London from My Windows (7 page)

CHAPTER 7

Her driver looked like a member of ZZ Top. He had on a driver's cap, dark glasses, and was sporting a long beard. Ava had an urge to tug on it, see if it was real. He held up a sign: Ms. Ava Wilder.

Ava pointed to the sign and the driver from the trolley, who was now pushing her wheelchair, wheeled her up to him.

“'Allo,” the driver said with a slight bow. He sounded like the chimney sweep in
Mary Poppins
. He took in the wheelchair and his eyes widened. “I didn't realize,” he said.

“I can walk,” Ava said. “I'm just a little weak right now.”

“Of course,” the driver said. He turned to the attendant. “I can take her from here.”

“British luck to you,” the attendant said to her driver with a parting glance at Ava. “Leave the chair at the curb.”

“Jerk,” Ava said under her breath. She clutched her suitcase on her lap as the driver wheeled her and Diana's suitcase out to the curb where a boxy white car was waiting. Ava felt every bump the wheelchair hit along the way, and every noise jangled her nerves. She squeezed her eyes shut.

They stopped. Her luggage was lifted off her lap and Ava listened as he put it in the trunk.
Boot, isn't that what they call it here?
Soon he was standing over her. “Do you need help? Shall I lift you?” Ava opened one eye. Just enough to see the car door open, black leather seats beckoning her inside. From what she could see, it was a cloudy day. It smelled like rain was coming.

“No, thank you.” Ava stood, then crawled into the back seat, lay down, and since there weren't any covers, draped the plastic garbage bag over her face. Let the driver think she was a crazy American.

“Wait,” she called just as he was about to shut the passenger door.

“Yes?” His voice sounded close. As if he'd popped his head into the backseat.

“Do you think I could keep the wheelchair?”

“Are you asking me to lift it?”

“Oh. Is it heavy? I thought you could fold it into the trunk.”

“The boot?”

“What?”

“Are you asking me to lift it and toss it into the boot?”

“Well, I don't see how you would get it into the boot without lifting it.” There was a pause, then laughter. He had a very nice laugh. He sounded younger than he looked.

“Do you expect me to steal a wheelchair from the airport like a common criminal?”

“Oh.” “Lift,” as in “steal.” Lost in translation. She'd misinterpreted him on several levels. He was a goody-goody. The beard definitely didn't suit him. “Not when you put it that way.” It was another few moments before she heard the passenger door shut and then he slammed down “the boot.” She supposed that wasn't very cool of her, asking the taxi driver to steal airport property.

She waited until he was back in the car and they had pulled away from the curb. “I'm sorry.”

“It's perfectly all right. I took a shopping trolley home once when I was ten.”

“Ah.”

“After my father found out my arse was so sore I couldn't sit for a week.”

“Guess you'll have to go ahead and spank me.”
Oh, God.
Did Ava just say that?

“What?” He swerved into the other lane, then jerked the wheel the opposite direction before he could get sideswiped. Horns blared and he blared his back. Red brake lights loomed inches ahead. “Bollocks.” He slammed on the brakes. Ava was thrown off the seat and onto the floor. She'd bonked her head, but she didn't want to move. She liked it down on the floor better.

“So sorry, luv,” the driver said. “Do you need some help up?”

“I've fallen and I can't get up,” Ava said. Did they know that one in London?

“Should I pull over?”

“Without getting us killed? Unlikely.” She crawled back onto the seat and made the mistake of looking up. Their eyes met in the rearview mirror, and she felt a tiny jolt as if she had just been Tasered. He had really beautiful blue eyes. “Your beard looks fake,” she said.

“Maybe it is.”

Ava put the garbage bag over her head. Cars honked again. There was at least a foot between him and the car in front of him and other drivers weren't having it. He moved the foot forward and stopped. Busy, busy planet.

“Only two suitcases,” the driver said. “Must be a record.” God, he sounded chipper.

