“How can it be stolen?” I say.
“I’m just telling you what he said,” she says.
My wife is standing in the open doorway of my office shed. I have just presented her with the piece of paper from my wallet, the one bearing a direct quotation from her – “Come on, it’s funny!” – to remind her of a point earlier in the saga when she was still firmly in the glass-half-full camp.
“But it’s insured,” I say. “How can you insure a stolen car?”
“Alan says the credit reporting agency has it listed as stolen,” she says. “And he can’t do anything with it unless that changes.”
“Oh my God,” I say. “He’s not gonna give it back to us, is he?”
The only reason we bought a new car from Alan’s dealership in Exeter was that we wanted to part exchange our old car in Exeter, where it had broken down, so that neither of us would have to drive it another metre, or spend another penny on it. Just 24 hours after I last saw the car on Alan’s forecourt, I am faced with the possibility that it will once again be my problem.
When she comes out to my office 20 minutes later, I have just shut my eyes.
“Busy day?” she says.
“I’m between two things,” I say, checking my chin for drool.
“Anyway, it’s not stolen,” she says. “They don’t insure stolen vehicles.”
“That’s what I said. Can they get the credit agency thing changed?”
“I asked, and they sort of laughed in my face.”
“Oh,” I say.
“So then I had to get a bit stern with Alan,” my wife says. “I said, ‘Frankly, Alan, if you’re not going to take that piece of shit, I’d rather lose the deposit, buy a cheaper car in London, and save myself a trip to Exeter.’”
“Strong,” I say.
“He gave up in the end,” she says. “So it’s all going ahead.”
The next morning my wife sets off for the train station.
“There’s a pound coin in the cup holder,” I say. “And a dog lead on the back seat.”
“I’ll give it a good search,” she says.
“Not too good,” I say. “In case there’s a severed head in the tyre well or something.”
Six hours later she comes back with the new car – a sensible, late-model, mid-range estate. I can’t believe how excited I am.
“It’s so grey!” I say. “Bright grey!”
“Alan made me download some app,” she says. “But I don’t really understand anything.”
“We’ll work it out,” I say.
The next day I have to drive the car to Broadstairs, before I have worked anything out. The dashboard display is showing me my average speed instead of my actual speed, and the car is playing random songs from my phone.
“I didn’t ask for this,” I say to the car. The car says nothing.
It’s a week before my wife and I are in the car together. She’s driving. I’m reading the manual and jabbing at a touchscreen.
“Which one is the radio?” I shout.
“Don’t get cross,” my wife says.
“I don’t understand anything about this car!” I say.
“I don’t really, either,” she says.
“And the manual is useless,” I say.
“There is traffic ahead,” says the car.
“Looks like we may be a bit late,” my wife says.
“None of this stuff is intuitive,” I say, flipping over a page.
“No, I know,” my wife says. “Send message!”
“What?” I say.
“Who would you like to send a message to?” the car says.
“To Anna!” my wife shouts.
“What’s going on?” I say.
“What is your message?” the car says.
“We might be a bit late!” my wife yells.
“Can you stop doing that?” I say.
“Your message has been sent,” the car says.
I put the manual back in the glove box. We sit in traffic, in silence, for a minute.
“Have you seen this?” my wife says, scrolling through the display options with her thumb: mileage, average speed, actual speed.
“No,” I say. Something pings.
“You have a message from Anna!” the car says.
“Ooh!” my wife says.
