My Favourite Part

19: "thursday"

When I wake up to a window view of rolling expanses of green land, and hallways of oak trees, I know London's far behind us. The thought's an oddly gleeful one.

The road's just wide enough for the car to travel down, certainly not big enough for two, and it makes me wonder how people live and get about here. But good God it's gorgeous. It's the countryside from the storybooks, with its winding roads and rolling hills and not much else but peace of mind. I sit up and rub my eyes when dots of yellow start to sprout, and as the car rolls past each field, they become increasingly speckled with daffodils. Or maybe they're tulips?

Eric chuckles and rolls down my window when I stretch, purr and poise my hands on the sill to get a proper look,

"Good kip, my love?"

"Mhm. How long did I sleep?" I say, looking about for any sign of where we are.

Last I remember we were on the A40, with me belting Ke$ha in his ear and him trying to pretend he hated it.

"'Bout an hour."

I can feel his eyes on me, like he wants to say more.

"What?" I smile, pouting when he doesn't smile back.

"Evie..." He says, turning his eyes back to the twisting road with a slight groan. "Okay - when we get to the house... you might find that I might be a little... weird from time to time."

"Weird?"

"A-a little pretentious, maybe. Arsehole-ish? Um..."

"A prick?" I finish, laughing with a quizzical eyebrow raised.

He laughs, too, blushing before he answers,
"Yes, yes, a bit of a prick. The kind of people my parents like to have down here are ... fairly pricky themselves..."

I can't fathom the idea of my Eric as anything but the Eric before me – endearing, charming – no matter who he's around.

"Pricky how?" I ask.

He shrugs, but I can tell he's reluctant to say exactly what he means,

"You know, um, a bit arrogant; concerned with stupid things that don't really matter like chateau trips and nobles' facelifts and– ." His embarrassment is clear in his slowly rouging cheeks and murmuring. He must be so different from them all, with his 2-bedroom London flat and baby blue VW Beetle.

The Eric I know is the antithesis of arrogance or superficiality – the thought of him talking about foreign holiday arrangements and facelifts shouldn't make me giggle... but it does.

"I just... don't want there to be so much the Honourable Eric Macklin bullshit," he's laughing about it too now, "that you don't get any time with...me."

His eyes are on the road, but he darts them in my direction, without turning his head, to gage my reaction. If I've learned anything about him in the time that we've been together, it's that the more naked the truth is, the more antsy he is when he tells it.

"We should have a codeword!" I suggest, rubbing his knuckles, white from gripping their steering wheel.

"A codeword?" He inquires, taking my hand and lacing his fingers with mine.

"Mhm, like something nonchalant that means hey I'm still me, and I love you."

He taps his tongue on the top of his mouth, making a tick-tock sound whilst he thinks, and although he doesn't say a word when he comes up with it, his cheeky grin says enough.

"What?" I smile. This time he's smiling back. "Eric, what is it?"

"Beware, it is very, very cheesy." He looks at me for a response, but he knows I've got nothing to say and I'm on the edge of my seat.