“For a woman?”

“Pardon?”

“Must be a record for a woman?”

“No, no. No. Blokes too. Most blokes have more than two suitcases, especially if they're staying awhile.”

“What makes you think I'm staying awhile?”

“You're going to a residential address, not a hotel,” he said. She could hear him drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Was she getting to him or was it the traffic?

She didn't bother telling him she had actually only brought one suitcase. That the other belonged to her traitor of a therapist. Was there some kind of ethics board she could report Diana to? That would serve her right. What could Diana have put in the other suitcase? Ava didn't need many outfits. Being a shut-in was certainly easy on the wallet. Really, all she needed was several pairs of pajamas. She would change into her horse pajamas the minute she got into the flat, cover the windows with sheets, maybe sit in the bathtub in the dark for a while. What were the chances there would be a bottle of wine at the flat? Not that she'd drink much. It wouldn't take much with all these pills.

“How is the temperature?”

It was freezing. “Great. Thank you.”

“You're most welcome. Is this your first time in London?”

“I'm sorry. I have a migraine.” That should be enough to get him to leave her alone. Europeans didn't need to be bashed over the head; they were schooled in subtlety.

“Dreadful. My ex-girlfriend is prone to migraines. Wait just a minute. Scratch that. Although technically she is my ex, I plan on getting her back. And in order to do that, I have to imagine—rather, create—my reality as if it's happening now.” He pounded cheerfully on the steering wheel. “So she's not my ex; she's my current girlfriend—rather, she's my fiancée. My fiancée—my WIFE—my WIFE gets migraines too.”

Ava suddenly perked up. He was mental. Just like her. How refreshing. There was a moment of silence and then he laughed at himself and shrugged. Self-deprecating taxi driver. Who knew. They were pulling out of the airport now; she could feel the turn and the acceleration of the car. Rain fell on the roof. “You don't mind if we chat, do you? Helps pass the time.”

“I'm not really in a chatty mood.”

“My iPod isn't charged, and there's no decent radio, so—”

“Why don't you call somebody?”
Who cares
.

“I think it's terribly rude to talk on the mobile while driving.”

“I don't mind, really. As long as you're hands free.”

“I hate when I'm in a taxicab and the driver is on his mobile—”

“You take cabs too?”

“Oh. Right. That must sound quite silly. Since I am, obviously, a driver myself. But I do take them as well. Once in a while, I do.”

Ava slipped her hands into her purse—handbag or pocketbook, what did they say here? She rummaged around until she felt the round plastic vial. She edged around it with her thumb until she found the cap. She popped it and snuck her fingers inside. She scooted a pill up the side of the bottle and into her palm. It was a quick trip to her mouth. Xanax. Forget diamonds. That little miracle was a girl's best friend. She wasn't sure if it was actually time for one because the time change was messing with her. She just liked having something to do, and the floaty feeling was starting to wear off. Mission accomplished. All this, lying down, under the garbage bag. Ava would do pretty well as a blind person. The driver was still talking. Something about the architecture and the history of London. He had a pleasant voice. She didn't really care what he was saying; there was just something soothing about the noise of him. Everyone sounded a bit more pleasant with an English accent, even the cleaning lady who shrieked at her in Heathrow. It would be difficult to be on a jury here. The accused could be an axe murderer and still get off with that accent.
He probably did it all right, but he sounds like a lovely chap, doesn't he? Why don't we let him off? Be a good lad and don't sever any more heads, all right?

Diana's warning barreled through her.
Don't abuse these pills. It's not a slippery slope; it's a slide straight to a life of hell.
It was too late, already in her mouth, down her throat, coursing through her veins.

“Jack the Ripper,” the driver said.

“What?” Was she riding with a psycho? Was he going to chop her into little pieces? So much for trusting everyone with an English accent.

“I was saying you could take the tour. It's quite fun if you like a good fright now and then.”

“I'm having a good fright right now.”

