Mathilda, SuperWitch (Mathilda's Book of Shadows #1)(37)
“This is an unscheduled stop.”
“What? Do you have to report back or something, turn, turn, turn!!!”
So he turned.
Some time later, as we were walking back to the car, he asked, “You needed pink pots?”
“They aren’t pink,” I said, changing the subject because I knew I wouldn’t ever convince him I needed pots – pink pots, no less.
He looked at me in a way that said he thought I was fibbing.
Then we got into the car.
Not, it is important to mention, the Lush Jag, no.
We were in my car.
We were recycling at the tip and it is far easier to recycle in a hatchback (not to mention Su had kinda borrowed the Lush Jag, long story). So we were in my fourth hand Nissan Micra that used to be the wet dream of a boy racer and now was my daytime nightmare.
* * * * *
Story on how I came to be the not-so-proud owner of the Purple People Eater:
Boy Racer had run out of money and had to unload his Micra.
I was (even then) bidding on Jimmy Choos rather than saving for a decent car.
So.
Boy Racer and I made an unholy alliance that ended up with me owning a partially suped-up Micra and Boy Racer having, well, nothing but a bit of my money.
To the credit of Boy Racer, he did give the Micra a kickass iridescent green knob on the stick shift and some lights on the undercarriage that would make me hip with all the homeys in the ‘hood (ack!). The car also had a paint job that was metallic purple with platinum and green opalescent effects.
Unfortunately, Boy Racer didn’t get around to doing anything under the hood.
I understood his priorities, it is first about the way it looks and then you get to the meat of the matter but engine-wise, the Purple People Eater (as I called it) wasn’t much to write home about.
* * * * *
Anyway.
* * * * *
Once buckled into the car, I showed Ash a pot. “See this?”
He looked at the pot then looked at me.
“Yes,” he said, with what I suspected was what he considered extreme patience. “It’s a pink pot.”
“No, it’s fuchsia.”
Silence.
I pulled out another pot. “See this?”
“Pink,” he said.
I shook my head. “No, this is petal.”
“Petal?”
“Yes, and this one,” I pulled out the third, “anyone can see this isn’t pink it’s –”
“Brown.”
“Truffle!” I snapped.
“You’re mad,” he announced starting the car (in which, incidentally, he somehow managed still to look cool).
“Yes, I am but at least I’m adorably mad.”
Silence for a beat and then, “You don’t have any plants to put in the pots,” he pointed out.
Oo, I knew I forgot something.
* * * * *
This would mark the beginning of the end of my perfect day.
* * * * *
From Cadbury Garden Centre, we were off to Junior Poon’s on Hill Road.
I’d been looking forward to Junior’s for ages. The girls were meeting for drinks and crispy aromatic Peking duck in the wine bar underneath the restaurant. The wine bar looked like spruced up catacombs complete with low hanging ceilings that, believe you me, could catch you off guard – especially if you’d had one too many.
I loved Junior’s.
Junior’s rocked!
And crispy aromatic Peking duck was second only to pizza with loads of sun-dried tomatoes in the Ambrosia of the Gods Contest.
I’d been given the mission to get there by six, grab one of the private back alcoves with the comfy couches and order the duck.
Lucy and Josie got off at six thirty and Su was returning the Jag to Ash (under threat of certain death, but that’s another story) and we were all going to walk home after lots of Peking duck and wine.
I’d been waiting all day to get my lips around a pancake oozing with hoisin sauce.
I couldn’t wait for the duck.
I couldn’t wait for the nice Pinot Noir that I discovered the last time I was at Junior’s.
And I couldn’t wait for a reprieve from Ash, if only for a few girlie hours.
But, it wasn’t to be.
Instead this is what happened:
Ash was driving.
I was holding my pots and thinking about when I could next get to the garden centre to buy some plants to go in the pots.
I was also thinking about Peking duck and how many orders we’d need.
We were close to Junior’s, slowing for the Six Ways roundabout…
When…
Smash!
We were rear-ended.
“What the…?” (Me.)
Ash didn’t slow, he shot through Six Ways, pedal to the metal, the Purple People Eater’s engine revving and calling out to Mama, “No more, Mummy, no more.”
“Ash, slow down, we were just…”
Smash!
Rammed again.
The car jolted, fish-tailed and Ash downshifted. Ole Purple screeched in protest.
Smash!
Smash!
Smash!
At high speed, Ash took the left angle onto Hill Road.
* * * * *
For your information, Hill Road is one of those crazy “chicken roads” that came into being when rich people rode horses, poor people walked, kings chopped people’s heads off and the guy who had a premonition of the future existence of automobiles and tried to warn ancestral city-planners was burned at the stake.