“I can’t turn left!”
“… Yes you can!”
“NO I CAN’T. Do you want us to be KILLED?”
“You shouldn’t have driven. You’re too nervous. Look at what happened in Cherbourg.”
“You can’t even read maps.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“YOU SHUT UP. I AM TRYING TO HEAR THE SAT NAV!”
For a while the only sound was the car engine. Every now and then there came a whoosh of a fearless French driver speeding past. The sat-nav’s icy cold narration seemed oddly apt.
And then they found it. A parking space. They stepped out onto the cobbled streets. She could smell baking bread from somewhere, and a shabby violinist played a polka, his case open, coins glinting inside. Her hand found his, and he squeezed briefly.
Shooting her a sheepish smile, he said, “Happy honeymoon, darling.”