My wife has decided to hire a car for a long-planned weekend away in the country. Our car has brake problems, she says, and anyway hiring a car is still cheaper than buying train tickets for everyone. This is perfectly true, until the oldest one decides he can’t go and the middle one says he’ll need to take a train from university anyway.
“So it’s no longer cheaper,” I say, scrutinising the bill while we wait for someone to drive the hire car round from the back lot.
“Never mind,” my wife says, as a gleaming white vehicle pulls up beside us. “Look, it’s lovely.”
Back at home I am anxious to load up and leave before our hire car gets a parking ticket, and flying suddenly starts to make economic sense.
“We’re just waiting for Constance,” my wife says.
“Are we?” I say.
“She’s coming with us,” she says. “I told you.”
Twenty minutes later, Constance arrives and installs herself on the sofa.
“Tim, you can’t write about me this weekend,” says Constance.
“It doesn’t work that way,” I say. “You’re here.”
“I’m leaving the column,” she says.
“I’m afraid there’s no procedure for that,” I say.
“Fine,” she says. “Then I just won’t speak to you the whole time.”
“I’d be happy with that arrangement,” I say.
“Why are you being like this?” she shouts. My wife walks in with a bag.
“What are you doing?” she says. “Let’s go!”
“I’m in the front,” says Constance.
“No, you’re not,” I say.
A few minutes later we set off, with my wife driving, me in the passenger seat navigating by phone, and the youngest one in the back, seated alongside a mystery person who no longer cares to be named. My wife pushes a button that causes a screen to display a warning about not looking at the screen while driving.
“What’s that?” she says.
“Don’t look at it,” I say. “Left ahead.”
“Lovely seats,” she says. “Should we buy one of these?”
“I wouldn’t be caught dead driving a white car,” says the mystery person. “Is this still Acton?”
“Dunno,” I say. “I’ve never actually been this way before.”
Soon we’re heading west along the M40. Traffic is heavy but brisk, and we are taking advice on our overall route from at least three sources, including the satnav that comes with the hire car. Once we’re past the M25, the traffic improves. Then it gets heavy again. Then it slows to a crawl. Then it stops.
“What’s this?” my wife says.
“Something must be going on,” I say, scrolling up the map on my phone.
“Major delays,” says the youngest one.
“Should we get off?” my wife says.
“It’s between us and the next junction,” I say. “We can’t get off.”
“My phone is saying an hour delay,” says the youngest one.
“Mine says 90 minutes,” my wife says. “Christ.”
“The M40 is currently closed westbound,” says the radio.
“Closed?” says my wife.
“Our ETA has now been pushed to midnight,” I say.
“Two hours 10 minutes,” my wife says, turning off the ignition. “It goes up every time I look at it.”
My wife texts the middle one, who is waiting for his train. Then she calls the oldest one at home.
“It’s a parking lot,” she tells him. “People are getting out of their cars. They’re walking up and down the hard shoulder, with babies in their arms.”
“Well, this sucks,” says the mystery person.
“It’s possible that when we finally get off this motorway, we may just decide to come home,” my wife tells the oldest one. There is a pause. “I see,” she says. “Exactly how many people were you planning to have round?”
I begin to feel the first faint stirrings of panic. I open the window and inhale a mouthful of cold air. The driver in the next lane looks at me. Perhaps I should introduce myself, I think; we may be spending the night side by side. As he glances along the flank of my car, I can read his thoughts precisely. He’s thinking: ugh, white.
