by Daisy James
‘I know, he would have loved to have taken her out for a spin. But my aunt, Uncle Martin’s younger sister, is going to enjoy a fabulous chauffeur-driven journey to her daughter’s wedding next month!’
Max turned the key and the engine roared into life. An intense whoosh of exhilaration flooded Gabbie’s veins. She wouldn’t say she was a speed freak, but the pull of a powerful engine always caused her senses to tingle, never mind the tantalising fragrance of Max’s citrusy cologne.
‘Ready?’
‘Ready!’
All thoughts of the accounts were stored away in the ‘to be continued’ box as she anticipated the experience in store. She glanced at Max and saw the glint of excitement in his eyes as he navigated the deserted roads and started to build up some speed, his strong hands caressing the steering wheel with the firm confidence of an experienced lover. Her stomach performed a somersault of pleasure; would they end up at the lake again?
‘You really love this car, don’t you?’
‘I love it for lots of reasons. It’s one of the most iconic cars of its era, but the main reason I love it so much is much more personal. I would never sell it, no matter how much I was offered – and believe me I’ve been approached by several dealers. My uncle and I spent hours and hours in his garage working on the engine, stripping it down, sourcing original parts, researching every detail on the internet for authenticity. Initially, he just wanted to encourage me to do something worthwhile with my hands instead of…’
Max paused, easing his foot off the accelerator, clearly not wanting to stress the engine too early in its unscheduled test run. Gabbie saw that familiar flicker of sadness whip across his face, coupled with the tightening of his jawline. Silence swirled around them until they had come to a stop in the empty car park next to the lake.
‘Instead of what?’
Max stared at the motionless black water until Gabbie posed the question again, gently. She wanted to know more about what made Max tick, to let him know that she was interested, to listen to his story in the hope it would help him as much as he had helped her the last time they had ended up there – although she drew the line at taking another swim. A bank of bruised clouds had amassed just beyond the tree-line on the far shore and she suspected the meteorological gods had a rather wet night planned.
‘Instead of getting into scuffles in the playground.’
That was the last thing she had expected Max to say. He didn’t seem the sort of guy who went for a night out on the town, downed a few beers and started a fight. But he was talking about years ago, she reminded herself, when he was at school.
‘Max…’
‘I told you I moved around a lot when I was young, but I didn’t tell you it was because my mother was an alcoholic who would go anywhere, do anything, to get her next bottle of vodka. My father walked away when she was pregnant, so when her life eventually spiralled out of control I was taken into foster care. I was eight and I haven’t seen her since. I was fortunate that Martin and Maggie stepped in. I couldn’t have asked for better parents, but it took me a while to come to terms with my feelings of abandonment. I was twelve before I stopped hoping she’d turn up on the doorstep to tell me she wanted me back.’
Gabbie’s heart flip-flopped in her chest. She saw Max was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles had bleached white, his eyes trained steadily on the horizon while he spilled such personal information.
‘The kids at school used to call me names – childish taunts about being adopted. I lashed out and was sent to see the head teacher. Maggie talked to me about controlling my emotions and it was her idea to send me to karate lessons, which helped me manage my anger and confusion about being ‘unwanted’, which was one of the better words the boys used. But it was working on engines with Martin that really saved me. You know what the last thing he said to me before he died was?’
‘No?’
‘He wanted me to promise him I would finish the Jag and use it to drive my wife away on our honeymoon – like your Mum and Dad in their Triumph Stag. I hope my cousin Cassie’s wedding next month will be the first of many weddings it will appear at as the special guest.’
After a while Max turned in his seat, his right arm hooked around the steering wheel, so he could look directly into her eyes.
‘I’m not sure whether you’ll mind me saying this, Gabbie, but I envy you.’
‘You envy me? Why?’
