Portia MacIntosh - It's Not You, It's Them

‘I’m a bit tired, actually,’ I lie. ‘Do you mind if I have a snooze until we hit a service station?’

‘Yeah, sure. You sure you’re OK?’

‘Maybe it’s just low blood sugar,’ I lie again.

‘It’s definitely not low blood sugar given how many biscuits I saw you smash at your parents’ house, but OK,’ he laughs. ‘I’ll wake you when we get there.’

Lying back a little, closing my eyes, I try my best not to think about Mark wanting kids. Well, of course he does; all normal grown adults do, right? Apart from me. The maternal instinct just skipped me, for some reason. It’s not like it’s just the thought of having to take care of a small human for at least eighteen years, what it does to your career, or your social life, or the expense – the thought of carrying a baby for nine months before giving birth actually makes me feel sick. I just can’t handle the thought of it, being ill all that time, irreparably ruining my body, going through the excruciating agony of labour. I have the upmost respect for anyone who chooses to do it, but I choose not to.

I cannot think about this right now. I just need to try and get some rest and concentrate on the task at hand. Getting through a night at my country-bumpkin future in-laws’ place.

I feel my body jolt forwards before my fast-acting seatbelt snaps me straight back into place.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Mark yells at the vehicle in front of us.

‘What’s happening?’ I ask, rubbing my chest under my seatbelt. That’s the thing about boobs and seatbelts; the seatbelt doesn’t stay over your chest so you have to decide between putting it under or over them. I opted for over.

‘I was pulling into the service station when this lorry driver pulled out in front of me. We nearly crashed – it’s a good job my brakes work.’

We pull into the service station safe and sound.

‘There’s the prick who nearly made us crash,’ Mark points out, as a man hops out of a lorry not too far from us in the car park.

Maybe it’s because I’m anxious, stressed or just pissed off, but before I know what I’m doing, I’m getting out of the car and marching over there.

‘Roxie, what are you doing? Come back,’ Mark calls after me, but I’m too far gone. I march over to the bright-yellow lorry. On the side of it the name ‘Starr Haul’ is printed in huge black letters, so I take out my phone and begin googling it to try and get a number to call up so I can report this reckless driver to them.

‘Oi, what are you doing?’ the driver calls out, having glanced back just in time to see me making a note of his registration number.

‘I’m reporting you,’ I inform him. ‘You could’ve killed us.’

‘Could I fuck,’ he snaps. ‘Get on yer way.’

‘What’s your name?’ I ask him.

‘I’m nae telling you,’ he replies firmly in his strong Glaswegian accent. ‘Here you, Jimmy. You want tae control yer lassie.’

Mark takes me by the arm and whispers into my ear: ‘Look, I only understood maybe every fourth word of what he just said but I can tell he’s mad, so let’s just go.’

I shrug him off. As I peer around the front of the lorry, I can see that the driver has a number plate in his window with his name on: Tommy.

‘Tommy, is it?’ I say victoriously. ‘Jog on, mate. I’ve got all I need to report you.’

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