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Heading away from Bath towards Swindon, he drove for forty minutes, then pulled into the dealership he’d been communicating with.
An older man in a shiny suit came out to greet him, his beady eyes entirely on James’s car.
‘Nice,’ he said in a thick Essex accent. ‘I’m Tony.’
James stood a little taller. The man looked and sounded like his father’s old East End cronies, one foot in the business world, the other in the underworld.
Tony finally brought his attention to James, his gaze shrewd and assessing. ‘Why d’you want such a quick sale?’
James gave a nonchalant half-shrug in return.
‘You got all the papers?’
‘Full-service history and not a ding on it.’
‘And you don’t want the plates?’
James shook his head, then leaned into the car to get the particulars. He most definitely did want to keep the personalised number plate, but that would mean a wait before he could sell the Ferrari and he didn’t have that luxury. Both ‘JHS 1’ and the beloved car it was attached to would have to drive into the sunset together, and James would have to let go of that chapter of his life.
Tony inspected the papers, then spent half an hour going over every bit of the Ferrari he could reach. James stood back, his stomach nauseous, as if he were his car and Tony was performing a rigorous prostate exam minus the lube.
He then took the car for a test drive. James’s hands and right foot twitched in the passenger seat as the older man put the Ferrari through its paces.
‘I handle her more carefully than this,’ he finally gritted out.
‘No need. She’s a feisty little bitch.’
James ground his teeth. Even though Tony wouldn’t be the final owner, he hated the thought of the Ferrari spending any more time in his company.
Get a grip. It’s just a car. Again, the voice sounded exactly like Estelle’s.
Unclenching his fists, James let out a long, slow breath. Don’t forget why you’re doing this.
Back at the dealership, the bargaining commenced.
‘Two hundred and fifty grand,’ James said.
‘Fuck off,’ Tony scoffed. ‘One hundred.’
‘No, you fuck off. Start with a better number or I walk.’
‘You want a quick sale?’
‘I want a sale, not an arse-fuck.’
‘One hundred and twenty.’
‘No.’
‘One hundred and twenty-five.’
James crossed his arms. ‘Cut the shit. I’ve got other options. You were just the closest.’
Tony mirrored his stance and puffed out his chest.
James lifted his chin and flexed his crossed arms. He’d been up against bigger and uglier bastards than Tony and wasn’t going to settle until he got what he wanted.
Tony was the first to cave. ‘One fifty.’
