From Italy With Love. Jules Wake

Laurie would quickly get bored and realise that ownership of this car was quite different to the comfort and ease she was used to.

      An hour into the journey, he realised that although she seemed quiet and contemplative, she’d relaxed a little. Like a student determined to learn everything she could, she watched the gear changes and studied the flow of the traffic around them. He smiled at her concentration. She looked like a rapt robin, her head bobbing up and down, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she took everything in.

      The bing of her mobile coincided with them mounting the incline of the Dartford Bridge. The fingers on the hand holding the phone whitened, as she read whatever the message said and he heard her breath hiss out. He waited, sliding into the middle lane, still aware of all the traffic around them, expectant of some moan or complaint. Except that was totally unfair. So far, despite having some cause, she hadn’t moaned or complained once and despite him not talking, she seemed quite capable of holding her own counsel.

      Clearly something was going on with the texts, it was the fourth she’d received since they set off and her face had become increasingly grim but she’d not said a word. Not like his ex-wife who liked to share every nuance of emotion and feeling, and had expected the same in response.

      He winced at the memories. The constant emotional barrage had pushed him further and further back like a snail retreating into its shell for safety. He didn’t want his emotions picked over constantly but she’d taken it as failure and the more he retreated the more she needed him to ‘talk to her’.

      Something had clearly upset Laurie but she seemed content to keep it to herself. Or was that him failing ‘to empathise’ which Sylvie had accused him of on a regular basis.

      ‘You OK?’ he asked.

      ‘Yeah, fine.’ She turned her head and looked out of the passenger window. He was getting a little fed up with looking at the back of her ponytail all the time. On the edge of his vision, he could see she lifted her chin and held the tension in the tendons in her neck. Remembering how it felt when Sylvie had persisted, he took her at her word and focused on the traffic.

      Cam obviously hadn’t spent much time on public transport. Half her teenage years had been spent travelling on rickety old buses which invariably broke down half way to Milton Keynes. If he thought a bit of a draught bothered her, it just went to show how different they were. No doubt the sort of women he was used to would catch a chill or need to be wrapped up in furs. She curled her lip as much in disgust with herself, if she wasn’t careful she’d turn into a right old curmudgeon. Staring out of the window, she watched the grey choppy waves of the Thames below the bridge. They matched her mood, scratchy and unsettled. Not angry, not sad … just antsy. She hated feeling like this. Only a few weeks ago everything had been fine. Normal.

      Robert’s text had her clenching her fists under her thighs, hidden from Cam. The last thing she wanted to do was air her dirty laundry.

      I take it you’ve gone then. I might not be here when you get back. Hope you’re happy now.

      Of course she wasn’t happy. Upsetting him hadn’t been her intention but it would have been wrong to get married, to rush it now. Not when it didn’t feel right.

      Ironically, his childish text pushed aside the guilt that had been mounting ever since she closed the front door, firming her resolve. She’d started this journey; she was going to finish it, with or without Robert’s approval.

      Arriving at the Channel Tunnel was disappointing. She’d envisioned a yawning black hole that was clearly visible for miles, a scary looking challenge not for the faint-hearted which brought up images of Stargate, The Hobbit and Dr Who. Instead it was all horribly pedestrian, the most boring train station on the planet immortalised in industrialised concrete.

      The only vaguely exotic thing was the paper hanger with the letter G which was propped on top of the dashboard.

      As they drew into a parking space in the busiest section of the car park, Cam turned to her. ‘Both of us can’t leave the car at the same time. We’ll have to take it in turns to go in. Unless you need the loo, I’ll go and get us a drink. Tea or Coffee?’

      ‘I’m fine. Tea, please, milk and one sugar.’

      He got out of the car and then leaned back in to call across, ‘You might want to get out and stretch your legs, but stay by the car. You don’t want some little oik scratching it or anything.’

      Twisting in her seat, she did feel a little stiff and it would be good to get out in the sunshine. After Cam’s little refrigeration stunt, she could do with warming up. Unwinding herself from the seat, she got out and found herself with an audience. In the few short minutes they’d been there, the car had drawn an interested couple of by-standers. They stared at her and then at the car and she smiled stiffly back at them. It felt a bit like showing off to be standing right beside it, as if to say, look at me and my car. Shifting, she looked down at the floor, wishing she’d grabbed her handbag. She could have pretended to be texting or something.

      A woman came up right next to her, and without saying a word, pushed her way between Laurie and the car and put her hand on the bonnet. Too surprised to say anything, Laurie took a step back and watched in amazement as the woman’s boyfriend calmly took a couple of shots of the woman with his phone.

      ‘Nice car,’ he tossed at her as he draped his arm across the woman’s shoulders and they walked off.

      ‘Mind if I take a picture?’ asked another man. Smartly dressed in a suit in his mid-forties, he looked as if he were on his way to a meeting.