‘Why not?’
‘You’ll see in a minute.’ He puts his foot down and I do indeed see.
When we sail over a speed bump, he winces as the front bumper hits it. ‘The front is really low. It seems to do that every time. Thank heavens for motorways.’
My coffee froths over the cup. ‘He talked a lot about cars, but took the Tube everywhere.’
‘He gets off on trophies, as my mother discovered soon into their marriage. He probably gives it a spin around Chelsea once a month or so or does a run out to the countryside on a summer’s evening. Like peacocks displaying their feathers– he’s genetically programmed to show off.’
‘Bet he was fun on parents’ evening.’
He splutters out a laugh. ‘Vince Morelli at a parents’ evening?’
‘You should have come to one of mine for the ultimate parental no-show.’
He opens his mouth and shouts above the noise of the engine. ‘I know exactly why men like him buy this kind of car. People stare at it. They stare at him in it. Wait till you see the ogling when we stop for petrol. And brace yourself for the questions about how much it cost.’
‘Why does he want the attention? People try and chat to him all the time anyway.’
‘I’m sure he can’t go to the corner store without selfie requests, but it’s never enough. Attention is like a drug– one hit and you want more.’
I look at Joe sideways and my heart skips a beat.
As we negotiate the local traffic, we chat like the two old friends we were before a kiss got in the way. ‘This car must take ages to wash and polish. I think you’d have to go for the premium package at Speedy Washers,’ I say, my words prompting an exaggerated cough from Joe. ‘Ah OK, he wouldn’t go to Speedy Washers? What about the worry though– anxiety spiking every time you visit a shopping centre in case someone keys it.’
‘Not a problem. He wouldn’t dream of going to a mall in it,’ he says.
‘I would. I’d sit in the multi-storey eating cheese balls and enjoying the envy.’
‘No eating, remember.’ He scrapes a second bump, and my bag soaks up the coffee.
We head out of town and I notice he clicks his jaw when we have to slow down or stop, which is basically all the time. And he has a death grip on the wheel. For all its speed and elegance, the Ferrari doesn’t get us out of the traffic any quicker. As vehicles queue in the tail end of the commuter rush, and lorries send fumes into the universe, I imagine another coral reef dying.
The car comes into its own on the M40 and Joe speeds up to let me feel the thrill of riding in something so powerful. Heads turn, even those in the crawl lane as he pushes over the limit. A couple of young guys in an Audi match our speed, blaring a horn and jeering while Joe drops back to seventy and holds a steady line. A couple of miles later the traffic slows, and we belch pound notes waiting for the jam to disperse. When we move off, a police car is close behind. ‘They’re waiting for me to accelerate so they can slap me with a speeding ticket.’
‘It’s complicated driving a fancy car.’
‘I’ll stick to a van, thank you. So how have you been the last few days?’
‘Well, my big news is I’m planning a Happiness Fair. In Shepherd’s Bush. I’ve booked a hall and already signed up four stallholders. And I took a call from a mental health charity who’d like to take part. In fact, I think I might use the event to raise funds for them.’
‘Sounds great. When will it happen?’ I tell him they had a cancellation in December and he raises his eyebrows. ‘Right. That’s quite soon …’
‘January might have been a better time to hold it as everyone is looking to make positive changes, whereas in December they’re maxing out on mince pies and sherry but I can fairy light the whole thing and perhaps raffle a bottle of Bailey’s.’
As we cover the last few miles, I pick up an email from my editor at theGazette. He’s been sending feedback about my columns and tweaking my answers to problems here and there, and he’s asking if I could go lighter on the problems in the run-up to the festive season. Joe laughs as I relay the contents of the email, taking a stab at imitating his gruff voice. ‘Make them up if you need to, lass. At this time of year readers want to be entertained. There’s enough doom and gloom facing us once Santa’s been and gone.’
At the end of the message, he tells me the paper is looking to increase its online presence and he has some budget to put behind it. He’s asking his best columnists to come up with ideas for a digital campaign around our columns. By return email, I tell him about the #JustSayYes hashtag I run every Saturday on my Twitter and Insta feeds, suggesting he starts a London-wide #MustSayYes campaign, with people sharing the positivity that comes from accepting an invitation or proposal. He tells me he’ll run it past his marketing team.
Getting out of the car proves as hard as getting in. I go full crab, clenching my stomach muscles, pushing my legs out one by one and following up with the rest of my body. Despite his height, Joe neatly scissor hops out of his seat.
‘I bet you aced the high jump at sports day.’
‘Too busy playing hockey. Vince was a tiger parent when it came to sport. He’s probably still disappointed I didn’t get into ice hockey or properly take to “soccer”. Shall I see what the deal is about parking?’ He heads inside while I lean against the car, stretching my legs. I tweet a photo of the spa hotel I could never afford without a generous benefactor, and recommend my followers take some time out to relax.
Five minutes later, he reappears, frowning. ‘There’s a wedding on this weekend and no parking available within sight of the hotel. Dad’ll kill me if something happens to his precious car.’
‘A WAG’s probably getting hitched– this is footballer’s wife territory. She might drive off in it thinking it’s hers!’
