The Chauffeur
‘So I’ll be off to Paris tomorrow afternoon,’ I said to Anthony.
I was cooking a late supper and breezing in and out of the kitchen to the annexe at the back of the house, which Anthony used as his art studio. It was actually a conservatory, which the previous occupants used as a breakfast room, but it was perfect for light and a good temperature for Anthony’s materials.
Since moving in with Anthony, I noticed how incredibly moody he became when he started a new project. It wasn’t until his piece was well under way and he had a clear visualization of his subject that he became my Anthony again. If I spoke to him while he was working on a new idea he just grunted at me. But always, once he’d stepped out of the confines of his studio, Anthony was the relaxed, easy-going man I’d fallen in love with and who was openly affectionate and kind.
Anthony’s dark hair was touching his shoulders now but it looked unkempt and was definitely unwashed. It was scooped up in one of my scrunchies to keep it out of his eyes and from the doorway I could see the gorgeous dip at the back of his strong neck. I was dying to kiss it but as he was barely grunting over his shoulder at me I returned to the kitchen to finish dinner. I could always seduce him later.
The sauce was simmering away nicely so I thought I’d pop upstairs and start some packing for the trip. I took my suitcase down off the rickety wardrobe in the bedroom and opened it up on the bed. It was dark outside, a chilly November evening, and I was looking forward to snuggling up with Anthony on the sofa later when he was out of the studio.
Anthony had taken up an artist residency at Slater Gallery in Piccadilly. It was a one-year residency and he was part way through it. He should have been doing all his artwork at the gallery but he insisted on completing a series of paintings at home, which meant he was draining himself creatively and being a bit of a grouch with it.
As artist in residence at Slater’s, Anthony would have to have an exhibition ready at the end of the one-year period. It would consist of everything he’d completed while at the gallery. Anthony wanted to include some additional material he’d been working on in his home studio, causing himself extra pressure, I thought. He was also expected to collaborate with the local sixth form college, giving occasional workshops to A-level Art students. Anthony wasn’t too happy about the workshops. He was fundamentally shy and would probably stand in front of the students with sanguine cheeks while he lectured. I was pretty sure the girls would fall in love with him, though.
I opened the cabinet in the bathroom. What would I need to pack? I stared at the unopened box of tampons, which surely I should have started using since I bought them. I calculated the days in my head as I threw the packet into my toiletry bag. I got out my phone and looked at the calendar. It confirmed that time had flown by without me noticing not having had a period. It was probably due to the stress.
I’d spent several days up a ladder having painted three of the kitchen walls. I’d also bought a sketch pad and pencils and had been losing sleep over whether my wedding dress design was really any good. Not to mention the hours in bed spent on Amazon, trying to work out which sewing machine to buy. Knowing me I’d probably come on slap bang in the middle of one of the meetings in Paris.
I was looking forward to Paris but secretly wishing I could combine the trip with a romantic getaway for me and Anthony. It was too perfect that I was going to be in the city of love for two days and not take advantage of it. But when I put the idea to Anthony he’d said no. He had his painting.
‘You’ll have meetings, anyway,’ he’d said. ‘But my residency finishes in spring. How about a week away then?’
‘That would be wonderful,’ I’d said dreamy-eyed.
I’d keep the trip all business and I’d have a lovely romantic trip to look forward to with Anthony.
‘I turned off the sauce.’ Anthony was in the doorway of our bedroom. ‘It was bubbling over.’
‘Shall I put on the pasta?’ I looked up at him as I closed the phone.
‘Not yet.’ Anthony pulled my case off the bed, laying it on the floor. He took the scrunchie from his hair, wavy locks curtaining the sides of his face. He gave me a cheeky grin before slipping his T-shirt off over his head and tossing it to one side, and then pulling me onto him on the bed.
‘Glad to see you’ve stopped growling at me for five minutes,’ I said.
‘Five minutes? I think I can do better than that.’
I was going to miss Anthony for the next few days but I’d told myself that a Paris with Anthony in it would be a fabulous thing to look forward to.
