used to drive home, I realise as the Beetle suddenly hangs a left at a mini-roundabout without indicating. Gosh, whoever she is, she's a terrible driver. She doesn't indicate. Or slow down over speed-bumps, I curse silently, as she shoots off ahead of me. Honestly! If she's not careful, she's going to ruin the suspension on that car. Come to think of it, that was how I ruined it.
No sooner has the thought popped into my head than we turn a corner and I suddenly see the turning for my old street up ahead. It's like a blast from the past: Kilmaine Terrace . Gosh, it's been years since I've been down there. Well, there's never been a reason to. It's a dead-end street, I muse, my attention switching back to the Beetle, which is still zipping ahead, until without warning the driver slams on the brakes.
God, wouldn't it be funny if—
She swerves right into Kilmaine Terrace.
My stomach spasms.
You have got to be kidding.
As I watch the car disappearing down the street, I feel a bit stunned. Talk about a coincidence. Indicating, I follow. The street looks exactly the same. Large white terrace houses, cherry trees…
My eyes flick forwards. I used to live at number thirty-nine, overlooking the little square right at the end. I hang back as the Beetle zips towards it, the noise of its exhaust reverberating off the houses. It doesn't show any sign of slowing down.
Don't stop outside number thirty-nine.
A voice suddenly pops into my head and I jump. I realise I'm silently praying the Beetle is going to stop outside a different house. Any house. Just not number thirty-nine. That would be too freaky. Too weird. Too much of a coincidence.
Screech.
The red brake lights snap on.
Right outside number thirty-nine.
I feel the hairs prickle on the back of my neck. Then again, you do hear of bizarre coincidences. I once read an article about a woman who had three sets of triplets and all three sets shared the same birthday. I mean, what are the odds of that happening?
And yet it happened. This is exactly the same, I tell myself firmly. Well, sort of. Hurriedly I pull into a space a few cars down, turn off the engine and squint across the street. Damn, I'm too far away. I hesitate. Oh, what the hell, in for a penny, in for a pound. Grabbing my tote bag, I shove on my sunglasses and without even glancing in the Beetle's direction I walk briskly to the little square at the end.
It hasn't changed a jot. Same patch of lawn, same flower beds, same little bench in the middle. I sit down and pull out my book, Finding Yourself Made Easy , and pretend to start reading. As I do, I feel a slight thrill. This is like being one of those TV detectives you see on undercover operations.
Either that or a stalker.
Suddenly the sheer absurdity of my situation hits me. Jesus Christ, Charlotte, you're going to get yourself bloody arrested! What on earth do you think you're doing? Sitting here, spying on some innocent girl trying to parallel-park and making a complete mess of it. See-sawing in and out of the space, banging bumpers with the cars on either side with reckless abandon. Honestly, she's the worst parker I've ever seen.
Just like you used to be…
Out of nowhere, I suddenly remember the time I tried reversing into a space outside the local pub and mounted the kerb, sending customers scattering and drinks spilling. My parking used to be a family joke. I once kerbed every wheel on my father's new Volvo, and I've lost count of the dings and scratches I put on cars over the years. Thankfully I've got better as I've got older, but when I was twenty-one, I was terrible. In fact, when I lived down this street, I once reversed into a—
I hear the crunch of metal.
— lamp-post .
The engine cuts out and a door swings open. Loud music wafts out into the silent street: (What's the Story) Morning Glory? by Oasis. I feel a rush of nostalgia. Wow, I used to love that album. My heart starts pounding.
Suddenly the stereo is turned off and a tanned leg
No sooner has the thought popped into my head than we turn a corner and I suddenly see the turning for my old street up ahead. It's like a blast from the past: Kilmaine Terrace . Gosh, it's been years since I've been down there. Well, there's never been a reason to. It's a dead-end street, I muse, my attention switching back to the Beetle, which is still zipping ahead, until without warning the driver slams on the brakes.
God, wouldn't it be funny if—
She swerves right into Kilmaine Terrace.
My stomach spasms.
You have got to be kidding.
As I watch the car disappearing down the street, I feel a bit stunned. Talk about a coincidence. Indicating, I follow. The street looks exactly the same. Large white terrace houses, cherry trees…
My eyes flick forwards. I used to live at number thirty-nine, overlooking the little square right at the end. I hang back as the Beetle zips towards it, the noise of its exhaust reverberating off the houses. It doesn't show any sign of slowing down.
Don't stop outside number thirty-nine.
A voice suddenly pops into my head and I jump. I realise I'm silently praying the Beetle is going to stop outside a different house. Any house. Just not number thirty-nine. That would be too freaky. Too weird. Too much of a coincidence.
Screech.
The red brake lights snap on.
Right outside number thirty-nine.
I feel the hairs prickle on the back of my neck. Then again, you do hear of bizarre coincidences. I once read an article about a woman who had three sets of triplets and all three sets shared the same birthday. I mean, what are the odds of that happening?
And yet it happened. This is exactly the same, I tell myself firmly. Well, sort of. Hurriedly I pull into a space a few cars down, turn off the engine and squint across the street. Damn, I'm too far away. I hesitate. Oh, what the hell, in for a penny, in for a pound. Grabbing my tote bag, I shove on my sunglasses and without even glancing in the Beetle's direction I walk briskly to the little square at the end.
It hasn't changed a jot. Same patch of lawn, same flower beds, same little bench in the middle. I sit down and pull out my book, Finding Yourself Made Easy , and pretend to start reading. As I do, I feel a slight thrill. This is like being one of those TV detectives you see on undercover operations.
Either that or a stalker.
Suddenly the sheer absurdity of my situation hits me. Jesus Christ, Charlotte, you're going to get yourself bloody arrested! What on earth do you think you're doing? Sitting here, spying on some innocent girl trying to parallel-park and making a complete mess of it. See-sawing in and out of the space, banging bumpers with the cars on either side with reckless abandon. Honestly, she's the worst parker I've ever seen.
Just like you used to be…
Out of nowhere, I suddenly remember the time I tried reversing into a space outside the local pub and mounted the kerb, sending customers scattering and drinks spilling. My parking used to be a family joke. I once kerbed every wheel on my father's new Volvo, and I've lost count of the dings and scratches I put on cars over the years. Thankfully I've got better as I've got older, but when I was twenty-one, I was terrible. In fact, when I lived down this street, I once reversed into a—
I hear the crunch of metal.
— lamp-post .
The engine cuts out and a door swings open. Loud music wafts out into the silent street: (What's the Story) Morning Glory? by Oasis. I feel a rush of nostalgia. Wow, I used to love that album. My heart starts pounding.
Suddenly the stereo is turned off and a tanned leg
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