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Heading South

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An exclusive extract

Heading South tells the story of Cassie and Nick, and their attempts to get together despite being plagued by ex-girlfriends, posh admirers and pets dying … among other things! The novel is unusual in that it is written by two separate authors: Luke Bitmead and Catherine Richards. Luke is the author of the cult hit comedy White Summer, published by Legend Press in May 2006. He tragically died five months later, aged just thirty-four. Catherine lives in Sheffield, and this is her first novel. The two writers met through the BBC Writers’ Forum, and they wrote the novel without ever actually meeting in person. 

 

* * *

 

Nick 

A strange, slimy man leans in towards me as I stand at the bar. ‘I think you’re in there.’

I try and smile politely but the overpowering stench of his breath makes me wince. Jesus, he could strip wallpaper with that.

‘I’ve had my eye on her for a while but, you know how it is, so many women, so little time.’

I think about wishing him luck in finding one without a sense of smell but I resist. I don’t want to start upsetting people before I’ve been here two minutes.

I force another smile and hobble back to where Cassie’s sitting with the drinks.

I’ve already explained to her what happened in the bathroom this afternoon. I was so pleased with the deluxe-tiled interior that I mimed a penalty kick and ended up bending my big toe back on the edge of the glass screen. It killed, so I legged it into the shower cubicle and frantically twisted the taps to get some warm water on it. It was ice cold – I hadn’t turned on the heater. And just to top it all off, I gashed myself shaving and bled for a full half-hour into the sink. Thank God Scotty wasn’t around. The words ‘twat’ and ‘you’ may well have been used …

Still, Cassie has been sympathetic, so it could all turn out to be a blessing in disguise.

‘I think you’ve got an admirer.’ I nod towards the king of halitosis.

‘Oh, don’t!’ She looks bashful for a moment. ‘That’s my postman. He’s always turning up at ridiculous times of the day to make letchy comments.’

‘I might join him.’ 

I give her my smooth and dashing look. I haven’t used it for a while so I think it’s about time it had an airing. Yes, result! She’s doing that coy, giggly thing that girls do when they’re slightly tipsy and starting to fancy you. I can still do it then. And she’s not stuck up like I thought she’d be. She’s just … well … lovely, really. She tells me she’s an artist but from what she says she also runs a zoo. I’m trying very hard to keep up with the long list of pets but I don’t think I’ll pass the end-of-date exam.

I don’t know much else about her yet. We’ve been discussing the local attractions more than anything else. Can’t take things too quickly, can I? I can hardly invite her back for coffee when I’m squatting on the floor of my mate’s semi-built house, using a mattress I’ve dragged from a caravan as a bed. Not that I’ve ever had any intention of getting that far. A good laugh and some pleasant company would suit me fine. For now.

I feel a mood of decisiveness come upon me. Time for an old party trick.

I pick up the book of matches that is sitting in the ashtray on the table. I feel her eyes follow my movements.

‘Right then.’ I look into her sparkly eyes. ‘Time to get to know each other properly.’

She doesn’t answer. She just looks at me a little baffled.

‘The trick is,’ I pluck one of the matches from the book, ‘to light the match and you’re not allowed to let go until you’ve told your whole life story.’

‘Seriously?’ Her mouth opens in amazement. She’s led a sheltered life this one.

‘Heads or tails?’ I ask her, selecting a pound coin from the small pile of change that I plonked on the table when I came back from the bar.

‘Tails.’

I toss the coin. ‘Tails it is. Do you want to go first or second?’

‘Second.’ She gives me a nervous smile.

‘Right then.’ I strike the match. ‘Nick Ratcliffe, born 1st of January nineteen-seventy-six in Sheffield, South Yorkshire. One sister, mum died seven years ago, never knew my dad. Eight GCSEs, four ‘A’ levels and a degree, all fairly crap. Girlfriends seven, two serious, engaged once, dumped a few months ago. Worked behind a hotel bar as a student, stayed there so long they turned me into the conference and banqueting manager. Got sacked, came down here, met you.’ I blow out the match and drop it into the ashtray.

‘Ok, I’ll have a try.’ She takes a deep breath, like she’s about to do an Olympic sprint, then strikes the match. ‘Ok, I’m twenty-six, I have a sister too, Daisy. Um. I’ve lived in the country all my life. Can’t remember how many boyfriends I’ve had. Not because I’m a slapper. I haven’t had that many at all, it’s just I have a terrible memory and when they’re gone, well that’s that, isn’t it and … um … Ouch …’

She drops the match on the carpet and shakes her hand.

‘Let’s have a look.’ I take her hand to inspect the damage. ‘I’m sorry, it was a silly game.’

‘It’s alright.’ Fortunately the look on her face tells me she means it. 

‘Sorry. I’m not very good under pressure.’

I pull her hand gently towards me and softly uncurl her fingers. I can see there’s no damage done. She’s got lovely soft hands, delicate little fingers and smooth, supple skin. I know I shouldn’t but I can’t resist lifting her hand towards my lips and giving her fingers a kiss better. 

