I realized he was dead right. Jax would have absolutely loved Adam. He would have given back as good as he’d got and raised the stakes just for fun. And if it turned out Adam was Norman’s father, he’d have loved him even more.

Adam looked embarrassed and chuffed at the same time, and even more so when Norman leaned over the scooter’s handlebars to give him an awkward hug. That kid. My heart felt like it had turned inside out to wear itself another day and I thought I might drop dead from love for him right there on the pavement in Bournemouth. For Norman, I mean, not Adam. Because, despite that faint glimmer of redemption and the realization that I still had a hell of a lot to learn about judgment from the twelve-year-old boys of this world, I wasn’t quite ready to sanctify him yet.

Which turned out to be about right, because the last I saw of him was as he nearly ran over an old lady then let rip with a mouthful like it was her fault and she hadn’t just been coming home from Tesco with her squeaky trolley full of shopping, like she’d done every Tuesday for the past thirty years. So he missed us all waving as we drove away, which was also just as well, because Leonard’s was less wave and more two strategically raised arthritic fingers as he peered into the wing mirror.

“Young prick,” I heard him mutter. But when I turned to look at his profile, there was no denying the faint smile that lifted the corners of his wrinkly mouth.

As we turned onto the motorway leaving Bournemouth in our proverbial dust, I crossed my fingers there’d be no fallout from the towels and my credit card after a good wash, but my guess was it was going to be a long time before the smell completely left that room. Even though I was pretty sure it wasn’t really the bad odor that had kept me awake most of the night, I still genuinely pitied the next guest. Unless it was Lenny Henry. He deserved it, for false advertising. So that one’s for you, Dawn.

37

WHEN WE’D PLOTTED our wonky route according to the information in Leonard’s spreadsheet and the opportunities for Norman to get his practice in, the plan was to take a couple of days to get from Bournemouth to Edinburgh, with a night at a B&B in Kendal and an appearance at the bimonthly Tuesday open mic night at the Jolly Anglers. But now that Norman had landed a spot at the Duke, and with the Fringe already in full swing, after a surprisingly quick confirmation that the place I’d booked in Edinburgh could accommodate us a night early, we decided to push through. Of course, there might also have been a little part of me that wanted to put as many miles between Norman and Adam Linley as possible, just in case he decided to come after us with his scooter and a paternity test. Because even though I’d secretly conceded he wasn’t quite as bad as my first impressions, I definitely wasn’t ready to think beyond that just yet. Or maybe ever.