The rain hasn’t stopped for three days. It hammers Aldi’s car park, turning the tarmac into a maze of puddles that reflect the grey January sky back at itself.
I squint through the windscreen wipers—their rubber blades smearing more than clearing—and edge the Ford between the white lines that mark the driving lane.
The engine coughs. A wet, rattling sound that’s been getting worse since New Year. I should book it in for a service, but January’s always tight after Christmas, and Isla needs new school shoes.
“Are we nearly there, Mummy?”
Her voice drifts from the back seat where she’s been humming the same tune for the past ten minutes. Something they learned at school before the Christmas holidays—a fragment that’s stuck in her head and won’t let go. Her legs swing against the car seat, trainer heels tapping a rhythm against the worn fabric.
“Nearly, love. Just finding somewhere to park.”
The car park’s busier than it should be for a Tuesday afternoon in the dead of January. I suppose everyone’s doing what I’m doing—putting off the weekly shop until they absolutely can’t avoid it anymore.
The post-Christmas slump has settled over everything. The decorations are down, the magic’s worn off, and we’re all left with muddy reality and credit card bills.
Through the curtain of rain, I spot what looks like salvation—a parent-and-child space near the entrance. Close enough that we won’t get completely soaked running between the car and the automatic doors. Close enough that I won’t have to juggle the shopping bags, her school rucksack, and my handbag while she dawdles behind me, distracted by the puddles that fascinate eight-year-olds and terrify their mothers.
I indicate left and slow down, waiting for an elderly man with a walking stick to make his way across the pedestrian crossing. The poor soul’s hunched against the weather, plastic carrier bag clutched to his chest like it might shield him from the worst of it.
That’s when the black SUV swings into the space ahead of me.
My foot hits the brake harder than I mean to. The seatbelt cuts across my chest. Isla lurches forward against her restraints.
“Mummy!”
“Sorry, sweetheart. Someone’s forgotten their manners.”
The SUV—one of those enormous things that cost more than I earn in three years—settles between the white lines of the bay I was aiming for. It’s the sort of vehicle that makes you wonder why anyone needs that much metal just to drive to the shops.
Without thinking, I lean on the horn. It’s not a long blast. Just a short beep that gets swallowed by the rain and the rumble of traffic before it can make any real statement.
The woman stepping out of the SUV doesn’t even glance in my direction.
She’s older than me—mid-sixties, maybe—with sharp cheekbones and hair scraped back into a ponytail so tight it must give her headaches. Everything about her screams money. The long coat that sheds rain instead of soaking it up. The leather boots that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget. She moves like the weather’s a minor inconvenience rather than the January deluge that’s got the rest of us hunched and scurrying.
I wind down my window, instantly regretting it as cold rain spits against my face.
“Erm, excuse me.” My voice carries over the noise of the downpour, pitched somewhere between polite and irritated. “I was waiting for that space.”
She stops.
Turns.
Looks directly at me through the driver’s side window.
She doesn’t say anything. Just stands there in the rain, water darkening her coat shoulders, studying my face like she’s trying to solve a puzzle.
The seconds stretch. Rain drums against the roof of my car. Isla’s stopped humming.
The woman takes a step closer. Not threatening exactly, but deliberate. Her gaze moves from my face to the car interior, taking in details I can’t guess at. The faded air freshener hanging from the mirror. The stack of unpaid bills shoved into the door pocket. The general shabbiness of a vehicle that’s seen better years.
Something shifts in her expression. Recognition, but not the friendly kind. Not the “don’t I know you from somewhere?” recognition that leads to pleasant conversations about mutual friends or shared experiences.
This is different.
A smile tugs at one corner of her mouth. Not warm. Not apologetic. Something colder that makes my stomach tighten.
I frown, trying to work out if we’ve met before. Isla’s school maybe? The doctor’s surgery where we spent forty minutes in the waiting room this morning? But I’d remember that face, wouldn’t I? Those pale eyes that seem to see more than they should.
“Do we—” I start to ask, then stop.
She’s already turning away before I can finish the question. Walking towards the Aldi entrance with measured steps. She doesn’t hurry despite the rain. Doesn’t look back.
“Mummy, why was that lady staring at us?”
Isla’s voice makes me jump. I glance in the rear-view mirror and catch her worried expression.
“She wasn’t staring, love. Just being rude about parking spaces.”
I wind the window back up and drive to the far end of the car park, where there’s a normal-sized space between a dented Vauxhall and a plumber’s van. My reverse park takes three attempts because I can’t stop thinking about that look. That moment of recognition that came entirely from her side.
I switch off the engine and sit for a moment, listening to the rain hammer the roof above us. The heater ticks as it cools down. Isla starts humming again, waiting patiently for me to unlock the doors and let her out into the weather.
I adjust the rear-view mirror to check she’s got her coat zipped properly. As I angle it down, I catch a glimpse of the woman standing near the store entrance.
She’s not moving towards the building. She’s facing this way. Facing me.
Other shoppers hurry past her, heads down against the rain, but she just stands there like the weather can’t touch her.
A white transit van rumbles between us, blocking my view. When it passes, the space beside where she stood is empty.
“Come on then, love.” I unbuckle my seatbelt, trying to sound normal. “Let’s get this shopping done before we both freeze.”
But I sit there for another moment, hands resting on the steering wheel, unable to shake the feeling that the woman in the expensive coat recognised me for reasons that have nothing to do with parking spaces or everyday rudeness.
I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. It was a minor disagreement with a stranger who happened to look at me like she knew something I didn’t. That’s all.
So why do I feel like I’ve just been found by someone I’ve been hiding from?
