Short Story: The Wrong Directions

Short Story: The Wrong Directions

She spotted the sign:

Antibes 62 kilometers.

“Can’t we just call it a pax, love?”

It seemed ages since they had landed in Lyon and picked up the Mercedes this morning.

455 kilometers. Straight driving.

He’d wanted to drive. It was part of the holiday, borrowing the classic coupe from his Uncle, then heading to the coast.

At 59 kilometers he tried again.

“Love?”

He wouldn’t force it.

She knew that her stubbornness was irrational. But he wouldn’t listen to her.

She’d said, “It’s a left after the bridge.”

But, following his own sense of direction, he went straight. And, as it happened, he was right.

So, she opened the window and let the map fly out.

It landed on the lorry’s windscreen and the driver’s angry shouts were the first words of French they’d heard since starting out. Romantic.

He’d laughed. Hours ago.

She hadn’t said a word since.

She’d ventured a glance over. He looked so right driving this beautiful car, wearing the Black Watch jacket, her favorite.

How long could she keep it up? How stupid could she really be? Spoiling the start of their mid-winter holiday. But, she mustn’t let him know this. He mustn't win.

They rounded the traffic circle at the exit onto the D35 and he knew they would be leaving the highway soon. He maintained his cool. The Ray Bans helped his cover.

She’d give way.

Soon.

The drive had been pure sensual gratification – the purr of the well-tuned engine of the vintage coupe, feeling its power in his hands. The polished mahogany dash. The cold glint of chrome. The musk of buttery leather seats.

Sexy. Hot.

Even her passionate resolve to stay silent heightened the attraction.

Only a few hundred meters, now.

He down-shifted, turning left off of Avenue de la Libération into the Port Vauban car park.

Yachts.

A small gasp escaped her lips. She hadn’t imagined so many - so grand!

He switched off the motor.

Her hand slowly rested on his shoulder, the fine wool familiar to her touch. All the while she kept her eyes set on the impressive vessels and the sea beyond.

He reached behind the seat into his bag to pull out the glasses and bottle of triple malt scotch he had planned to open on board as they pulled up anchor.

Eying the amber liquid she at last broke a hesitant smile.

“Umm, perhaps a toast to warm us before facing the brisk sea air?”