When I saw the rain pouring down as we landed at Orly airport, and how grey and miserable the sky was, I was happy the trip was solely for business. The flight had been slightly delayed and I’d sat next to someone who kept slapping his lips every time he sipped coffee, which seemed to be non-stop. Of course, my case was the last one off the conveyor when I was desperate to get to my hotel and relax for the evening.
Finally, coming out of customs, I shrugged, heaped my man bag up onto my shoulder, and searched the last few people waiting at arrivals for my driver.
I saw my name written on a small piece of card and looked up at the face of the person holding it. It was a woman in her thirties with shiny, chestnut-coloured hair and liquid liner ticks at the sides of her eyes.
‘I’m Magenta Bright,’ I said, smiling.
She didn’t smile back. ‘And so we go,’ she said and marched towards the exit.
Hopping along after her and trying to lug my suitcase higher to stop it banging on my knees, I exited the airport. I followed my driver’s military march to the short-stay car park.
‘Boot?’ she said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You are sorry? Sorry for what?’ she replied.
‘I mean, I’m sorry. What did you say?’
She patted the boot of the car. The expression on her face told me I was acting like an absolute imbecile.
‘Oh, yes,’ I spluttered. ‘Suitcase in the boot. Got you. Yes, please.’
She clicked the remote central locking on the key fob, grabbed my case from me, and dumped it into the boot of the car before stomping quickly round to the driver’s side. She bobbed her head at the rear door and I obediently jumped in.
I heard skidding, the beep of a car horn beside our car, and then my ears went blocked. My driver had zoomed off, going from zero to eighty miles per hour at warp speed, screeching to a halt at the exit barrier and then racing out of the car park onto a roundabout. I was pinned to the back seat. The landscape surrounding Orly airport went by in a flash. Parisian suburbia crashed past the window in a blur, my cheeks flapping with the sheer velocity, and I wished I had a religion. Only prayer could stop us crashing. We hurtled towards the southern Arrondissements of Paris. I began to pray to every god I knew to deliver me to heaven if I didn’t make it out of the car alive.
I couldn’t really be sure how quickly we got to the hotel. I’d closed my eyes and had tried to block everything out. All I knew was that my driver hit the brakes and I was flung forward into the back of the seat in front of me and thrown back again so that my neck whipped half off my neck with a crack. I nodded several times, involuntarily, before my head rocked back into place. I rubbed the back of my neck, picking my man bag up off the floor.
‘Boot,’ she declared and leapt out.
This time she opened the door for me to get out. I tried to catch her eye as I tentatively stepped onto the forecourt outside my hotel, hoping I could at least give her a dirty look. As I tried to straighten my coat and adjust my bag over my shoulder I noticed she was smiling as she got out my suitcase. Well her teeth were showing – she could have been in pain.
‘Enjoy your hotel,’ she said. She held up my suitcase. I took it and she dropped the weight of it into my hand so that I toppled forward.
‘Er,’ I stuttered. ‘You’ll be here at nine tomorrow morning?’ I had a breakfast meeting with my first designer.
‘For sure,’ she said.
In my heart of hearts I wished she’d said: There’s been a big mistake and I should have picked up the other Magenta Bright. Your proper driver will be here in the morning. But no, this Lewis Hamilton wannabe would be there the next day.
I limped to the reception and checked in. I called Riley, hoping she’d still be at the office. Maybe she could arrange a new driver in time.
‘Oh, hey, Riley,’ I said.
‘Magenta, hi, how’s your hotel?’
‘All good but I was wondering if you could sort a new driver for me.’
‘Is he no good?’
‘She. She seems like a lovely person but she must have broken every speed limit from the airport to the hotel. I’m seriously frightened for my life. Could you sort it out?’
‘Of course I will. Leave it to me.’
My fingers were crossed; in fact everything was crossed when I went to bed that night, hoping Riley could be relied on to put this right. I didn’t sleep a wink.