He stared at her in disbelief. He seemed unharmed but furious. “What’s the matter with you?” he barked. “It’s a one-way street. Can’t you read road markings?” He pointed at the double-hatch line across the entrance to the street behind her.
Cold washed through her. She stared at him, frozen.
“Didn’t you see the No Entry sign?” He walked between both cars to her side. “Too busy checking your lipstick in the mirror?” His immaculate hair had come awry when he leapt out of the way; one black lock had fallen overhis brow.
She closed her eyes on a mental image of this tall, well-dressed man lying on the ground, his shiny black hair fanning across a blood-splattered face—police placing her in handcuffs, Henry shouting that she was going to jail, his mistress moving into their home with bags of expensivelingerie.
“Wake up!” the stranger snapped. “What’s wrong with you?” He leaned into her window. Millie shrank back into her seat as he reached past her and pulled her handbrake up, then switched off theignition.
He was holding a newspaper folded around some files embossed with a familiar gold logo,SRA. Solicitors Regulation Authority.So, another lawyer.
Of course.
She should have known. Designer charcoal suit and crisp white shirt not to mention a bronzed face that belonged in an aftershave commercial.
A hideous man; she hated himon sight.
He turned away to inspect the damage to the BMW.
So, it was his car. Wonderful. A BMW 650i, a distant part of her mind registered. A model Henry had craved but couldn’t afford. For the best part of last year, BMW catalogues had littered their house, all folded open to showthe 650i.
The accident was her fault, no question about it. She should apologise.Swallowing her anxiety, she stammered, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, really—”
“Not half as sorry as I am.” He traced long, tanned fingers along the dent inhis door.
Millie wanted to get out of the car to deal with things, but he was blocking her in.
“Is there anything I can do?”she asked.
“Do?” He didn’t bother looking at her. “You can call the airport and see if they’ll hold the plane for me. Since you seem so verycapable.”
Flight? Going somewhere sunny and expensive, no doubt, to work on that tan. He looked like the kind of man Henry wanted to be. Elegant. Rich. Uber-confident. And utterly selfish. This one, richer and handsomer, probably towed a longer string of women from golf course to cocktail party to hotel suite. Did he, too, have a neglected wife at home who washed her hair with cheap shampoo and bought her clothes in clearance sales? Did he talk to his wife without looking at her, the way he talked to Millie now? He didn’t even notice that he was blocking her in, that she couldn’t openher door.
“Look, I know it was stupid of me to goso fast—”
Still not looking at her, he said, “No, it’s not your fault.” He rose to his full height and finally looked down at her, grey eyes flicking up and down. “You’re not the stupid one. It’s the moron who gave you a driving licence.” He turned and walked away, as if she and her apologies wereworthless.
Which was more than enough.
Before she knew what she was doing, she was out of her car and catchingup to him.
“Oh, you’re so perfect!” She threw the words at him. “Just because you’re a powerful rich man, is that it? Well, I have news for you, Mr BMW Corporate Lawyer, you know what? Expensive cars and Armani suits don’t give you the right to ridicule somebody else.” Her words gushed, leaving her no space to draw breath. “I might not play golf or wash my hands with French Champagne, but I am a human being. I work sixty hours a week, I pay my bills and I have never, never, never spoken an unkind word to anyone.”
She swallowed around the pain rising in her throat. “I’ve never hurt anyone in my life. I don’t cheat or sleep around. And I have never—” Her voice splintered. “I have never ever, in my life, made anyone feel worthless because they were poor and unloved”—she fought back a sob—“and beige…”
She wanted to say much more. She wanted to shriek and shout everything she hadn’t told her husband, but her voice wouldn’t come out. She’d wanted a chance to cry, all day, but not now, not in front of this arrogant man. She wouldn’t be another woman crying in the street for him to laugh about with his friends.
She screwed her eyes shut tight and crossed her arms over her chest to hold back the volcano of rageand pain.
A moment later, she felt an arm wrap around her waist; a surprisingly gentle hand on her elbow slowly urged her to move. She took a couple of steps, then stopped despite the pressure of his arm on her back. She opened her eyes and looked up into his face and found him watching her.
“I think it’s best not to stay in the middle of the road,” he said quietly, close to her ear. “We’re beginning to attract attention.”
She looked over his shoulder. Indeed, another car was trying to circle round her Micra, which she had left diagonally across both lanes with the door open. They were on a small side road, somewhere east of St Paul’s Cathedral, she guessed. Smack in the middle of the financial district. Her car looked like a scullery maid sitting at a lord’s banquet.
The stranger’s grey eyes followed her glance, then looked back at her. “Don’t worry about the car. Come.”
Where?