‘I know how devastated you are at losing your mum, but you were really fortunate to have had her in your life for as long as you did. Plenty of time to get to know her, to do all the things children do with their parents. You loved her for who she was, you knew all her likes and dislikes – what her favourite band was, whether she preferred Chinese or Thai or Mexican, which perfume she preferred. I didn’t have that luxury – all I have is a couple of black-and-white photographs one of the social workers gave me. There are so many questions I’ve wanted to ask my mother over the years. Not just why she never came back for me, but who my father was and how they met, what books she liked to read when she was young, could she cook, what her favourite model of car was, but I can’t.’
The pain Gabbie had seen buried deep in Max’s soul when she had first met him was now etched boldly on his face. The lines on his forehead were more pronounced, his lips pulled between his teeth as he struggled to hang on to his emotions after divulging his innermost feelings. But there was more to come.
‘When I was eighteen I tried to contact her through the adoption agency. They were really helpful and supportive, but there was no easy way for them to deliver the news that my mother had been traced and didn’t want to see me. All the old abandonment issues came flooding back and it took months for Martin and Maggie to help me deal with the aftermath of that bombshell. Eventually, they managed to persuade me to get some counselling.’
Gabbie’s heart ached for Max and she was happy talking about his experiences had worked for him. However, she had never felt able to reach out to bereavement support groups to talk about her own loss, to hear firsthand other people’s stories, because that only forced her to face her grief, and all she had wanted to do was bury those painful feelings and try to move on.
Unfortunately, that technique hadn’t worked and listening to Max reminded her that empathy was an integral part of the healing process too. The meetings she had shunned as far too painful had a dual purpose. Yes, they were there for anyone who needed a shoulder to cry on, or a listening ear, a kind word, but the bereaved member could offer solace to others at the same time, giving support, which in turn helped them too.
‘I’m sorry, Max, for everything you’ve been through and for unloading my problems last time we were here, when I had no idea what effect my words would have on you. And you’re right, of course. I should be grateful for every single second of the time I got to spend with Mum, even if it was far too short. I never really thought of things like that. I just saw her passing as a complete negative that created a huge void in my world that could never be filled no matter how hard Dad or anyone else tried. But at least I did know her, and she got to be my mum even when I was an adult. I realise now how fortunate I am to have all these lovely memories I can take out of their box whenever I want, but I’ve chosen to avoid it so far because it hurts so much.’
‘You don’t have to apologise, Gabbie. We all deal with grief and loss differently. For me, I want to nurture the roots I’ve been able to put down at last. I love having a place to call home, my little corner of paradise where I get to be an integral part of the community. I want to be among friends who know my history and understand who I am, not mingle with strangers who can only react to what they see, or what you choose to tell them. I love the support networks the village has built up over the years, and that in some small way I’m helping the people who live in Oakley by making sure their cars run smoothly. The thought of Andrews Autos closing down fills me with dread. Why did you feel you had to get away?’
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��If you had asked me that question a couple of weeks ago I would have told you I hoped distancing myself from all the trauma would help me deal with what happened. But now I’m back, I agree with you. Just spending an hour in Clara’s company has pushed me further down the path of coming to terms with my grief than I ever thought possible.’
Gabbie smiled when she thought of the friendship she shared with Clara, which had endured despite her extended absence. She knew she wouldn’t be able to stay away for any length of time again.
‘Jasmine, my friend in Grasse, knew about Mum. She knew she was called Sofia Cristiani before she married Dad. That she was the one who taught me to speak Italian and French, and that her parents, my grandparents, live in a tiny hillside village a few miles outside Genoa. That her favourite fragrance was crushed rose petals. But she didn’t know her, didn’t truly understand what her loss meant to me. I thought I knew what was best for me but I was wrong. Sadness still stalked me every day in France, despite the sunshine and the distraction of working twelve-hour days.’
Silence stretched as Gabbie and Max lingered for a while in their own private thoughts.
‘You know, I wouldn’t mind one of those little flasks of happiness you keep dishing out to the garage customers to hang on the rear-view mirror!’
