From Italy With Love

by Jules Wake

  He swallowed hard. Shit the last thing he’d meant to do was embarrass her.

  ‘Do you want me to stop? So you can get a jumper or something?’

  ‘No,’ she muttered, her head still turned away from him.

  He felt a complete arse but despite that, now that he’d registered the peaked nipples, he couldn’t seem to help himself keep checking her profile.

  Letting her freeze was one thing, humiliating her was another.

  ‘Do you want to see if you can do something with the windows, sometimes the mechanism works loose during the journey. You might be able to wind it up a bit.’ The lies sounded lame to his own ears.

  She gave him a sharp glance and with quick neat fingers, wound the old fashioned lever. The glass slid smoothly into place with a sharp clean move, immediately quenching the awful whistling and the cold wind.

  Watching the road, he didn’t need to turn to her to see her steady gaze on him; he could damn well feel it boring into him.

  ‘Funny that. Do you think your side might have “worked loose” too?’

  He wound his window up feeling like a chastened schoolboy. OK, so that hadn’t gone so well, but they had a long way to go and he still had plan C.

  Hopefully without talking and no music, Laurie would quickly get bored and realise that ownership of this car was quite different to the comfort and ease she was used to.

  An hour into the journey, he realised that although she seemed quiet and contemplative, she’d relaxed a little. Like a student determined to learn everything she could, she watched the gear changes and studied the flow of the traffic around them. He smiled at her concentration. She looked like a rapt robin, her head bobbing up and down, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she took everything in.

  The bing of her mobile coincided with them mounting the incline of the Dartford Bridge. The fingers on the hand holding the phone whitened, as she read whatever the message said and he heard her breath hiss out. He waited, sliding into the middle lane, still aware of all the traffic around them, expectant of some moan or complaint. Except that was totally unfair. So far, despite having some cause, she hadn’t moaned or complained once and despite him not talking, she seemed quite capable of holding her own counsel.

  Clearly something was going on with the texts, it was the fourth she’d received since they set off and her face had become increasingly grim but she’d not said a word. Not like his ex-wife who liked to share every nuance of emotion and feeling, and had expected the same in response.

  He winced at the memories. The constant emotional barrage had pushed him further and further back like a snail retreating into its shell for safety. He didn’t want his emotions picked over constantly but she’d taken it as failure and the more he retreated the more she needed him to ‘talk to her’.

  Something had clearly upset Laurie but she seemed content to keep it to herself. Or was that him failing ‘to empathise’ which Sylvie had accused him of on a regular basis.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, fine.’ She turned her head and looked out of the passenger window. He was getting a little fed up with looking at the back of her ponytail all the time. On the edge of his vision, he could see she lifted her chin and held the tension in the tendons in her neck. Remembering how it felt when Sylvie had persisted, he took her at her word and focused on the traffic.

  Cam obviously hadn’t spent much time on public transport. Half her teenage years had been spent travelling on rickety old buses which invariably broke down half way to Milton Keynes. If he thought a bit of a draught bothered her, it just went to show how different they were. No doubt the sort of women he was used to would catch a chill or need to be wrapped up in furs. She curled her lip as much in disgust with herself, if she wasn’t careful she’d turn into a right old curmudgeon. Staring out of the window, she watched the grey choppy waves of the Thames below the bridge. They matched her mood, scratchy and unsettled. Not angry, not sad … just antsy. She hated feeling like this. Only a few weeks ago everything had been fine. Normal.

  Robert’s text had her clenching her fists under her thighs, hidden from Cam. The last thing she wanted to do was air her dirty laundry.

  I take it you’ve gone then. I might not be here when you get back. Hope you’re happy now.

  Of course she wasn’t happy. Upsetting him hadn’t been her intention but it would have been wrong to get married, to rush it now. Not when it didn’t feel right.

  Ironically, his childish text pushed aside the guilt that had been mounting ever since she closed the front door, firming her resolve. She’d started this journey; she was going to finish it, with or without Robert’s approval.

