I’m almost mesmerised by her slim hands on the key. When the engine fails to catch yet again, thewhoopsexpression on her face tempts me to smile despite myself and I wonder whether I might be a lot better off if the van doesn’t start after all. I do not need to revisit the way I felt when we split. Maybe staying in Rome until flights are back on is the lesser of two evils.
Yep, maybe I should just get out now and walk away. The engine thing must be a sign. Revisiting the past is rarely a good thing; it certainly wouldn’t be in this case.
I could walk. I couldhitchhike. Why didn’t I think of that before? Why didn’tJanetthink of that? Is she losing her touch?
I open my mouth to saythank you so much but actually goodbyejust as the engine finally gets going and we lurch up and down.
‘Oops, the handbrake. Every time.’ Emma releases it and sends a half-smile in my direction as we lurch again, but forwards this time. And then we’re driving down the street, narrowly avoiding bins and bollards on either side, and I guess my decision’s made.
And, no, really that’s fine. We split uptwelve yearsago. We’re both adults now. I’m a completely different person from the one I was then. Emma’s obviously lived a lot of life since then too. We – I – can do this.
My mind veers back to the driving licence thing, and I decide that I need some distraction, because I really don’t want to go there.
‘Music,’ I say firmly.
‘Music?’ Emma’s keeping her eyes on the road, which I have to say I’m pleased about, because the van seems quite tricky to manoeuvre and we’re still in what seems to be a maze of narrow streets overhung with tallish, terraced houses, washing hanging from balconies, the occasional fruit and veg stall that we come far too close to, and people hurrying about the beginnings of their days.
‘What would you like to listen to? Favourite radio station?’
‘The radio doesn’t totally work,’ she reminds me. She stops and clunks the van into reverse because the corner we’re trying to get round is very tight. She leans to look in the side mirror on my side.
‘Would you like me to move that for you so you can see it without straining?’
‘No,’ she almost shrieks as I reach for the handle to roll the window down. (This van looks like it dates from decades before electric windows kicked in.) I raise my eyebrows and shesays, ‘Sorry, that might have sounded like an over-reaction but please don’t touch that mirror. It falls off sometimes and it’s a nightmare to get it fixed.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Not a surprise given the unreliable engine and not-totally-working radio.
‘Honestly, it’s actually a great van,’ Emma says as she reverses again because we still aren’t round the corner.
Something I know about her that I doubt will have changed: however much she doesn’t want to talk or she’s upset or whatever, she can’t help herself, she still chats. Like I can tell she’s about to do now, despite clearly not being too happy to be sharing this journey with me.
‘It’s the bones of the vehicle that count, not the fancy extras,’ she continues.
‘That is true,’ I agree politely. ‘I’ve seen a lot ofTop Gear. My nephews love it. You can cross entire inhospitable deserts and tundras in vehicles like this.’
I was going to sayworse than thisbut I realise that that probably isn’t true.
‘Exactly.’ Emma finally has the van round the corner and we’re back to dodging bollards, people and the occasional stray dog.
I look at Google Maps again, keen to get out of the city and properly on our way as quickly as possible.
‘Left here,’ I say.
Emma keeps going straight.
‘I can’t go in there,’ she says. ‘Limited traffic zone.’
I look up from the phone. ‘This is a dead end, though.’
‘Yep.’ She’s already embarked on turning round.
‘Bloodyhell,’ she says as she finally gets the van all the way round after an eleven (maybe thirteen) point turn. ‘That was atinyturning space.’
I look over my shoulder at the not-that-small space and maybe I snigger slightly.
‘Sorry, wouldyoulike to do it?’ she grumbles. ‘Or can you not actually drive due to lack of licence? And weren’t you the person who directed us into the dead end in the first place?’
‘Both very fair points,’ I acknowledge, her mention of the driving licence reminding me that nothing about today is funny.
