Page 42 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

Put it this way, there were screams.

‘They’re on the wrong side of the road!!!’

‘No, you’re on the wrong side of the road!!!’

As the two women yelled and shrieked at each other, Flick quickly swerved into a layby, narrowly missing a silver Ferrari. The Fiat stalled. The Ferrari blasted its horn. Both drivers looked at each other. Flick had gone as white as a sheet and was shaking.

‘How about I drive?’ suggested Maggie. ‘And you can navigate.’

‘I’m sure I’ll be fine with a bit of practice,’ Flick feebly protested.

‘Or dead,’ replied Maggie, opening the car door and getting out. Because if her hangover wasn’t going to kill her, Flick’s driving was.

Without further discussion they swapped seats.

‘So how long’s the drive?’ Checking her mirrors, Maggie safely pulled out onto Avenue Princesse Grace.

‘Seven hours, forty minutes,’ replied Flick, peering at the directions on her phone. For the first time in her life, she actually felt relieved not to be in the driving seat.

‘Ouch, that’s a long journey.’

‘How about we listen to some music to help pass the time?’

Flick turned on the radio and the next few minutes were spent scrolling through stations. Cue terrible pop music with a curious amount of synthesizers and news channels in French which, despite Maggie’s GCSE and Flick’s translation app, neither could fully understand. Every so often spirits would be raised as a classic Rolling Stones record or a catchy Dua Lipa hit blasted over the airwaves and the volume would be turned up together with the mood in the car. Only for the song to be drowned out by static a few seconds later as the signal became weak and then disappeared.

There was a metaphor for life in there somewhere.

Finally Flick gave up and turned it off.

‘I’ve got Spotify.’

‘OK, great.’ Focused on navigating a roundabout, Maggie followed the directions onto the autoroute. ‘What shall we listen to?’

Flick fiddled with her phone, scrolling through various playlists. ‘What are you in the mood for?’

‘Something that won’t make my headache worse.’ Maggie rubbed her temples.

Despite the trifecta of caffeine, croissants and paracetamol – the usual guaranteed cure – her headache was proving to be like one of those guests at the end of a party who refuses to leave and takes up residence in your kitchen.

‘How about this band? They’re pretty chill.’

Music flooded the car. At least, Maggie assumed it was supposed to be music.

‘God, they’re terrible,’ she said, wincing, after a few minutes. ‘How about we listen to some eighties instead?’

‘Eighties?’

‘What’s wrong with the eighties?’

‘Big hair. Leg warmers. Acid-wash jeans . . . seriously, I’ve seen Mum’s old photos.’

‘Ah, the good old days.’ Maggie smiled fondly, then caught Flick’s expression. ‘Just kidding. The fashion was awful, but the music was amazing. God, I used to have such a crush on Simon Le Bon.’

‘Is that the guy from Britain’s Got Talent?’

There was a beat. Surely she hadn’t heard that right?

‘No, it is not!’ she cried, in disbelief. ‘That’s Simon Cowell!’