The sunlight was sadly only in my head. When we came back outside it was hailing again. Gabi squealed in protest and rummaged for her umbrella. She hates hail. She first encountered it when she moved to Britain and considers it entirely unacceptable for pieces of rock-hard ice to fall out of the sky. Once we got some protection from the weather, we made a dash for the car.
Or tried to.
“I thought it was this row,” I said. I looked around. “Must have been further on.” We’d legged it so fast inside when we arrived that I mustn’t have taken enough notice of exactly where we’d parked. I hurried on to the next row, Gabi at my heels and muttering furiously.
No. Not this one either. At least I didn’t think so.
“What colour was the car again?” I asked Gabi.
“Black,” she said. Well, great. A g
