‘That miserable little place?’ He shakes his head. ‘That’s another thing, darling. I need to get myself a proper place – a home – somewhere that’s not just a crash pad …’
‘I like your flat,’ I remark.
He looks amazed. ‘You like it? What on earth is there to like?’
I sip my G&T. ‘Well … it’s so pared down and uncluttered. You don’t have stuff strewn everywhere. It feels sparse and simple, like a holiday flat.’
Stevie smiles. ‘It’s not very homely, babe …’
‘I don’t mind, honestly. I have enough homeliness at home.’
He laughs and squeezes my hand. It is weird, though, this motorway fixation. I mean, I can understand the motel thing in the movies, in the States. They are tawdry and thrilling and slightly dangerous. Exciting things happen in those places. But this is an ordinary service station in Lancashire, with rain trickling steadily down the windows and a hoover droning away in the foyer. Stevie drains his glass. ‘Fancy another? Or shall we just head up to the room?’
‘It’s only just gone eight,’ I say, laughing.
‘Yeah, well …’ He leans closer and whispers, ‘Got chilled champagne in my case …’
I grin. ‘Very tempting.’
‘And proper champagne glasses …’
‘So you brought your special seduction kit,’ I tease him, brushing away the tiniest thought that this doesn’t feel quite right either – this kit thing – or the fact that we never bother with dinner on our overnighters. But, hell, he is an incredibly sexy man. So I knock back my G&T and grab his hand as he takes my small overnight bag. I’ve already brushed aside my doubts as we hurry upstairs – there’s no lift – and tumble into our room.
We kiss fervently, like teenagers who’ve just discovered this thrilling act. As we pull apart, I register Stevie’s small black leather wheeled case parked beside the bed. I glance around the room, which is pretty standard for a motorway hotel: decorative turquoise cushions arranged diagonally on the bed; coffee- and tea-making facilities crammed onto a small plastic tray on the flimsy desk; a hairdryer on a stand; a notice about fire evacuation procedures and a guide to Interesting Things to See and Do in Lancashire. And that’s about it. They’re all like this: the four we’ve stayed at on the M62, and the others we’ve ‘enjoyed’ – and yes, I have enjoyed them in a bizarre kind of way – on the M6 and M1.
From his case Stevie lifts out a small leather box, in which two cut-glass champagne flutes nestle in an inky blue velvet nest. Not that I need champagne. That sole G&T would have done nicely. Then he’s lifting a tissue-wrapped bottle of Krug from the case – it’s properly chilled, he must have only just bought it – and popping it expertly open and filling our glasses.
We kick off our shoes and recline side by side on the bed, holding hands, legs stretched out. The bubbles whoosh to my head, and only momentarily do I wonder if Morgan will remember to lock the back door as well as the front.
Stevie kisses me, softly and slowly, and it’s so lovely I’m barely aware of the distant hum of traffic outside. Another noise starts up – a fan, or an air conditioning unit – then fades from my consciousness as Stevie peels off my dress, followed by the only decent underwear I possess: a black push-up bra and matching lacy knickers. I can’t quite fathom why sex with this man is so thrilling; perhaps because we only see each other around once a week? Or is it his relative youth, his taut, toned body? Or that we mainly do it in hotels? If you add it all up – the weird hotel meet-ups, the fact that I can hardly ever reach him on his mobile – you’d probably say, run a mile, woman, are you a raving idiot? You might even say, would the real Audrey drop everything to rush off and meet her date at a Day’s Inn Motel on the M6?
No, of course she wouldn’t. But I should also add that, before I met Stevie, I had actually given up on being in any kind of relationship at all. I’d started to wonder if I was emitting distinct dinner lady vibes, even when I was all dressed up for a night out. Perhaps, I’d begun to think, the whiff of school canteen macaroni cheese was emanating from my pores, and that was putting men off. For a while, I took to giving my freshly washed outfit a thorough sniff before any night out. Still no luck, until I met Stevie. I know I’m sounding pathetically grateful, finding myself a boyfriend with such obvious lady-pleasing qualities. But we do have fun, and it’s thrilling to think that, instead of making cups of tea for Mrs B tonight and then coming home to channel-hop on my own, I have hours of pleasure ahead. Okay, I’ll have to be up at the crack of dawn to make it home in time for work – pity, as checkout isn’t until eleven (I’m familiar with such details) – but at least we’ll grab some buffet breakfast. While Stevie’s sniffy about the dinner menu, he does enjoy piling his plate high with hash browns and cumberland sausages. Then we’ll be off: me back to my small, sleepy town just outside York, and Stevie to his next appointment somewhere in the Manchester area.
‘That was amazing,’ he murmurs, pulling me close. I glance at my phone, which is sitting beside my empty champagne glass: 10.17 p.m.
‘It really was.’ My stomach growls as I kiss his delicious-smelling neck.
‘You hungry, babe?’
‘Yes, I am a bit.’
He smiles, and plants a tender kiss on my forehead before swivelling out of bed. ‘No problem, I’ll nip out and get us something …’ I glance at his lean, taut body as he pulls on his jeans and shirt, wondering – as I always do – how I managed to get so lucky.
In his absence I stretch out in bed, enjoying the coolness of the sheets against my skin. From a laminated card on the bedside cabinet, I learn that the all-you-can-eat breakfast is just £5. I doze a little, then check my phone, to reassure myself that my darling son hasn’t plunged his finger into an electrical socket or exploded the TV. No texts, which could signify that he’s lying in a fried heap, although I know I’m being ridiculous. No contact from Morgan is completely normal – he tends to message me only when he needs to know where he might find money for late-night chips. And I can’t bring myself to text Jenna to ask if he’s okay; he’d be mortified.
My worries fade as the door opens, signifying that my hunter-gatherer has returned from the service station shop – open 24 hours, another benefit of conducting our sex life on the motorway – with a carrier bag of treats. ‘Hey,’ he chuckles, undressing swiftly and clambering back into bed, ‘imagine finding you here.’ I laugh as he tips out our provisions, which, I happen to notice, contains one of those Fuzzy Brush toothbrushes that come in a little plastic ball from a dispenser in the loos. ‘Forgot my toothbrush,’ he says with a grin.
‘Another great thing about service stations,’ I snigger, which he chooses to ignore. We kiss, and we eat, and then, fuelled by a couple of Ginsters Meat Feast Slices and a tub of Pringles, we fall back into each other’s arms.
It’s lovely, as always. But I still can’t shake off the feeling that this isn’t quite right.
Thursday, 10.35 a.m, and I’ve just arrived home. The kitchen is littered with empty tuna