On hand to help, they have a stunningly beautiful personal sales person called Francesca, who does not call herself a sales person. She is apparently aconsultant. As such, she hasn’t given them the hard sell, but hung back respectfully for the two hours the ladies have already been there. When they want answers, Francesca materialises from nowhere, offeringexpert details about engine sizes, paintwork, interiors, and the various bespoke, customised features.
And she hasn’t said one word about Paula the Dog. Not even when she went round sniffing each car wheel in the room and looking at us with intense disappointment at the lack of interesting smells.
This is, apparently, what money buys you.
‘How much is that one, do you think?’ Paula muses, admiring the distinctive lettering at the back.
Francesca appears, silently and seamlessly. ‘The Porsche Taycan Turbo starts from eighty-six thousand, five hundred and fifty-five pounds.’ She says this like it is not an incredible sum of money.
Paula instinctively draws back. There is no way she could spend that kind of cash on a vehicle. Not on anything! It’s offensive!
She swallows, reaching into her overcoat, her fingers finding John’s notepad, as well as the shiny new bank card slipped into its pages. She very nearly left it behind again today. It was only as she saw Audrey pull up, that Paula remembered to fetch it from the living room. She traces the lettering on it now, letting her forefinger follow the shape of her name inscribed there. For some reason, it makes Paula feel a little emotional.
That card represents an awful lot, after all. It represents a kind of freedom. A freedom from years of turning lights off as she followed her children from room to room. Freedom from constant worry and fear about mortgage payments. Freedom from hole-y socks and shopping for clothes in charity shops.
These kids today, they all seem to think it’s cool and hip to shop second hand. Tilly is constantly yelling about somethingcalled Vinted, as if it means something to Paula. They all act like they’re single-handedly saving the planet by wearing a jumper someone died in.
And maybe they are?
To Paula, wearing second-hand clothes from her local charity shop always represented something like a failure for her. She couldn’t afford new, not even as she got old and saw people she once knew buying bigger and bigger homes. Shehadto shop for second hand and didn’t like the things she ended up buying. But they were a cheap means to an end.
And now she has more than twenty million pounds sterling sitting in her bank account. Twenty millionpounds. Just sitting there. By pure luck!
Why shouldn’t she spend some of it on something ridiculous? It’s got to be better than giving all of it away to a loan shark called Craig.
Francesca continues in a tone that is professional and somehow unintrusive. ‘It combines the classic Porsche silhouette with a modern all-electric design. It has a panoramic glass roof, with lateral Aircurtains and deploying door handles—’
‘What are Aircurtains?’ Ivy asks in a too-low voice from the back.
‘It has six-piston aluminium callipers on the front, and four-piston at the back, LED four-point headlights, a sixteen-point-eight-inch digital display, with Direct Touch Controls—’
Paula can’t hear any more nonsense words. ‘And if I bought this . . .’ she interrupts hesitantly, feeling oddly brave. ‘If I bought this car here and now, what then? How does this work?’
Francesca smiles a small, perfect smile, like a cat eyeing the dazed mouse under her paw. ‘Well, first we would talk about any customisation you might want.’
Paula raises her eyebrows. ‘Customisation?’
‘Paint colours, wheels, interiors, specific tech. We can even discuss the kind of seat stitching you want.’
‘Wow,’ Paula breathes.Seat stitching.
Teddy sounds amused. ‘I’m sure Paula has very specific thoughts about seat stitching.’
Francesca nods, giving nothing away. ‘Then we would handle all the paperwork for you, arrange the registration and have the car delivered wherever you’d like it in the UK. Or indeed, anywhere in the world.’ She pauses. ‘If it was something you were keen to do, I could also arrange to fly you out to the factory where the cars are built, for an extra-special delivery experience.’
‘That is almost certainly not something Paula or any of us would be keen to do,’ Audrey sniggers, flicking her pashmina over her shoulder.
‘No, thank you,’ Paula says carefully. Audrey’s right; she doesn’t want to go to a car factory.
Francesca moves infinitesimally closer. ‘We will also arrange for you to be included in our special client car membership, which means you get invited to all kinds of exclusive racing events – including Formula One – on us. As a thank you for your custom. It also gives you access to our concierge maintenance service, where you have an on-call expert available to you twenty-four seven. We would regularly collect your car for a personalised check with one of our experienced mechanics as well.’
‘Well, that all sounds very . . . nice,’ Paula says, nodding slowly, feeling like a fraud. It feels like she is playing a part.And not very well. She wants to be good at this. She wants to be cool like Teddy, taking all of this in her stride. She is suddenly very aware of her clothes. She must look very drab and unfashionable. Why hasn’t she got herself a six-thousand-pound skirt? Or, at least, a six-thousand-pound pair of trousers, since her varicose veins are not for display. She glances over at Ivy, feeling grateful that she also looks overwhelmed. Ivy seems even younger to Paula today, still dressed in her jeans and T-shirt. Her hair is pulled back in a sweet, bouncy ponytail and it reminds Paula of the long-gone days when she would do Tilly’s hair for her.
She makes eye contact with the sales consultant. ‘I will have a . . . think.’
Francesca smiles that enigmatic smile. ‘Of course. Please take your time, there’s no rush. I’m here if you need me.’ She moves away across the wide expanse of marble floor.
‘I had no idea cars were so expensive,’ Paula whispers to the group, though Francesca has disappeared inside her office.