‘I don’t think you need anything to make your passengers happy in this car, Max,’ Gabbie laughed, welcoming Max’s attempt to lighten the mood. ‘It’s amazing, and a fitting tribute to your uncle. He would have been so proud of what you’ve done.’
‘So when I tell you that a little bit of dirt and grease can produce beautiful things, you’ll agree with me?’
‘Of course!’
‘Okay, that’s enough of the agony-aunt stuff. Are you up for a swim?’
‘No way! Not this time. Look!’ Gabbie pointed to the windscreen where raindrops the size of grapes were attacking the glass with vengeance. ‘I might be crazy, but I’m not stupid enough to go swimming in the rain!’
‘What about dancing?’
‘Funny!’
She met his smiling eyes, desire twisting around her body as she savoured the sensation of intimacy their mutual confessions had produced. They were so close she could feel the electricity sparkle in the air between them, feel his breath tickle her cheek. She saw Max’s gaze flick to her mouth, pulling her ever nearer like an invisible thread until his lips found hers and a menagerie of fireworks exploded in her lower abdomen. She felt his fingers snake around her neck and responded to the gentle prodding of his tongue with a force that surprised her when she kissed him back, relishing the sharpness of the emotions that churned through her body.
Far too soon, Max severed their connection and began fiddling with the light switch. Gabbie had preferred the darkness that pressed against the steamed-up windows, and was disconcerted at his unexpected withdrawal from their embrace. She could have happily curled up in his arms and waited until the weather gods had moved on to the final act of their repertoire.
Questions buzzed around her head. Why had he pulled away from her so quickly? Was the tug of attraction one-sided, a pure mirage she had created in her mind’s eye with no foundation in reality?
‘Hey, want to take a turn behind the wheel?’
‘Oh, erm, yes, I’d love that! Are you sure?’
As if he couldn’t get out of the car fast enough, Max opened the driver’s door and sprinted around the bonnet to allow her to climb clumsily over the gear stick. Gabbie’s heart sank. Why was he so keen to rush home? Then another thought occurred to her; maybe the girl Wil had spoken about – Scarlet, was it? – was his girlfriend?
With her thoughts elsewhere, she bumped down behind the steering wheel in a very ungainly fashion, her legs akimbo while Max jumped into the passenger seat, his hair plastered to his forehead.
‘So, which car would you drive around the roads of Devon if money were no object? Oh, let me guess, some Lady Penelope-style motor, complete with handsome chauffeur. Or maybe a Mercedes GT sports coupé with a little bit of speed, but elegant lines. Or would you prefer something altogether more quirky like the Volkswagen Beetle?’
Gabbie laughed, feeling the earlier awkwardness diminish. ‘No, none of those. My dream, for as long as I can remember, has been to own a Triumph Stag convertible, and it has to be Tahiti-blue, like the one Dad had when he married Mum that he restored himself. He loved that car but he had to trade it in for something more practical when I came along.’
‘Great choice.’
‘I’ve got a photo of them driving away to Paris on their honeymoon, Mum in her wedding dress, Dad in a funky sports jacket, with “L” plates and tin cans trailing from the rear bumper. It’s the image I always think of when I think of Mum, beaming with happiness at being spirited away on a brand-new adventure by her new husband.’
‘Well, there’s no reason why you can’t own a Triumph Stag at some point in the future.’
‘Apart from the lack of funds!’ Gabbie laughed.
‘Okay, well, it might not be one of your beloved Triumph Stags, but tonight, for one night only, you can pretend you are the proud owner of an E-Type Jaguar – for which, I might add, I’ve just turned down a very sizeable sum of money from a local TV producer and committed enthusiast who’s desperate to own such a magnificent specimen; he wanted to feature it in some sixties drama series he’s involved in. I told him, in no uncertain terms, that I had no intention of selling, even if he doubled the fifty thousand pounds he offered me. Now fire her up and enjoy!’
Gabbie turned the key and revved the engine, enjoying the surge of power beneath her toes. She slid the gear stick into reverse and the engine cut out. She glanced at Max before restarting it, but this time it wouldn’t catch and the headlights went out.
