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‘Two thirty.’
‘Fuck off.’
James held his hands up, ticking off each point as he made it. ‘One extremely careful owner, immaculate interior and not a mark on the body. Full-service history, MOT and a full tank of petrol. I know how much you can get for her, and so do you. It just depends how much profit you want to make.’
‘One seventy. And that’s my final—Hey!’
But James was striding off.
Tony trotted after him. ‘Wait! Two hundred on the nose.’
James turned, waiting a beat before he replied. ‘Two hundred and one of the cars you’ve got here.’
‘What?’
‘Your choice and between five and ten grand asking price. But it has to have low mileage, full-service history, MOT, not a scratch on the body, and only one previous owner.’
‘What second-hand car has only had one owner?’ Tony spluttered.
James shrugged. If he was giving up his Ferrari, then he had to replace it with something that wouldn’t break down the moment he drove it off the forecourt.
Something flared in Tony’s eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitched. ‘I’ve actually got exactly what you want.’
That doesn’t sound good. ‘I want to see the full papers.’
‘Not a problem.’ Tony extended an arm. ‘Do we have a deal?’
‘Two hundred for the Ferrari, and I drive away in the next hour with a reliable car?’
‘Yep. You can’t get a better condition ride than the one you’re getting.’
‘Apart from my Ferrari.’
Tony shrugged. ‘They’re on a par.’
Reaching out, James shook his hand. ‘Deal.’
James pulled to a stop at the traffic lights, keeping his gaze dead ahead.
‘Awright Barb!’ a man called from the window of a white van.
‘Twat!’ his friend added.
James ignored them, repressing the urge to do a U-turn and go back to rip Tony’s head off.
On the journey from the dealership to Foxbrooke, James had been beeped every couple of minutes. Men hurled abuse as soon as they clocked him behind the wheel, and women laughed. Used to admiring glances from both sexes when he was in the Ferrari, this driving experience had ripped him from heaven and dropped him into the seventh circle of hell.
From the age of seven, James’s image had been carefully cultivated. There was no room for embarrassment or vulnerability, and no-one ever laughed at him. Was his new car some kind of cosmic karma for everything he’d ever done wrong? If so, his list of transgressions must have been really bloody long to justify this level of humiliation. He couldn’t even use the money Theo’s company owed him. It was needed to pay the credit card bills he’d accumulated. And anyway, the money wouldn’t have come through fast enough for what he needed.
Parking at the far end of Foxbrooke high street, James strode toward the manor, getting as much distance from his new car as possible. It was blisteringly hot and he kept to the shady side of the street, going into BDE’s bank account to authorise payments as he walked, then ringing Estelle.
She didn’t pick up.
He rang Carly, who answered immediately. ‘Hey James, you still in London?’
‘No, I cut the trip short. I’m just entering the main gates. How’s it going?’
‘Right now? It’s a shitshow in the formal gardens.’
