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He smiled as though it was a completely rational suggestion.
“I’m going to count to three and then I’m reversing. You can hold onto the door. I don’t care.”
“Come on, Davy. This isn’t a car. It’s a Corgi toy.”
“One.”
“Be reasonable. It’s pink.”
“Two.”
“It’s French. There’s a reason the French are known for their food and not for their cars.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Three. Hold on tight. You’re going for a ride.”
And damn if she didn’t put the car in gear.
“OKAY!” He was dragged three feet.
She screeched to a halt and raised an eyebrow eloquently.
“I’ll get in the car,” he told her.
“I didn’t invite you, idiot.”
He tried to appear as though he had more control of the situation than he felt.
“Look, I either ride in there with you, or on your roof – what’s it to be?”
She muttered something towards heaven.
“Fine. Get in.”
He strode around the pink monstrosity and yanked open its tin-can door. It didn’t even have proper windows, it had flaps. He wedged his six foot frame into the passenger seat and was surprised to find he fitted. Length ways anyway. Width was another matter. The car’s designers had wedged two seats into the same width that all other cars put one. He was plastered against Davina, shoulder to knee.
“Move over, I can’t get to the gear stick,” she said.
“Move over to where?”
She looked like she was going to hit him. He squeezed himself against the door to give her an extra whole inch of space.
“This car was built for dainty French women who don’t eat,” he told her. “Not for normal people.”
“I’ll have you know James Bond drove one of these,” Davina said as she manoeuvred them out of the garage. “There was a chase scene in For Your Eyes Only. His 2CV was bright yellow. He wasn’t scared of a little colour. If it was good enough for James Bond it should be good enough for you.”
It took him a minute to follow her argument. He was too busy focusing on the traffic and the fact that pretty much every car on the road was bigger than the one they were in. Plus, he had the distinct impression that if they crashed the roof would peel off like the lid on a can of sardines.
“This isn’t a car,” he told her. “It’s a marshmallow on wheels.”
That really cheesed her off. They drove in silence along the seafront past the white stone Georgian terraces and out through Hove. They were driving through the industrial area outside Shoreham when Davina suddenly giggled. Jack wasn’t sure he’d heard right until she turned towards him with a wide grin.
“If this was a date,” Davina said, “it would be really bad.”
Jack felt a strange tightening in his stomach. It was something he’d never felt before and couldn’t quite identify.
“Good it’s not a date then,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say.