  Arriving at the Channel Tunnel was disappointing. She’d envisioned a yawning black hole that was clearly visible for miles, a scary looking challenge not for the faint-hearted which brought up images of Stargate, The Hobbit and Dr Who. Instead it was all horribly pedestrian, the most boring train station on the planet immortalised in industrialised concrete.

  The only vaguely exotic thing was the paper hanger with the letter G which was propped on top of the dashboard.

  As they drew into a parking space in the busiest section of the car park, Cam turned to her. ‘Both of us can’t leave the car at the same time. We’ll have to take it in turns to go in. Unless you need the loo, I’ll go and get us a drink. Tea or Coffee?’

  ‘I’m fine. Tea, please, milk and one sugar.’

  He got out of the car and then leaned back in to call across, ‘You might want to get out and stretch your legs, but stay by the car. You don’t want some little oik scratching it or anything.’

  Twisting in her seat, she did feel a little stiff and it would be good to get out in the sunshine. After Cam’s little refrigeration stunt, she could do with warming up. Unwinding herself from the seat, she got out and found herself with an audience. In the few short minutes they’d been there, the car had drawn an interested couple of by-standers. They stared at her and then at the car and she smiled stiffly back at them. It felt a bit like showing off to be standing right beside it, as if to say, look at me and my car. Shifting, she looked down at the floor, wishing she’d grabbed her handbag. She could have pretended to be texting or something.

  A woman came up right next to her, and without saying a word, pushed her way between Laurie and the car and put her hand on the bonnet. Too surprised to say anything, Laurie took a step back and watched in amazement as the woman’s boyfriend calmly took a couple of shots of the woman with his phone.

  ‘Nice car,’ he tossed at her as he draped his arm across the woman’s shoulders and they walked off.

  ‘Mind if I take a picture?’ asked another man. Smartly dressed in a suit in his mid-forties, he looked as if he were on his way to a meeting.

  ‘No, its fine,’ she said before adding tartly, ‘At least you asked.’

  ‘Sorry, Ferraris are a passion. It’s a 250 isn’t it?’

  She nodded, grateful he hadn’t asked anything more complicated. If he started asking anything petrol-heady, she wouldn’t have a clue. She’d occasionally seen Top Gear and knew that car enthusiasts could get quite technical and while she’d absorbed some of that stuff around Uncle Miles, it had been a very long time ago.

  ‘Mind if I look inside?’ Another man stepped forward.

  She looked over towards the entrances of the services. Where was Cam? How long did it take to get a couple of drinks?

  ‘No, fine,’ she said. Like a flood, the five or six people who had been hanging about all pushed forward and started peering inside the window.

  ‘So what’s max speed?’

  ‘How fast have you taken it?’

  Peppered with sudden questions, she froze. ‘I er … don’t know.’

  Under the disapproving gaze of assorted men and one woman, she might as well have announced she murdered puppies as a hobby.

  They began talking among themselves, making suppositions and guesses about the possible performance
of the car. Laurie stepped back and let them get on with it, stealing another anxious look towards the services. What had happened to Cam?

  Ten minutes later he finally appeared, sauntering across the car park with a lazy stroll that irritated the hell out of her, which was ridiculous because he couldn’t have known that leaving her with the car was tantamount to throwing her to the wolves. Could he?

  ‘Everything all right?’ he asked with a cheery grin. He handed her the tea. ‘There you go. It’s probably cooled down enough to drink. I had to get a few supplies.’ He indicated several bags of Jelly Babies tucked under his arm.

  ‘Thank you,’ she bit out, determined not to give in and ask what had kept him for so long. She took a tentative sip. Bloody hell, it was lukewarm. Through narrowed eyes she stared at him but he looked totally unconcerned sipping his own coffee, one hand shoved in his jeans pocket. He looked just too comfortable, too innocent and too damn pleased with himself.

  ‘I’m going to the loo,’ she snapped but might as well been talking to herself, the sod was already chatting to the gathered car enthusiasts.