By now the rain was hammering down on the roof like stair rods and she had the weirdest sensation they were sitting in the middle of a car wash, except this one wasn’t going to end after a three-minute cycle. She’d seen the weather forecast and it wasn’t predicted to ease up any time soon.
‘Shift over and I’ll have a go.’
But Max couldn’t get it to start either and a surge of anticipation rushed through Gabbie’s body. Maybe she would get her wish after all! A sharply focused picture floated through her mind of the two of them, limbs entwined, being woken from slumber by an early morning dog walker tapping on the window after they’d spent the night getting to know each other better.
However, much to her astonishment, Max was in no way perturbed by the turn of events. He jumped from the car, a gleam of excitement in his eyes as he pulled up the bonnet and started to inspect the engine as though it were the crown jewels! She rolled her eyes. She loved classic cars as much as the next enthusiast, but she drew the line at tinkering with the engine in the pouring rain, in the pitch dark, and smiling with delight while she did it!
‘How long do you think it’ll take to sort out?’ she called through the window, her hair soaked after just a couple of seconds.
‘No idea.’
‘Why don’t you come back inside and we’ll sit it out?’
‘Can you fetch the toolkit? It’s in a rucksack in the boot. And could you pass me a torch, please?’ Max called, his head and attention deep in the labyrinth of the engine.
‘What? You want me to leave the comfort of this lovely dry car and get you something from the boot?’
‘Yes, quick as you can. I think I might have identified the problem so we’ll be sorted in an hour or so.’
‘An hour or so?’
Gabbie cursed as she sprinted to the boot, grabbed the canvas backpack, and handed it over to Max.
‘Great. Can you find the spark plug socket for me?’
‘Max, it’s like monsoon season in Mumbai out here!’
‘I know, that’s why I need you to help me and we’ll be finished in no time.’
‘But, I…’
She gave up. Her hair was already stuck to her face in long spidery curls, and her clothes were s
oaked through to her knickers, sending ripples of gooseflesh over her skin. It certainly wasn’t the romantic scenario she had been dreaming of ten minutes earlier.
Was this what you got when you dated a car mechanic? Hang on! Did she just say date? Was this a date? And if it was, why did she have to look like she’d spent the day dodging a garden hose?
Chapter Thirteen
‘So, if sophisticated and suave François didn’t make your sparks fly, it’s up to your very own Cupid Clara to introduce you to someone who will! There were a few guys in the running – a couple of Owen’s friends from the rugby club and an absolute Adonis who works in my office: gym fanatic, buttocks to die for – but I thought it was time to try something different.’
Gabbie sighed, picking up one of the chocolate hobnobs Clara had brought with her because biscuits had been temporarily banned from the Andrews household. She knew her father would call her a hypocrite, but this was an emergency – she needed an injection of sugar to get through another one of Clara’s well-meaning lectures.
‘Clara, please, no double-dating.’
‘Too late. I’ve found you the perfect date for tonight. I won’t allow you to sit in front of the TV, munching on chocolate biscuits and crying into your gin and tonic. Hopefully, tomorrow morning, there’ll be more than just the aroma of lavender and gardenia floating on the air – maybe there’ll be a little lurve!’
‘Clara…’ began Gabbie, her tone filled with false patience.
‘What’s wrong with love?’
‘Nothing, per se…’
Clara’s expression softened and Gabbie braced herself for what was coming next.
‘I understand how difficult it is for you to embark on a new relationship after losing your mum, Gabbie, but not everything ends in pain and disaster.’
‘I know that, but…’
‘You’ve got to give people a chance, and yes, that means allowing someone to get close to you, and yes, that might mean getting hurt, but what’s the alternative? A life without love, without the joy of sharing everything that’s great about the world of romance? Sofia wouldn’t have wanted that for her only daughter, and I for one am not going to sit on the sidelines while you polish your singleton badge.’
