Page 21 of You Lied First

M argot sees the explosion of Guy’s tyre at the exact same moment as the Land Cruiser swerves across the highway.

There’s no time to think, although she sees everything in her mind’s eye: the car hitting the central reservation barrier and launching through the air; a truck coming the other way; a crumpled, steaming wreck; bodies ejected through smashed windows and scattered on the dusty tarmac.

A thought flashes, Imagine! – Guy gone just like that!

But none of that happens. Within moments, Guy has the car back under control and is guiding it towards the hard shoulder as he slows down.

Luckily the traffic on this road is sparse.

Margot steps on the brakes and follows her husband until both cars come to a halt.

She presses her hand to her chest and takes a moment to get her breath back.

She’s as rattled by the feeling of relief from thinking Guy might die just as much as she is by the shock of the puncture.

Guy’s already outside examining the damage. Behind him, Celine and Sara are clasped together in a hug.

‘Oh my God! I thought that was it!’ Celine says as they pull apart. ‘I literally thought we were going to die. All I could see was the barrier coming towards us.’

‘I’m still shaking!’ Sara says, holding out her hands to demonstrate. ‘I had no idea what’d happened. But Guy, you were amazing. I mean, you saved our lives!’

Guy shrugs off the praise, as Margot knows he will. ‘Instinct.’ He straightens up. ‘Well, this tyre is well and truly fucked. Let’s hope we have a real spare and not one of those toy wheels because that won’t get us far in the sand.’

Celine’s on her hands and knees peering under the car. ‘It’s here. It looks okay. Do you know how to get it out?’

Guy says he doesn’t know off-hand, but there’s nothing you can’t find on YouTube.

He locates the Toyota tool kit and orders Flynn to get a how-to video up on his phone.

Margot joins Liv, Sara and Celine, who are sitting on rocks at the edge of the hard shoulder, buffeted by the force of the occasional car that speeds past.

‘Do you think they’ll be able to change it?’ Sara says.

Margot shrugs a shoulder. ‘I imagine so.’

Guy’s yet to meet a physical challenge he hasn’t risen to, but a good half an hour later, he’s drenched in sweat and snapping orders at a snarling Flynn.

Even after the spare’s been extracted; the car jacked up; the tyre replaced; and the jack released, the news is not good.

The car is leaning down on one side, like a wounded animal.

The spare, it turns out, has barely any air in it.

Guy aims a vicious kick at the tyre. ‘Fucking pile of shit!’ he yells. ‘Good for nothing fucking hire company!’

Margot sees Liv exchange a nervous glance with Sara. She edges closer to her mum, who puts her arm around her and presses a kiss to her hair. But Celine steps forward and touches Guy’s arm, as if to calm him down.

‘Can we limp it to the nearest petrol station, do you think?’ she asks.

‘We passed the last one a long way back,’ Flynn says. ‘I checked on Maps. There’s no more between here and where we’re going.’

Guy tears his hands through his hair. ‘I swear. They’re supposed to check the spare. Fucking bunch of cowboys. Excuse my French.’

He paces three steps up and down the dusty tarmac, while the rest of them stand staring at the car, as if their collective willpower could re-inflate the tyre.

‘There’s no pump in the boot?’ Celine asks. ‘I always keep one in my car. Just in case. And a tow rope.’

‘You think I didn’t look?’ Guy snaps.

‘Are there any rescue people we could call?’ Sara asks. ‘Like the AA? Is there a number on the rental papers?’

‘We’re in the middle of nowhere!’ Guy scoffs.

Then, seeing Sara’s face fall, he softens his tone.

‘I’m sorry. It’s just: how long is that going to take?

’ He looks at the sky. ‘It’s not getting any earlier and we still have a good forty minutes to go on this road.

Plus off-roading and setting up camp, which I certainly don’t want to do in the dark.

’ He looks around. ‘Any other bright ideas?’

Margot shrugs. Guy wipes sweat off his brow.

‘Well,’ he says. ‘If the closest petrol station is behind us, to be honest, maybe our only choice is to turn back.’

‘You mean just go home?’ Margot asks.

She’s surprised how the idea disappoints her.

Despite the undisputed hassle of erecting the camp and disassembling it again in the morning, she realises she’s actually been looking forward to spending the evening in the peace of the desert under a canopy of stars.

And she spent so long this morning prepping the food.

‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Guy says. ‘What does “Sara Say”?’ He grins at Sara now, and she laughs, clearly relieved to have Guy back on familiar territory.

‘It sounds like the sensible option, to be honest,’ she says. ‘From where I stand, it doesn’t look like we have any other choice.’

Margot waits for Guy to ask her opinion, but he doesn’t. She addresses the teens. ‘You two all right with that? If we turn back?’

‘You mean, that’s it?’ Flynn asks. ‘No camping?’

‘Well, yes,’ Margot says. ‘Not unless you do it in the garden.’

‘Aww,’ Liv says, pulling a downturned face. ‘I was really looking forward to it.’

‘I know,’ Margot says, surprising herself by reaching out to touch Olivia’s hand.

‘Look,’ Guy says, ‘by the time we’ve driven, slowly, back to the petrol station and inflated the tyre – assuming it’s not got a hole in it – it’s going to be very late by the time we actually get to the desert.

It’s going to be pitch black. We can’t pick a spot in the dark.

We need to see where we are to put up the tents. ’

‘Could we try again tomorrow?’ Flynn asks. ‘I really want to drive the quad bike!’

‘Maybe,’ Margot says, and she starts to think through the logistics and timings but then she hears a car slowing and they all turn to watch a Land Cruiser with Arabic plates pull to a stop behind them.

Out gets an older man wearing the traditional Omani dishdasha with a masar turban tied around his head , followed by three younger men, similarly dressed, who Margot imagines could be his sons.

‘ ’Allo … mushkila? ’ the older man says, pointing at the deflated car as the others gather around it, examining the tyre.

The man’s beard is flecked with grey and his face weathered.

Margot remembers the word mushkila from what little Arabic she’d learned at her ladies’ morning lessons – ‘problem’.

‘Yes, mushkila ,’ Guy says nodding vigorously.

He points at each wheel in turn: one on the ground with a massive hole in it and the other flat as the proverbial and gives an exaggerated shrug.

‘Do you have a pump?’ He mimes hand-pumping and points to the air nozzle, but the man shakes his head.

He fires some Arabic at the young men, who scurry back to their own car.

‘What’s happening?’ Sara asks, as if Margot is the font of all knowledge.

‘I think,’ Celine says, her eyes on what the men are doing, ‘they’ve thought of a way to help us.’