  With long quick strides she crossed the car park and went inside the services and hurried into the ladies’. Once locked into a cubicle she leaned against the door, glad of the privacy. She looked at her watch. She should be in Leighton Buzzard. At work in the library. Sitting at the front desk. Organising the piles of books waiting to be replaced on shelves. Gemma slouched in a chair reading out the latest ridiculous gossip on Cheryl Cole or Kim Kardashian from Heat magazine. A tiny sob escaped her and she screwed up her eyes. Bloody Miles and his stupid ideas. Getting the time off had meant she’d had to agree to put in for voluntary redundancy. She might not even have a job to go back to. And at this rate, she wouldn’t have a fiancé to go back to either.

  And since when had crying helped. Impatient with herself she took a deep breath. Woman or mouse? She just needed to get on with it. Taking a quick wee, she hurried out of the loos.

  Compared to the way she felt, everyone else around her seemed in a festive mood. Women in pretty pastels applying lipstick in the mirrors, checking passports in their bags, and children darting underfoot from sinks to dryers. In front of her a little girl in a white broderie anglais dress was dancing up and down on the spot, her plaits swinging and not quite getting her hands in the stream of hot air, clearly driving her exasperated mother demented.

  ‘Daisy! Stand still. Look this lady wants to dry her hands too.’

  The little girl giggled and gave Laurie a gappy grin.

  ‘Sorry,’ the woman beamed not sounding the least bit apologetic, ‘she’s just excited about going on holiday.’

  ‘We’re going to France,’ said the little girl, placing great emphasis on the word ‘France’ her eyes wide with wonder, as if it was the greatest adventure ever. ‘To the seaside. And I’m going to swim every day. Daddy says I can have ice cream every day.’

  ‘I’m going to France too,’ said Laurie, her spirits sudden lifting.

  Returning to the car, she found a couple of people talking enthusiastically to Cam. She loitered on the edge watching him in conversation with a man and his young son. A minute later, the bonnet had been opened and they crowded round the uncovered engine, like trainee doctors around a patient with Cam as the consultant.

  ‘Wow, is that …’

  ‘Would you look …?’

  ‘How many …’

  The babble of questions merged into one, she had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. Not so, Cam. Answering each question, she could see him smiling and laughing, engaging with each of them, lifting the boy up to take a better look.

  For a minute she watched him as they all nodded respectfully, hanging on his every word. He answered each question with equal consideration, whether talking to the small boy and gently removing his sticky fingers from the bodywork, a pair of awkward spotty teenagers who were bursting with enthusiasm or the annoyingly know-it-all man who kept chipping in and contradicting the answers Cam gave.

  At that moment, Cam looked up, and over the tops of heads of his adoring crowd, caught her eye. He turned his head, pointed to some spark plug or something and then turned back to her and threw her a big grin followed by a quick conspiratorial wink and a roll of his eyes.

  Standing in the direct beam of that infectious smile made her feel as if the sun had suddenly come out. With a few quick words he seemed to disperse the small group. He slammed the bonnet shut and beckoned her over.

  ‘Sorry folks. Show’s over. We’re all headed to Italy.’

  The quick, careless use of ‘all’ suddenly charmed her. It sounded like, she, Cam and the car were a team.

  Coming towards her, he winked again and opened the passenger door for her, pressing the tatty beige cardigan into her hands with a look of mute apology as she lowered herself into the car. He must have retrieved it from the boot while she was in the Ladies’. With a gentlemanly flourish he shut the passenger door, waved goodbye to the last of the people and got into the car.

  With a roar the engine burst into life as he switched on the ignition. He turned to her. ‘Ready then. France here we come.’

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ she said crossing her fingers beneath her legs on the seat. This was it, no turning back. France. She looked around at the familiar English countryside. ‘Do we get ice cream every day?’ she asked with a sudden chuckle.

  Cam’s eyes twinkled in response. ‘If you want … but don’t you dare spill any on the seats.’

  With that he thrust the car into gear and they meandered their way down the tarmac jungle through lanes and traffic lights until all of a sudden they were driving down a ramp to the waiting train.

