Sunday afternoon.
It had been Emma's idea, in the way that all good ideas in our relationship were Emma's idea presented casually, as though it had just occurred to her, when in fact she had been thinking about it for days.
"You need your own car," she had said over breakfast.
"The club Audi is fine, but it's not yours. You've signed a four-year contract. You've got a signing bonus sitting and your last season salary in your account. You're twenty-eight years old and you're the manager of a Premier League football club. You deserve a car that says something about who you are."
"And who am I?" I asked.
She looked at me, her green eyes steady and appraising. "You're someone with taste. Someone with class. Someone who doesn't need to shout." She paused. "You're not a Lamborghini. You're not a Ferrari. You're not even a Bentley." She smiled. "You're an Aston Martin."
She was right. She was always right.
