Auto Biography (Part I)

“Julian’s Jaguar”

Yowowowoworrrr ...

I am a car fiend. If it’s fast, shiny, and powerful, I want it. Ergo, cars figure prominently in my writing unless it’s a historic piece, in which case one horse functions as capably as five hundred. After all, a single horse can also be fast, shiny and powerful.

Julian’s Jag is as important to his character as it is to me – if you’ve already met Julian, you’re probably as crazy in love with him as I am. If you haven’t met him, you’ll have a chance in his birthday blog next week. Suffice it to say that he appreciates a British classic as dearly as I do, though he has the cash to upgrade on a yearly basis. I, alas, can only dream.

Or write.

This moment is taken from a story I wrote last Christmas. He and I have been reunited after a long separation, and are leaving in his XK8 for an appointment with destiny ...

* * *

There’s no thump like the thump of a Jaguar door closing. It signals a retreat into luxurious solitude, where the only sounds in the cabin are the sounds permitted by the occupants. Julian starts the engine and five hundred thoroughbreds wake up beneath the hood, yet all I hear is a baritone rumble like thunder in distant mountains. So much power would shake the hubcaps off my Mustang. The Jaguar doesn’t even tremble. I do more than tremble when Julian leans toward me and his hair falls over my face. I gasp into it. “What are you doing?”

He sits back, drawing my seatbelt with him. “The clasp sticks a bit,” he says, snapping said clasp into place and snugging the belt across my hips. If he has to use extra force, I don’t see him do it.

“You mean this car isn’t perfect?”

“Nothing is, once you get to know it,” he replies with a smile.

My heart is making more noise than the engine. The ivory interior is immaculate, finished with burled elm and bits of chrome. The dashboard is lit up like the bridge of the Enterprise. Julian slips the car into reverse and I think I have a religious experience right here in the front seat. He has to ask me twice before I hear the question.

“Which hotel?”

“The Coast Stanley Park.”

Reproachfully. “Oh, darling.”

“I knew you’d be impressed. Are these seats heated?”

“Only if you switch them on.”

So it was a religious experience.