Those thoughts running through my mind weren’t exactly helpful when driving the convertible. Imagining any scratch, chip, or even misuse of the clutch, and my panic built, especially considering I would have to drive it in central London to get to the flat.
Not that Nix would care.
Before that though, I had to manoeuvre aroundthe country lanes, avoiding all the forgotten potholes that would never be filled in. To my relief, there was a car before me and behind me, which always put me more at ease when driving down the winding roads, especially with the puddles from all the overnight rain.
They were a relief until, three roundabouts in a row and seven turnings, the car behind me continued to follow.
I couldn’t remember them sneaking up behind me, but they had been following for at least half an hour.
A black sedan.
It was ridiculous to panic, how many black sedans were there in the UK? Thousands and thousands.
But I couldn’t control my heart rate picking up, my mouth becoming dry.
I needed a drink.
I pulled up at the petrol station and they whizzed past.
Maybe I needed to go back on my anxiety medication. It had been a while since I had to take the tablets, but with everything going on, I should start again as a precaution. The panic attacks were becoming more regular.
I filled up the tank, bought a chocolate bar and a cold drink before getting back in the car.
Only minutes later, another black sedan appeared two cars behind me. Every twist and turn of the road, I squinted in myrearviewmirror, trying to see if the registration plate was the same.
“You’re paranoid,” I muttered to myself but still looked behind me around the bend. “SillyLiviebeing silly. Plenty of black cars in the country—”
It had the exact same digits.
Though the fancy car wasn’t sorted with the GPS, it wasconnected to my phone.
Calling the person furthest away.
“Livid, you okay?” Nix asked. He was eating.
Only an hour ago I had last spoken to him on the phone, telling him I was leaving.
“No,” I said, voice broken. “A car’s following me.”
“Where? What’s the car like?”
“A black sedan,” I told him, his urgent voice making me panic more, a sweat breaking out across my forehead. “I know it’s silly, but—”
“Where?”
“I’m on my way back to the flat, only about half an hour away.”
“Can you see the registration plate?”
I swallowed, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel. “Nix, you don’t really think—”
“Can you?”
I told him what I had been able to see, only for him to sigh in relief.
“What?” I snapped. “What is it?”
“You’re fine,monchérie,” he said. “That’s only Andrew.”