“Does it help your migraine? Hiding under a rubbish bag like that?”

A rubbish bag. Not a garbage bag, a rubbish bag. “Not with you talking.”

“If it doesn't help, you might want to look out the windows. Wouldn't want to miss your first glimpse of London now, would you?”

Maybe he was right. Didn't she come here to change? She could do this. Ava kept her eyes closed, but lifted the bag, then slowly sat up. She opened one eye.
Oh, God. Dizzy. Cars, so many freaking cars.
She cried out. He swerved, and then swore. Then apologized.

“You're on the wrong side of the road!”

“It's the side we drive on here, luv.”

“Oh, right. Sorry, governor.” She didn't mean to make fun of him, but he did just call her luv and “governor” kind of just slipped out. But instead of taking offense he laughed. At least he seemed to have a good sense of humor to go with those baby blues.

“Do you want to talk about
Downton Abbey
?” he asked suddenly.

Yes, I kind of do
. “Why would I want to talk about
Downton Abbey
?”

“Americans are obsessed with it. Why do you think that is?”

“Maggie Smith,” Ava said. “And the mansions, and beautiful clothing, and the servants versus the upper class. I've heard London is still very much about who's who. Money will only get you so far in the door—and I like that part—but you're only accepted into the inner circle if your name is such and such and you've been here since the dinosaurs roamed the earth. It's all nonsense if you ask me.”

“Since the dinosaurs, did you say? Yes, I think we traced my family line back to the rex on my mum's side, brontosaurus on me dad's.” Ava laughed. “You have a beautiful laugh,” he said. “But I bet you hear that all the time.” He stared openly at her through the rearview mirror. She wanted to thank him and tell him that she'd never heard that, ever. Cliff was more interested in a quickie than conversation or compliments. Of course now she knew why. At the time she simply thought he couldn't wait to have her. The driver was still watching her. Ava made eye contact with him and he smiled. “Welcome to London.” His voice had lowered and for a second he sounded very attractive. Ava forced herself to look out a tiny section of the window. She didn't like beards, and even if she could get past it, she wasn't here to shag the driver.

Gray, rainy, blurry, busy. Why was everyone in such a hurry all the time? It had never made sense to her. Rushing to the grave. She, for one, planned on taking the slow boat.

“Do you like sports?”

“No.”
Don't look at everything at once. Look at one thing at a time. One tree. One car. One building in the distance.
They were going too fast. How was she supposed to do this? She would look at the back of the driver's head. She would imagine sketching him. He had a nice neck. Underneath his cap his hair was light brown and wavy. She wanted to run her fingers through it. Maybe she was a nympho.
What do you call an agoraphobic who is also a nymphomaniac?

“Football, cricket, rugby, darts?”

“No.”
A slut who never leaves the house.

“You like the theater then?”

In other words, Cliff's dream girl
. “The theater?”

“Are you a loyal thespian?”

“My aunt Beverly is a stage actress. In the West End.”
Was.
Why was she speaking of Aunt Beverly in the present tense? It didn't seem real. Even though Ava had never met her, she ached. She missed the fact that she'd never get to meet her. Talk to her about Ava's father. Ask what he was like as a little boy. Ask why she never made an effort to visit, why they never visited her. Why did Beverly leave her her flat? It must mean she had regrets. Did that count for anything? And what about Ava's regrets? Ava should have visited when she was alive. What did this look like? Coming only after she was gone just to inherit her flat?

“An actress, you say?”

“Was,” Ava said.

“Pardon?”

“My aunt is no longer with us. She died.”

“My apologies. I'm sorry for your loss.” Ava was too. She was sorry about a lot of things. She simply nodded to the driver. “You've come to settle her affairs then?”

“I'm meeting with a lawyer. I guess you call him a barrister here.”

“Ah. Barristers. They can be dodgy. Have you met him?”

“Just a video chat.”

“What sort is he?”

“What do you mean?”