Page 6 of Only for Christmas

‘Okay, but I’ll be back first thing in the morning. You and I need to talk.’

She flipped off the lid and scooped up a spoonful of ice cream. ‘We do.’

‘And if the kids are away then I’ll be staying the weekend. I don’t want you being on your own. Not like this.’ He gestured to her tearful state. ‘I’m worried about you.’

‘Don’t be.’ She threw a set of car keys at him. ‘Take the Bentley. Come back tomorrow.’

He fumbled over the keys. ‘I can’t take your car; I’ve never driven in the UK. I’ll crash for sure.’

‘Good. It’s one of Paul’s cars. It’ll teach him a lesson. Just don’t injure yourself.’ She kissed his cheek and disappeared from the kitchen. ‘Love you!’ she called back.

‘Love you too!’ he yelled after her, staring at the set of Bentley car keys. Seriously?

At least it would save him the cab fare.

Ten minutes later, having set off the car alarm and climbed into the passenger seat – before remembering the UK was left-hand drive – he was good to go. How hard could it be?

He hadn’t driven a stick-shift since college, and he needed to drive on the opposite side of the road. Apart from that, not much difference, right?

Okay, so they had things called roundabouts, which made no sense, and the London traffic was hectic as hell, but he wasn’t one to dwell on the negatives. He was about to drive a four-litre, electric-blue Bentayga EWB SUV, with a V8 engine. Holy cow, this was the stuff of his childhood dreams.

He was like James Bond’s American cousin – tasked with masterminding a car chase around London, beating up the bad guys and saving the girl. Except there was no girl, sadly. And there were no bad guys. And certainly no chance of a car chase – not when the traffic prevented him travelling above ten miles an hour. And James Bond never had to rely on a satnav to find his way home. Still, it was exciting just the same.

The slow traffic turned out to be a good thing as it gave him more time to work out which side of the road he was supposed to be on. The fog didn’t help, and neither did the agitation of his fellow drivers. Somehow, he managed to reach Putney Bridge without stalling, getting slammed with a road violation or hitting anything.

By the time he’d circled Oxford Road three times searching for a parking space, and contemplated returning the car to his sister so he could catch a cab, he was sweating like a racehorse. London driving was not good for the soul.

His parking effort wasn’t great. One wheel was bumped up on the sidewalk, but he couldn’t face trying again. Seven attempts at parking a Bentley, with a group of teenagers shouting ‘Tosser!’ at him from across the road, was humiliating enough.

Pressing the key fob several times to ensure the car was locked, he skipped up the concrete steps leading to his rental apartment. He was hungry. He had planned to eat with his family, but that wasn’t to be. So much for a nice evening catching up: it was like a warzone at his sister’s place. Maybe he’d head out for fish and chips later; he was eager to sample the UK’s famous cuisine.

‘Oi, you can’t leave that parked there,’ a woman yelled at him.

In his thirty-five years on the planet, Lucas had never been yelled at so much in one day. What was it with this place?

It took him a moment to work out where the woman was. He looked over the side of the steps and realised she was below him, standing at the doorway of the basement apartment. ‘Hey there, neighbour.’

‘Don’t you “hey there” me, young man.’ She looked like a character from a Roald Dahl novel. Her dyed hair was fixed in curlers, and she was leaning on a walking stick, her long dressing gown bright green like a lettuce leaf. ‘You ain’t left enough room for my walking frame. I’ve had enough of you visitors, turning up here, thinking you own the place, blocking the pavement. Selfish, the lot of you.’

He jogged down the steps and walked around to her doorway. The last thing he needed was to fall foul of his neighbours.

‘Hey! Don’t come any closer.’ She pointed her walking stick at him. ‘Not if you know what’s good for you.’

He lifted his hands in surrender. ‘I’m harmless, I promise.’ He tried for a smile. ‘I just thought I’d introduce myself. Lucas Moore. I’m staying in the apartment above.’

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. ‘You American?’

‘That I am, ma’am.’ He mock saluted her.

‘I’m not the bleeding queen,’ she said, leaning heavily on her stick when she began coughing.

‘Apologies, I’m still getting used to the culture change. What should I call you?’

‘You don’t call me anything, you cheeky blighter.’ She banged her chest when she wheezed. Her breathing didn’t sound good. ‘Just move your ruddy car.’

Dread settled in his stomach. ‘Here’s the thing, I’m not used to driving in the UK. It took me an age to get into that space; I don’t fancy my chances moving it. I’ll be gone first thing tomorrow, so would it be okay if I moved it then, ma’am?’

Another poke of the walking stick. ‘Like I said, I ain’t no ma’am.’

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