She goes all swoony and giggly again.

I’m feeling pretty giggly myself. Or hammered. I didn’t manage to eat before I came out and I’ve been knocking back the lager on an empty stomach. She probably thinks I’m a real lightweight.

I notice her glance at the clock behind the bar. ‘I’m going to have to go soon,’ she says. ‘I’m afraid my menagerie will be pining for their supper.’

‘That’s ok.’ It’s nearly eleven anyway and I’ve got to be up early in the morning. ‘We’ll go after this one.’

‘Are we going to do this again?’

It never fails to make me feel good, that question.

‘Yes, if you like.’ I make sure my tone is casual but I actually feel like standing on the table and punching the air in an animated fashion. I’m ready for this. I reach into my inside pocket and produce one of the crisp new business cards that I went and picked up this morning.

I lay it on the table in front of her and then notice she’s laughing. It’s a bit more than a tipsy giggle this time.

Now, I’m pretty sure my flies aren’t undone and I haven’t got lager froth stuck to my top lip or anything, so this is a little perplexing. I look at the card carefully. There’s not a hideous spelling mistake on it.

She reaches inside her handbag and produces another business card and lays it on the table next to mine.

Right. Now I’m confused. There are two business cards on the table in front of me, both of them mine, one new, the other out-of-date.

‘Where the hell did you get that?’

‘You left it with the security guard at the Tate Modern.’ Her eyes look at me all bright and shiny. ‘I emailed you!’

Something happens in my head now, like when the wheels on a one-armed bandit stop spinning and clunk into place one-by-one. The déjà vu feeling slides away and all becomes clear. She must think I’m a complete numpty.

Time to tell her about Pete, I think.

 

Cassie 

When I arrive at the pub I feel more relaxed than I did an hour earlier, but only because I drank two-and-a-half glasses of Chablis before leaving the cottage.

Jilly had been a great friend buying me all these clothes (‘No, I’m paying,’ she kept saying. ‘It’s my treat’), but although I now have a hundred things to choose from, I find myself to be no better off. From no choice to too much choice is no improvement. Still, I’m reasonably happy with the deep-blue denim jeans, the fitted red t-shirt and faithful clogs I’ve got on. With my hair tied up in a high ponytail, I feel if not gorgeous then reasonably human.

Taking a long, deep breath at the door, I grasp the brass handle, turn it, and stride confidently into The Bug Bear and order a glass of wine. It’s not too busy tonight. This is good. Nothing worse than a pub full of locals listening in on a first date conversation.

‘You made it then,’ says a familiar voice. A voice whose accent I am beginning to become drawn to.

I turn and smile. Phew! He looks good tonight. He’s shaved, put on a nice blue shirt and given his hair that rough look that’s designed to look as if he hasn’t bothered, but is teased to flatter his round but attractive face.

The landlord places the glass of Chardonnay on the bar and Nick’s hand immediately comes over my shoulder, proffering a ten-pound note.

‘I’ll get that.’

How sweet!

‘Thanks.’ I take a sip.

‘Let’s go to a table. I don’t imagine you like standing at the bar.’

Well, I don’t mind really, but when meeting someone for a quiet drink, I do prefer to sit. Helps when trying to avoid postmen with unwelcome deliveries, too (smells and jokes mostly), who I spot lurking at the other end of the bar.

Once we’re seated, Nick gives me a run-down on the differences he’s noticed since moving south of the Watford Gap. Like he can’t find crappy corner shops down here. And he can’t find a surly milkman to deliver. Or a man in a worn boiler suit to bring him coal on the back of a donkey. I enjoy his light-hearted banter.

We then discuss the restaurant and I feel myself beginning to relax in his company, even though he tends to avoid eye contact. I find this frustrating.
I want him to do it lots. I want to see what’s there. To catch a glimpse of that look I saw in the Tate. And I want to see if he likes me. I’m not so bothered about the details of his life that he’s giving me.
They don’t mean much. 

I say a few dizzy things to try to ease the tension and, after a few drinks, we are giggling together. He even dares to look at me a few times, but I still don’t think he realises who I am.

At one point he gives me his new business card (showing off!) and, feeling bold (well, pretty smashed really with all the wine), I put the business card he left for me in the gallery next to it. This should remind him, I think!

But for someone with so many ‘A’ levels he’s dreadfully slow. He simply looks at one card, then the other.

Disappointed, I remind him that he left it for me at The Tate. Aha! The fog seems to clear. Those exams weren’t all for nothing!

‘Actually, I didn’t,’ he laughs. ‘That was my friend, Pete.’

This comes as a relief. I’d be worried if he had left the card and then forgotten all about it. That would make him either a serial womaniser, or mad. And I don’t fancy either.

After I’ve sipped some sparkling water to sober up, Nick tells me a bit more about his card-giving chum.