Blooming Women

6. Macarena

 Flowers.

There had been flowers at the side of the road. 

The memory of the moments before she'd lost control of Tiffany, her little yellow MG TF – "the modern version", as her father always called it, although his envy would have been sixfold had she had the classic version with running board – were uncomfortably clear.

She'd been singing.

No more than ninety minutes ago – well, perhaps an hour and a quarter – Amber had swung the car out of the cramped lane that lead to 'Winston Manor', as Gary had started to call the old house, and onto a road that would lead to a road that would lead to a sensibly sized road that would take her north, to Birmingham and her early meeting.
She'd flipped on the CD player and thumbed the shuttle button for something light, lively and likely to keep her awake.

'...Ba! Ba-Ba! Bah! UUUHHHHHHyyyyyyoooooh....'
Samantha surfaced between her ears.

Are you in pain, Dear?

'Don't be a cat. You know The Macarena better than I do.'

That is true enough. I also have an inkling of what the words mean. In fact, I have an inkling of what the words are.

'Ha! C'mon. Nobody's listening and I have to stay awake. Hhhhhaaai!' Amber merged back into the song. 'When I dance they call me Macarena...'

The road unspooled in front of her, clear of cars and frost, although the air had been sharp with it when she'd left the party; at some time earlier in the night, a grit truck had sprinkled the road with rock salt and Amber could see the orange-white crystals under her headlights as, shoulders working to the music, she reached the head of the escarpment and let the car pick up speed: this was going to be fun and the dangerous part was a long way yet – she could slow down in plenty of time.

I thought the young man at the party quite passable...

Samantha left the phrase dangling in the hope that Amber would stop singing. It wasn't that Amber had a bad voice, it just had a little more of the whistle to it than Samantha, a musician even after death, found appealing.

Not quite 'quite', if you follow me, but a pleasant distraction, and his aura showed an agreeable personality. You do know that Claudia invited him especially? That speaks well of him; she cares for you a great deal.

Amber didn't answer, concentrating on singing and driving and not talking about the lean, lithe and, above all, energetic man – Brian with the light Irish brogue – she'd spent most of the evening not quite letting get to any bases. This partly because Amber was sure he knew how provocative his accent was, party because, once he'd reached first base, she could easily have let him walk a home run, but mostly because it would annoy Samantha, who, despite her protestations that she was simply attempting to find Amber a suitable husband, liked to keep in practice and Amber, whose body was  going to be required for the exercise, was the more discriminating of the two and felt she should remind Samantha of just who was in charge when it came to such things: there had been a lot of shouting when Amber had first realised what Samantha had been up to in a body that hadn't belonged to her; Samantha's observation that 'possession' is nine-tenths of the law, Dear had not helped one bit.

The road looked completely different in pitch darkness as it swung gently back and forth with the folds of the hill; she'd seen warning signs before Black Spot Bend and black and white chevrons on the corner as the road turned back on itself in an unexpected hairpin to avoid a small river, so there was plenty of time to slow up. Or down, for that matter.