“Must make sure you have your shot when we get home,” Tom murmured, glancing at Charlotte, who was in the passenger seat beside him. “You should have one too,” he said over his shoulder to Em. “Get your mum to arrange it.” Em grunted. Personally, he thought the Nigerian Death Flu business was a load of fuss about nothing, since it didn’t seem to be any more serious than the seasonal flu that hit Britain every winter. But the name frightened people, he supposed, and his mum might well insist he get a shot. He wasn’t about to remind her though. Em hated needles. To change the subject, he asked, “Where are we now?” “Just south of Avignon,” Tom said. “I considered taking you in to see the famous pont, although there’s not much of it left; but I thought if we were going to detour at all, you might prefer to see Saint-Rémy, to judge from our conversation the other evening.” “Why Saint-Rémy?” Em asked, wondering what conversation Tom was referring to. The previous night, after a mind-numbingly boring day at Tom’s rotten symposium, they’d talked mostly about soccer.
