THIRTY
‘It’s times like this that you would like a convertible, eh, Jack?’ Mandy and Jack were driving along the coast road, out of Lyme, heading for the main road to Exeter. A hot day, not a cloud, and a big ball of sun high above them. They had the windows down and the blustery effect, although cooling, made conversation nigh on impossible; they were windblown and care free; the wonderful magic of denial.
‘I’m not keen on convertibles,’ he replied.
‘What?’
‘I said I’m not keen on convertible cars,’ he shouted, irritably.
She pressed the buttons and sent all the windows rising, switched on the air conditioning, slowed the car and flicked looks at him, ‘Why not?’
‘I always think about the car turning over, and I’d rather have a roof over me.’
She said nothing, just put her hand on h
