‘And you’re sure the insurance is OK?’
‘All sorted.’
‘And you’re OK if I, like, bash it up or ruin the gears or something?’
He laughed. ‘That won’t happen.’
She looked at him.
‘But yes, if it does, I will forgive you,’ he added, smiling and shaking his head as if she were being ridiculous.
It was pretty clear he’d never seen her drive before.
‘OK.’ She took a breath and climbed into the worn, leather driver’s seat. Brad walked around the car and climbed in beside her.
Inside, the car smelled of oil and some sort of pine air freshener. The plastic dashboard was sun-bleached and scratched. This was probably the perfect car for driving garden waste to thedéchetterieor bumping down muddy tracks. But for someone wanting a reliable car for eight hours of driving in a day? She hoped it would be up to the job.
‘Fully serviced and checked a couple of months ago,’ Brad said, as if reading her mind.
She nodded and started the engine, pleased that it caught and roared into life first time.
‘See,’ he said confidently, as if starting was all the car needed to do to prove its worth.
It’s got 400 kilometres to go yet,she wanted to say – but didn’t.
She tried to think about the €200 of hire fees she’d saved by accepting his offer and put her foot on the accelerator. And they were off.
Navigating the city streets was unnerving – driving on the right side of the road had seemed difficult even when she’d lived in the quiet Creusedépartement. But here with traffic lights, one-way systems and people who strolled casually in front of them deep in conversation, the stakes felt frighteningly high.
Bella found that she was gripping the wheel tightly, her leg hovering constantly over the brake, ready to slam it down if necessary. Her slow, careful driving earned a couple of angry beeps from other drivers. ‘I thought the French were meant to be laid back!’ she found herself saying to Brad.
‘You think this is bad? You should try driving in Chicago,’ he told her cheerfully. ‘If you don’t get blasted by someone’s horn on every trip, you wonder if you’re invisible.’
‘But still?—’
‘Ah, you’ll be OK once we’re on the main road,’ he said, leaning back as if he weren’t in almost constant mortal danger.
The roads leading out of the city were busy, despite the early hour, and she made a couple of wrong turns, forced to travel miles out of their way in order to turn round. Once or twice Brad looked at her, and she sensed he was thinking about offering to take over. But he said nothing.
In reality she’d have loved someone to step in – just for this bit, the busy bit. But the last thing she wanted to do was surrender and ask.
Almost an hour later they were finally on the autoroute and things had started to feel more civilised. The road was long, straight, two-lane and virtually empty. As they headed towards Orléans, she began to feel her shoulders and stomach relax a little.
‘You OK?’ Brad asked after they’d been driving smoothly for a while.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re driving pretty good.’
‘What? Now? Yeah, it’s pretty easy now.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up. I thought you handled Versailles pretty well too. It’s a nightmare getting around that one-way system – and those idiots on their phones who step into the road. Terrifying.’
‘Are you saying that just to make me feel better?’ she said.
He grinned. ‘Maybe. But I mean it too. You handled it well. And I’m pretty sure Maureen approves.’
‘I’m sorry – Maureen?’
