You’ll go into the bank. You’ll get the payments moved from the joint account to your account. Least you can do. And you’ll see what they can do about the car situation, now you have a car situation. You’ve a daughter now. Maybe that’ll mean something.

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The suit stands up and leans across the table for the handshake. You try to make it look like you’ve done this before. He doesn’t care. He’s primed for the shrug he’s going to give to your retreating back as you exit past the other customers with their coffee and their magazines and their £14 winter valet offers that they’re most certainly not going to turn into an entirely new car. Not a one of them look at you like Linda would, if she knew. She’d sent you the email. Perhaps that was a test, too. See what kind of a responsible man you’re planning on being. You’ll have to be careful what you put up on Facebook when you come back to pick up the new car. You climb into the driving seat. They’ve hung a new freshener on the rear-view mirror you’d left in the glove compartment. You’d shoved it in there after your little accident the other week on the trip back from Courtney’s. 40 minutes, you’d made it in – Google maps said an hour and a half. You check the CD player. “Mamma Mia.” You can’t stand Abba. Linda would laugh. Perhaps. You set it playing, crank it up loud, and reverse out of the parking space as if you’d ever been good at reversing out of anything. Come Wednesday next, you’ll be rid of your old life. Courtney and Sally will see how settled you are. Linda will see how responsible. You’ll have had your quick spruce and brush up. Summer, you know, is well behind you, but at least you’ll be ready for winter.

Mews - London, UK

by: Olivier Schopfer

43