I really don’t want to but I’m going to have to join her. I can’t just leave her in the middle of a huge multi-person argument.
I’m back with the speed-walking (my shoes are feeling a lot better now, at least) and am next to Emma very quickly, just in time for her to say, ‘Alora, en el coche,’ while she points at the man blocking the street. I think that’s Spanish, not Italian, and the man’s face is thunderous, but clearly something about her manner works because to my, and – from the dropped jaws around me – everyone else’s astonishment, he grumbles himselfback into his car and begins to reverse, people scattering out of his way.
‘Nice,’ I say to Emma as we walk back to the car.
‘That wasnothingcompared to my day job,’ she tells me, and I realise that I have no idea what she does for a living. Twenty-four-year-old me wouldn’t have believed that I’d have no idea what path Emma’s life would take.
I nearly ask and then I hesitate, because I do not want to get involved at all. I don’t want to know what she does. I don’t want to know anything about her. I just want to get back to London and go back to not seeing her again and hardly ever thinking about her any more.
I do want to know, though, I realise, and again almost ask. But then I remember that I was supposed to be keeping my distance from her during this journey and I feel like we’ve already been talking too much.
So instead of asking what she does, I say, ‘Well you’ve done a great job here. The queue’s actually moving.’
Which is true, so we hustle ourselves fast back into the van and crawl forward until we manage to turn right. For a woman who hasn’t been driving that long, Emma has great skill in regular lane-swapping to take advantage of ebbs and flows in the levels of traffic, and we’re making a lot better progress than everyone else.
‘I thought you loved a traffic jam because you don’t like lane changing?’ I can’t help but ask.
‘Yep.’ She’s looking intently between her rear-view and side mirrors and does another sudden lane switch. ‘This requires too much concentration. It’s very unrelaxing.’
I decide not to point out that wecouldjust sit in our own lane like you’re supposed to, because from my perspective the more distance we cover, the better.
‘So, music,’ I say, because it’s kind of weird to sit in total silence but we definitely shouldn’t talk too much. ‘What would you like?’ And then I add, ‘If you would like music,’ because I don’t want to impose. Maybe she likes driving in silence.
‘I have a…’ she begins. Then she stops for a second, before finishing with, ‘I’m really very easy. Whatever you like.’
I wonder what she was going to say and then realise that maybe she was about to tell me that she has a playlist for journeys and then realised that she doesn’t want to share that with me. I get it. I wouldn’t want to share mine with her either. Too personal. You’re giving away a lot about yourself with your playlist.
Silence, though. Music would be better.
‘What about starting with some eighties greatest hits?’ I suggest. She always used to love eighties nights.
‘I can never say no to eighties music.’
‘I know.’ That was awkward; why I am referring to the past? ‘Let me search.’
And soon we have eighties greatest hits blaring out of my phone and this is good. Emma could be anyone, just a woman I happen to be sitting in a van with listening to ‘Last Christmas’ in the middle of July.
About four songs in, Emma starts singing along. If she’s anything like she used to be, I’m surprised it’s taken this long; she always used to sing to everything. She never learns the actual words, just singsla.
I find myself joining in, with the actual words, because I know the actual words.
‘Oh my God,’ I suddenly say, halfway through Emma blasting outlaat full volume to ‘Karma Chameleon’, a song that all people everywhere surely know the words to. ‘Remember when you did the miaow thing?’
She read something that said if you singmiaowwhen you don’t know the words no one can tell and it works way better thanla. It was not true.
I should not have reminded her. She immediately switches fromlatomiaow, before cackling with laughter.
‘No, please no,’ I say.
We carry on with the la-ing from her and the actual words from me as we make our way out of Rome and onto the motorway. Singing-wise, we’re a match made in heaven or a match made in hell, depending on how you look at it, because she has the tune and I have the words.
I can’t help looking over at the speedometer fairly regularly. We’re getting overtaken by literally everyone. And that is because we are driving at about forty-three miles an hour.
‘I think the speed limit’s probably at least 110 kilometres per hour.’ I google as I speak. ‘Actually, it’s 130 on the motorway and it looks like it’s 150 sometimes. That’sfast.’ I google again. ‘That’s 93 miles an hour.’ I look back at the speedometer. I don’t want to be rude but… ‘So if you liked, we could go faster,’ I suggest.
‘I don’tlovedriving that fast,’ Emma tells me, tapping the steering wheel in time to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. ‘It’s stressful.’
I nod. It’s her decision, obviously. And I don’t fancy going hell for leather in a vehicle this rickety, so fair enough. Equally, though, I’m pretty sure we’d be safe going at, say, sixty miles an hour, and we’d get back alotfaster. Google Maps isn’t basing its estimates on people going at half the speed limit, is it?
