"I knew I should have bought a GPS!"
"Stop overreacting," said Lynda. "Shut up, keep driving and let me concentrate on this map."
"SIR, YES, SIR!" Spike shouted, clamping his hands over the wheel and sitting bolt upright in the driver's seat. They had been driving through the state of California for some time and darkness was approaching.
"For someone so allegedly rebellious," Lynda remarked, "you do seem to be conditioned to respond like a good little soldier."
"You love it," replied Spike, relaxing back into his normal lowrider driving position. "You'd have made a good drill sergeant. Discipline and shouting, right up your alley. Why didn't you follow your Dad into the military?"
"And be allowed that kind of access to high-grade weaponry? I'd never have passed the pysch exam," Lynda replied, in a rare display of self-deprecation.
"Touché, Ms Day," grinned Spike. "Right, it's approaching 1900 hours. What say we recce a place to bivouac for the night?"
"English, please, Spike. Or at least, as close as you can get."
"Let's find a Motel 6."
Lynda peered at the map. "Well, keep going along the blue line and we should get somewhere eventually."
"Oh, that's encouraging," Spike replied. "You'd never have made a navigator." Then he paused. "Wait a minute, the blue line?"
"Yeah, the thick one. That's the motorway we're on."
Spike exhaled slowly, indicated and pulled over onto the side of the road.
"What's happening?" Lynda asked, puzzled.
Spike flicked on the overhead light. "Will you please follow the blue line along the map until you see a name?"
Lynda traced the line with her finger. "Yes. Right here. Colorado . . . . River." She looked up at Spike with as close an expression of guilt as she could muster. "Wouldn't be Colorado River Highway, by any chance?"
"No chance," said Spike, taking the map and spreading it over the wheel. "What was the name of the last town we went through?"
"Clipstone," replied Lynda promptly.
"Clipstone. Okay . . ." Spike poured over the index. "Doesn't seem to be on here . . . how big was it?"
"Or Clipsal."
"Lynda . . ."
"Clipton, maybe?"
"Lynda! You had the map. You forcibly took control of navigation, remember? I still have the paper cut!"
"You're from here! You should know where you're going!"
"The state of California is bigger than the whole of England, Lynda. Give me a break!"
"Greenstick or compound fracture?" replied Lynda, without missing a beat.
"Urgh!" Spike facepalmed. "That was practically an own goal."
"It was pretty easy," Lynda agreed.
"So what are we going to do?" Spike said. "You can't read a map – I can, but you can't drive . . ."
"I can drive."
"What?"
"I said," said Lynda slowly, as if explaining to a three-year old, "I can drive."
"Since when?"
"Since I was sixteen."
"Lynda, I've known you since you were sixteen and you've never ever once mentioned in the history of our entire relationship that you can drive."
"You never asked."
"Right. Next you'll be telling me you're The Stig!"
"The what?"
"Ah, forget it. I don't believe you, anyway."
Lynda blinked, innocently. "Spike, you should know by now. I'm always full of surprises."
"Ain't that the truth," Spike muttered. "Okay, then, Miss Indy. Show me what you got."
"What, now?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"Because it's left-hand drive."
"So?"
"So I've never driven left-hand drive, as I suspect you realise."
"So?" repeated Spike, opening his door and getting out. He walked around to her side of the car and opened her door. "After all, you're full of surprises, remember?"
"Fine," huffed Lynda. "If you insist."
She slid out of the car and walked around to the driver's side.
"Let me help you adjust the driving position," said Spike, politely. "I'll just bring the seat forward a little . . ."
Lynda batted him away. "It's not like I'll need to come that far forward. Go and sit in the passenger seat."
Spike grinned and did as he was told.
"Right," Lynda said to herself. "Mirrors . . . seatbelt . . ."
"Cabin crew, arm doors and cross check," added Spike, helpfully.
"Shut up, Thomson. Just let me get my bearings." She frowned at the steering column.
"The ignition key is on that side, if you're interested."
"I said, shut up!" Lynda turned the key, shifted gear and gently crawled forward a few metres before stopping.
"Too much excitement for you?" Spike asked, sarcastically. "Or is old age is slowing you down?"
Lynda suddenly slammed the car into gear and stamped her foot on the accelerator, sending the wheels spinning in the loose gravel on the side of the road. The car fishtailed back onto the bitumen, tyres screaming.
The screaming continued even when the car had regained a straight line of direction . . . and Spike realised he was the one making the noise.
"Did you do that deliberately?" he asked, once he had composed himself.
"Of course I did," said Lynda. "Are you satisfied now? And take that lecherous look off your face."
Spike stopped mid-smirk. "Hey, don't pre-empt my lechery!"
"I find it saves time!"
"Never mind that. Look, a sign." He squinted to make out the letters. "Welcome to . . . Sunnydale. Enjoy your stay."
"God, that is so American. Fine. Sunnydale, it is."
