Piotr is quiet for a few more moments. Processing. “I think . . . perhaps . . .” He flicks on his indicator, and the car is consumed by a soft ticking. “Jordan’s the homewrecker, not you. He’s the one with a family. He’s the one with something to lose.” Piotr pauses. “He’s married to a woman?”
“I . . . think so.”
“Okay. I understand not wanting to live a lie, but these are choices he has made himself. He’s choosing to go around behind his wife’s back, not you. His decisions, his consequences.”
I nod because I have nothing else to add.
“You want him to leave his wife for you?” There’s no malice or accusation in Piotr’s words, only gentle understanding.
“God, no. No. Absolutely not.” Jordan’s bottle of Noir Extreme digs into my hip, so I pull it out of my pocket and turn it over in my hands. “It’s just . . . I don’t know. It’s over.”
I can’t explain that it had never been a thing to begin with—at least not in terms of a relationship. And I can’t explain that it is, and always has been, the chase and the validation that comes when a guy finally says, “Fuck it,” and gives in to me.
In any case, I’m done talking about me. Fifteen minutes and Piotr the Uber Exec driver has extracted more information than Dr Lisa Whitstable, professional counsellor, had in three plus years.
“What about you? You got any kids?” I say, turning over the eau de parfum once again and thumbing the golden lettering on the front.
“No. No kids. I’m . . . like you.”
I’m pretty sure the “like you” reference is his way of telling me he’s gay, not that he’s admitting to being an emotionally unavailable professional fuck-up like I am.
“Tell me more about yourself. I’m bored of talking about me.”
He side-eyes me and smiles, and for the next twenty-five minutes I learn almost everything there is to know about my driver. He’s originally from Poland, but moved to the UK when he was my age. He’s thirty-four now, and chose Bristol because his sister—a windy, dairy-excluding queen named Zofia—already lived here. She’s since married and returned to her home country with her kids, and Piotr is by and large alone. At least in terms of family. I want to tell him I understand, but the words make my chest ache, and I can’t quite get them to the surface, so I let him continue explaining all about his life outside of taxiing around drunken idiots, and his hobbies. He likes cooking and Formula One. He has a soothing voice, and his accent is considerably more Bristol than Kraków, and by the time we get to Wiltshire I’m fighting to keep myself awake.
“Can I charge my phone?” I ask, remembering the cable I swiped from Jordan’s bedside.
In answer to my question, Piotr opens the glove compartment, revealing a USB connection hole. I plug my phone in and wait for it to boot up. There are two unread message threads. Luckily, neither is from Jordan. I block his number before he wakes up and realises what’s happened on his Uber app, then I open the first of the messages.
It’s from Daisy, my best friend.
Dad’s wedding is next weekend, Lan! NEXT WEEKEND!!!!! I need you to come dress shopping with me ASAP.
Also, did you fuck Jordan?
Is he married?
I fire a text back.
Yes and yes. Also, dress shopping whenever you want. Bristol or Bath?
Or London?
She doesn’t reply to my texts, but that’s not surprising. It’s gone three in the morning, and she’s probably asleep. Daisy’s a proper adult now with a proper job and proper responsibilities.
The second thread of messages is from my dearest father. I have to take a deep breath and hold it in my lungs to gather courage before I open them.
Orlando. How are you? I’ve made arrangements for you to interview for a position at Oakham Industries. Monday 26th. Be there for 9. Wear a suit.
“Fuck’s sake,” I whine aloud.
Piotr glances over at me, but doesn’t speak.
He’s always doing this. My father. Always trying to set me up with work, and to some extent I guess I can’t blame him. I’m unemployed and lazy, and I’m a liability to his empire and his reputation. But it’s just that . . . I don’t wanna get a proper job. I don’t want to be a proper grown-up. That kinda shit’s for Daisy and other people. Not me.
I don’t know what I want out of life, but it sure as shit ain’t working some bland as fuck office job at my dad’s company. I don’t even understand how Oakham Industries makes money. For all I know, it’s a front for an international drug ring.
I fire a text back.
