The Carrier by Sophie Hannah Page A

here I can eat,’ Lauren says, looking around miserably.
    I pull open the fridge door and take out the only two remaining sandwiches. There is nothing potentially hot on offer, and no microwave. ‘Ham or tuna mayo?’ I say. ‘I’m happy with either.’
    ‘I don’t eat sandwiches,’ says Lauren.
    ‘On principle?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Why don’t you eat sandwiches? A ham sandwich, on white bread: about as English a snack as you could hope to find. What’s the problem?’
    She wrinkles her nose. ‘Don’t know who’s had their dirty fingers all over it. I’m all right. I’ll just get some Pringles.’
    ‘You need more than Pringles,’ I say, spotting my mistake as soon as the words are out of my mouth.
Remember: you don’t care about this woman. You don’t care if she eats weeds from the petrol station forecourt, or drinks five litres of diesel.
    I will not slip up again.
    ‘I’ll get the big size,’ she says. ‘It’s massive. No way I’ll be able to eat all them Pringles.’
    ‘I’m going to get the tuna sandwich, because it’s the most nutritious and filling thing here,’ I say in my capacity as positive role model. ‘And some Häagen-Dazs as a treat.’ I open the freezer and pull out a tub of Cookies & Cream flavour.
    ‘What’s Haggendass?’ Lauren asks, unable to make the connection between the word and the thing in my hand that isn’t a sandwich.
    ‘Posh ice-cream,’ I tell her.
    ‘Ooh-ooh!’ she says sneerily, loud enough to turn the heads of the beer collectors. ‘How la-di-fucking-da are you?’
    ‘Better la-di-fucking-da than mardy-fucking-brat, that’s what I always say. Actually, I don’t say it, ever. Normally, I say things like, “So, what are the optimal kinematics for the end-effectors?” Except tonight there’s no point saying any of the things I might normally say, because the only person listening to me is a thick parochial bigot.’
    ‘You mean me, don’t you?’ Lauren says with a triumphant glint in her eye, as if she’s caught me out.
    One of the football shirts elbows another and says, ‘Sounds like it’s about to kick off over there. With those two lasses, over there.’
    No, actually, it sounds as if the brief kick-off has already fizzled out. And your friends shouldn’t need directions, being neither blind nor deaf. If they can’t work out which argument you’re referring to, what makes you think pointing will make a difference?
    Am I the odd one out – not only in this petrol station but in the world? Are most people more like Lauren than like me? It’s a scary thought.
    ‘Go and get your Pringles. I assume I’m paying for them?’ She hasn’t brought her bag or a wallet with her.
    ‘Got no euros left,’ she says. ‘I need a drink too. Can I have a Diet Coke?’
    ‘No. You can have a normal Coke. If I’m paying, I’m choosing.’
    ‘You what?’ She laughs at my outrageousness. ‘You’re a cheeky cow, you are.’
    ‘You’re pin-thin, and you haven’t eaten for more than twenty-four hours. You could do with the calories. Plus, Diet Coke’s full of aspartame, which is bad for you. Side effects include acting like a dick at Dusseldorf airport.’
    Worry shrivels the smile on her face. ‘I drink Diet Coke all the time. It’s all I drink.’
    ‘Forget it. I was kidding.’
    ‘You what?’
    ‘I was making a joke. Don’t you know anyone who does that? You don’t have a sense of humour, but Jason does – that sort of thing?’
    ‘You don’t know Jason,’ she says suspiciously, as if she fears that I might.
    ‘I know. Forget it. Really. I’ll stop . . . verbally sparring with you and just accept that there’s no way to make tonight fun.’
    ‘So can I have a Diet Coke?’
    ‘No. I was serious about that. In fact, forget Coke as well. Get a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice. And grab two toothbrushes and some toothpaste from over there.’ I point.
    She picks up a can of Diet Coke and holds it defiantly.
    ‘It’s