The journey from London up to Scotland should have taken no more than eight hours, but I daren’t drive any faster in this storm. Adam has checked his seat belt a hundred times since we left home, and his hands are balled into conjoined fists on his lap. If you look after things, they will last a lifetime, but I suspect my husband might like to trade us both in for a younger model. The snow is falling faster now, it’s like driving in a whiteout, and the windscreen wipers on my Morris Minor Traveller are struggling to cope. It’s the sulky, petulant, “I told you so” version, so I concentrate on the road instead. I know the expression his face is wearing without having to look. Nobody else looks familiar to him either, but it is still strange to think that the man I married wouldn’t be able to pick me out in a police lineup. I feel him staring at me as I drive, and wonder what he sees.
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