The Wedding Diary (Choc Lit) by Margaret James Page B

She glanced at him and saw that he was staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the road, and there was no trace at all of any almost-smile.
    ‘You could be my business partner, secretary, personal assistant – or my friend?’
    ‘I suppose we’re friends?’ she hazarded.
    ‘I suppose we must be,’ Adam said, but kept his eyes fixed firmly on the road.
    They drove a while in silence.
    Then they were out of London, and Adam said that since they had a bit of time to spare they’d go cross-country for a while before they joined the motorway.
    He got tired of driving up and down the motorways. He fancied dawdling along some country lanes.
    So they drove through lush and pretty Buckinghamshire, which was full of winding country roads and quiet country villages arranged round village greens. There were scatterings of ancient churches, manor houses, lovely Georgian rectories and a lot of fairly hideous modern infill, too.
    ‘I don’t know this part of England,’ Cat told Adam. ‘Where exactly are we now?’
    ‘Oh, here be dragons,’ he replied. ‘Or reptiles, anyway – like Gordon Gekko, right?’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘I mean as in
Wall Street
. Do you know that movie? It’s one of Gwennie’s favourites. She fancies Michael Douglas. Cat, we’re deep in corporate-raider-land. We’re passing ordinary modern houses worth a cool five million or even fifteen million. See that one just over there with polystyrene pillars?’
    ‘Yes, I think it’s horrible.’
    ‘It would sell for six or seven million easily. But, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, there are really gorgeous older houses round here, too. One day, when I’m a zillionaire, I’ll—’
    But Cat never found out what he would do, because as they drove round a sharpish bend they almost crashed into a Jaguar E-Type which was sitting in the middle of the road.
    Adam spun the wheel. The big green Volvo veered off the tarmac and ploughed into a bank.
    ‘Jesus,’ Cat said shakily as they stopped mere inches short of an enormous oak which would have concertinaed the Volvo’s steel bonnet and most probably concertinaed Cat and Adam, too.
    ‘Cat, are you okay?’ demanded Adam anxiously.
    ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Or at any rate, I think I’m fine. But what the hell does that fool think he’s doing?’
    ‘He must be trying to replace a flat.’
    Adam left the Volvo and walked towards the E-Type – a very old and rusty one which made Adam’s ancient tank look like a limousine – and asked if he could help. So she got out and followed him.
    ‘I need to get a couple of warning triangles,’ said Adam.
    ‘Yes, okay,’ said Cat, who was now looking at the man and seeing he was much older than his car and that his hands were dirty, torn and bleeding. ‘What happened, then?’ she asked as Adam went to fetch the triangles and put them in the middle of the road to warn oncoming traffic.
    ‘I suppose I must have driven over a sharp stone or bit of glass.’ The old man shrugged apologetically. ‘I tried to steer into the verge. But the old bus started making such a ghastly noise I thought she might blow up. So I must have done some other damage when I stopped. Or rather when I skidded.’
    ‘My friend can probably sort you out,’ said Cat, nodding towards Adam as he walked back to the stricken E-Type. ‘If he can’t – are you in the AA? The RAC?’
    ‘I’m afraid I’m not, my dear.’
    ‘Oh – right.’ Cat looked at the man more closely, saw his green tweed jacket was worn and patched and frayed, that he wore a moth-eaten old pullover and that his grey flannel trousers looked as if they’d come from a bazaar on Noah’s Ark.
    ‘What happened to your hands?’ she asked.
    ‘I was going to try to change the wheel. But, as I got the jack out of the boot, I slipped and fell. I’m so sorry, miss. You must be thinking, daft old bugger, having an accident himself and trying to cause another one as well.’
    ‘I’m thinking I should