Page 98 of Vivacity

‘You really think he could drive it, though?’ Her voice is quavery with panic.

‘It’s like driving a fucking golf buggy.’ My throat is constricting with terror. I can barely get the words out. ‘He could probably work it out. Fuck, he must have taken the keycard.’

The keycard tends to collect dust in a drawer in the hallway console, because I operate the car exclusively from my phone.

My phone.

‘Wait.’

I minimise the video to one corner and pull up the Tesla app, staring at it in horror.

It shows a journey underway to Markham Street, SW3. Elena’s house in Chelsea. ETA: eighteen minutes from now.He’s already heading down Kensington Church Street. My heart begins to beat so hard in my throat that I might throw up.

‘Oh my fucking god. He’s en route to Elena’s.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Soph’s eyes are wide with shock. ‘Can you call the police?’

I think frantically, willing myself to calm down and adopt logic, but I can’t. My body is screaming at me too loudly.

‘If I call them, they’ll arrest him, surely.’

‘Yeah.’ She falters. ‘But at least he’d be safe.’

I’m already running back up to the ground floor for the keys to my Aston, which is far more analogue than the Tesla. She’s right, of course, but I cannot have Jamie’s already disastrous Christmas ending in flashing blue lights and a squad car.

I just can’t.

‘I’ll follow him.’ I wrench open the relevant drawer and grab the keys. Sure enough, the black Tesla keycard is notably absent. ‘The roads will be dead tonight. I can catch him up.’

As I head back down to the garage, my brain is a whirling dervish of catastrophic thoughts. Jamie, crashing dead-on into a lamppost. Into another car. There will be god knows how many drunk drivers out there tonight. Him losing control and totalling a pedestrian. Ending up festering away in juvie.

‘Oh my god.’ My breath catches.

‘Listen. This is central London. He won’t be speeding. Can you see how fast he’s going?’

I look back down at the app. He’s doing twelve miles an hour down Ken Church Street. I choke back a sob-slash-laugh of relief. As long as he continues to drive like a granny, I can catch him up. But it’s so easy to speed in the Tesla without realising. The acceleration on that thing is insane.

‘Twelve miles an hour,’ I manage, unlocking the Aston.

‘Good. Good boy, Jamie. He’ll be fine, babe.’

I’m fastening my seatbelt and pulling the door shut, turning the key in the ignition. The Aston purrs nicely to life, but right now I could really use the efficiency of an electric car. ‘I don’t know. He’s not very street-smart. My fault.’ It’s an understatement. He gets himself to school on the Tube with a plain-clothed security detail trailing him, but he’s far from a streetwise kid. The thought of him in this state, white-knuckling a powerful machine that he’s years too young to drive out on the streets of central London is almost too painful to bear.

‘Where the fuck did he learn to drive that thing?’

I tap my fingers impatiently on the wheel as I wait for the garage door to rise.Come on come on come on.‘We did a few rounds out in Wentworth when I first got it. He thought it was great fun.’ Who knew our rare father-son bonding time over our new toy at the golf club would enable the worst moment of my life? ‘Listen, I’ve got to call him.’

I go to end the video. Jamie, I can see, is turning onto High Street Ken.

‘Wait.’

It’s only the urgency in her voice that has me pausing. I glance down at her stricken face. ‘What? I need to go.’ I squeeze the wheel like I’m trying to strangle it. ‘What a stupid littlefucker.’

‘Just—this is a cry for help, yeah? He’s acting out because he’s feeling devastated. Okay? He feels gutted and ashamed and unloved and utterly wretched right now, and he’s probably scared shitless. I know you are, too, but please don’t lay into him, babe. I’m begging you. He needs his dad right now now. His dad who loves him. Please try to come alongside him rather than coming down on him like a ton of bricks, yeah?’

I nod curtly. ‘Yeah. Later.’ I end the call and pull out onto Elgin Crescent. Thank fuck for deserted Christmas Day roads. If I floor it, I can catch him.

‘Siri, call Jamie,’ I order. As Siri puts the call through, I floor it down an eerily clear Ladbroke Grove. The dialling tone kicks in.