  ‘Up or down?’ asked Cam.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a game I always play; you have to predict whether we’ll be on the upper or lower deck of the train. Loser buys the first ice cream.’

  ‘I didn’t even know there was an upstairs and a downstairs.’ Fascinated, she stared at the long metallic carriages. They looked functional and robust, although that was probably as well given they were going under the sea, which was a pretty daunting thought.

  After thirty-five minutes cocooned in a carriage along with two other cars, having rocked their way under the channel, suddenly they were dropping back down the ramp and emerging into weak French sunshine. Without any further ado they were on the motorway and Laurie couldn’t believe how easy it all was. Or that the first ice cream would be on Cam.

  It always took a little while to get back into the swing of driving on the other side of the road but after an hour he could relax. Miles had picked an interesting route. Scenic, meandering and long. First official port of call was a small French seaside town. Thankfully Laurie didn’t seem inclined to chat. At first he’d been worried by her quietness, concerned that she was bored and sulky, just like Sylvie used to be on long journeys but with her head swinging this way and that, it was clear she was drinking in the scenery, alert to all the continental differences in the landscape.

  Thank God for sat nav these days, when you didn’t have to rely on anyone in the passenger seat to navigate for you, although he had a feeling Laurie would be quite competent. There was an understated air of calm about her, as if she could weather difficulties like a stately ship gliding through. Of course you could easily mistake that calm for indifference, lack of emotion or inability to empathise. Cam prided himself on being a good judge of character but Laurie left him confused.

  The desolate lost look on her face when he came back to the car with the hot drinks had made him feel horribly guilty. He should have been gentler with her. There was plenty of time en route to emphasise how impractical the car was, this morning he’d underestimated how she might be feeling. From what he’d gathered from Ron since the reading of the will, she was a home bird who had yet to fly the nest. He couldn’t imagine her and the boyfriend did much travelling.

  And didn’t they always say you could catch m
ore flies with honey? Plan A and B hadn’t exactly panned out that well. Maybe he should focus on befriending her. Getting her on side. If she liked him enough, she’d find it hard to refuse selling the car to him.

  From her silence, he sensed she was enjoying the journey.

  ‘You OK? Want to stop or anything?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You will say … if you need a loo break? Coffee? Tea? Jelly babies?’

  ‘Jelly Babies?’ her mouth curved into an unexpectedly sweet smile as if she was charmed by the thought.

  He shrugged, feeling the beginnings of a blush start to ride his cheeks. ‘Personal weakness.’

  She grinned, sudden and naughty. ‘I kind of like that … the wicked pirate with a secret weakness for sugar.’

  The unexpected pixie smile punched him in the gut and he gripped the wheel tighter.

  ‘Pirate?’ He risked a quick glance at her.

  ‘It’s not a compliment.’ The sudden return of her starchy tone was belied by dimple in her cheek. If he wasn’t mistaken she was trying hard not to smile again.

  ‘I didn’t think it was.’ He shot her a grin, determined to keep the sea change going. ‘I’ve been called a lot of things … but not a pirate.’ He paused. ‘At least not to my face.’

  Vivid pink fired along her cheekbone. ‘Sorry I didn’t meant to …’

  ‘No offence taken. So any idea on why Miles chose this route? It’s not exactly beginner’s material. Do you know about the Stelvio Pass?’

  What the hell was Miles thinking including that little challenge? Not for the faint-hearted. Or even the crassly stupid. He knew people who had died on that section of road.

  Laurie shrugged. ‘Should I have heard of it?’

  ‘No, not unless you’re a bit of a petrol-head. It’s the road down across the Swiss-Italian border, one of the steepest, most difficult drives in Europe. Forty-eight consecutive hair pin bends. It’s tough. Although this is a short wheel base which makes it easier to manoeuvre. Hell on the bumps on the road though.

  ‘And not for an inexperienced driver in a high performance car. With all those twists and turns, you need to know what you’re doing.’ He shuddered. ‘If you misjudge one of the corners, hit the barrier and go over the edge …’ It didn’t bear thinking about.