Jules Wake - From Italy With Love

He couldn’t tell whether it was her posture or the appalling cut of the same cheap suit as at the funeral that made her look like a navy blue sack of King Edwards. The jacket was square and the sleeves too short, so that her stick-thin wrists stuck out like a scarecrow’s.

Then he realised she’d caught him staring and was now scowling at him.

Good.

‘And now to the details …’

Both of them turned to face Ron, who took a deep breath and sat up a little straighter, as if preparing to go into battle and held the will a little higher like a protective shield.

Cam felt a warning twinge in his gut.

‘To my niece I leave the Ferrari GT250 …’ he didn’t hear the rest. ‘There’s a letter for you.’ Ron pushed a bulky white envelope towards Laurie which she took with a shaky hand.

An involuntary indignant hiss whistled out of his mouth. Fuck, shit and bollocks. No. That couldn’t be right. Cold washed through him, an icy tidal wave of horror.

He caught a glimpse of startled blue eyes as she shot a look at him.

Ron peered over his glasses, a clear rebuke in his expression.

Cam responded with a furious stare, mind racing with the ramifications, his teeth gritted as he fought against disbelief. Shit. What the hell? This wasn’t the deal. Miles had agreed the fucking price.

‘If I may continue?’

Cam nodded tightly, his hands clenched on the edge of the seat. He’d dreamed of owning that car since the first day he’d driven with Miles down to Goodwood.

‘On the proviso that she takes it across Europe to Maranello within the next three weeks. Only on successful completion of the journey to a prescribed route, will the car be hers and at that point and that point only can she sell the car.’

Fury burned in Cam’s chest.

‘What?’ Laurie shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

Of course she bloody didn’t. Because it didn’t make any fucking sense.

Ron smiled gently. ‘Your uncle has left you one of his classic cars.’

Cam snorted loudly. One of … only the cream of the crop.

‘But you have to take it to Italy before it’s yours.’ He looked at his watch, as if emphasizing the time constraint. ‘But … you will need to leave within the next ten days.’

‘But I … I can’t.’ She looked horrified.

Cam rolled his eyes cursing Miles. What the hell had the old bugger been thinking? This girl just didn’t have the guts and she certainly didn’t bloody deserve the car. It wasn’t as if she’d have any interest in it; she hadn’t earned it. Not like him.

She caught him and gave him a steely glance before lifting her chin and turning away. ‘What if I don’t want to do it? What am I going to do with a car like that?’

Cam shot her a look. Was she stupid? This was the classic Ferrari, Enzo’s last design. Possibly, no make that definitely, the finest Ferrari ever made. People would kill to own it.

‘Once you’ve completed the trip the car is yours to sell.’

She wrinkled her face.

‘But I don’t want to do the trip. I’ve got a job. Responsibilities. I can’t just up and go.’

‘Then it’s quite simple my dear. You forfeit the car and it goes to someone else.’

‘What, him?’ She indicated Cam with her thumb.

Suddenly relieved, he relaxed. Tension seeping out of his shoulders. Obviously that was why he was here. An easy transaction and he didn’t even have to pay for it.

Ron held the moment, like a ringmaster holding court in a circus, a small smile playing around his mouth.

‘No.’

Cam sat bolt upright.

‘Your mother.’

Lauren’s face hardened. ‘Over my dead body,’ she spat. ‘If that’s the case I’ll drive it to Timbuk-bloody-tu.’ Her eyes narrowed for a second.

‘You don’t need to go that far.’ Ron’s eyes twinkled as if pleased to see her sudden anger. ‘There’s a very clear route with places and people Miles wanted you to visit. He planned it all out, with accommodation along the way. As soon as you agree your departure date, I will make all the necessary arrangements.’

‘How will you know I’ve done what he wanted?’ Her chin had lifted in mutiny and Cam allowed himself a brief smile which was short lived. She had to succeed and complete the trip in order for him to buy the car from her. Bloody hell. Miles didn’t make it easy.

‘You have to send a postcard from each of the places specified.’ Ron pointed to a map of Europe behind him; a blue highlighter had been used to outline a route from Calais to Italy. ‘Fifteen in total. One from each town, which I’ve marked with a red drawing pin.’ He grinned happily like an overgrown house elf and Cam wanted to weep. House elves came in books you read to your shiny-eyed innocent nephews.

Furious, Cam gave a disparaging look towards the map and its meandering route through France and the mountains of Switzerland and Italy. ‘So what the hell am I here for?’

Ron grinned at him. ‘Miles felt Laurie might need a co-driver.’

Might need? Bloody hell! What was that supposed to mean? He was just supposed to accompany Miles’ niece out of the sheer goodness of his heart. In a car that Miles had damn well promised him. Except now he thought about it, what exactly had Miles promised? He recalled the exact words. A guaranteed price for the car once it went on sale. The wily bastard.

Ron pushed another one of the white envelopes towards him.

‘You’ll be recompensed, of course.’

‘I don’t want his money,’ growled Cam. Money was no bloody good. How was that going to help him? Fuck. He almost put his head in his hands. How could Miles do this to him? A leaden lump settled in his stomach at the thought of phoning Nick and the way the conversation would pan out.

‘Hi, Mate. You know that Ferrari I promised as the highlight of our classic car festival. Well I lied; it’s not mine after all. And all that sponsorship money we’ve secured to make the festival happen, is all going to vanish in smoke, leaving you with huge debts because you’ve underwritten everything against a loan on your home. Both of our reputations are going to be down the pan.’ Nick would go ape. Cam closed his eyes; his mother would kill him.

What was Miles thinking?

The white envelope mocked him. It felt like an insult. Miles knew damned well Cam would honour his promise to look after his niece, even if the conniving old coot had conned him somewhat by deliberately letting him think that Laurie was a small boy.

Truth was, he would have done just about anything for Miles. Despite the age difference, friendship had blossomed the day they met over the bonnet of a rather neat little Aston Martin. Cam had been the winner in that skirmish, outbidding Miles by several thousand to acquire the car for one of his clients. Miles had promptly taken the client and Cam out to lunch and done a deal to sell the client an E-type Jag for twice as much.

Ron’s eyes narrowed and for a moment Cam saw the steely determination that made the solicitor a worthy representative of Miles. He picked up the envelope and pocketed it with a glare at Ron. The solicitor simply smiled.

Her hands shook so hard the key barely hit the lock. Tears filled her eyes … again. The brass letterbox had done it.

Over the years how many postcards often starting with the imperative, Niece, you must see this place, dropped through the door? Miles loved his postcards.

Although they wound her dad up, each one made her smile. Even in the last few years when Miles was supposedly slowing down, the postcards had never let up. Random in their frequency, there was never a place too small or insignificant for him to stop and pick one up. She’d had cards from the Empire State Building in New York, the Bellagio in Las Vegas, the Great Orme in Llandudno and Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh. Today Miles’ familiar, impatient scrawl, addressing her in his usual bossy fashion, brought piercing regret. No more postcards. Ever.