Fans of my books will be familiar with Peter Tate's BMW affectionately nicknamed Betty. When we moved to France he kindly gave us the car and ever since at every opportunity we've travelled with the wind whipping in our hair. We've taken photos of all our friends in the back - couples we thought would get married and did, and couples who never made it. When Elodie was born I had to take the hood down in the hospital car park in order to get her crib into the back.
Just as Peter before us we started to imbue the car with a personality. The more Betty started to go wrong the more quirky we found it - the washer fluid reservoir that inexplicably emptied and if we had the hood down soaked us, the phantom starting problem that materialised every time we tried to leave St Tropez, the locks that ceased to work...the list went on.
Eventually Betty stopped working altogether and she has sat on our drive for the last year looking older and rustier. Today we finally forced ourselves to get rid of her...I know I know it (or she) is only a car, but actually it was a surprisingly sad moment.
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