“No.” I check my watch. Should I put on my costume now, or wait until we get to the venue? I decide now will be the safest option, just in case we do get stuck in traffic. “I’ll be ready in ten.”
“No rush. We’ve got plenty of time. I’ll see you in the car park?”
I nod.
The building doesn’t have its own car park, but Nigel rents space in a neighbouring secure car park for his two flashy cars. They have twenty-four-seven security patrols, and you can’t get in without a code. Just as well, considering how much those vehicles cost. I don’t get the point of having cars you never drive. Let alone keeping them in central London. I guess they’re status symbols, more than anything, and having a private driver only adds to the illusion of glamour. Having money, after growing up with practically nothing, has definitely gone to my brother’s head.
I get changed in the office. The costume is a decent fit. Not as good as my tailored suits, but it’ll do. It comprises of a white shirt with frilled cuffs, a white cravat tie, a black Victorian jacket, trousers, and a top hat. It also has a grey wig and sideburn pieces, but I ignore those. After collecting my overnight bag, I govia the toilets so I can look in the mirror. A younger version of Scrooge stares back at me, expression as miserable as the actor’s in the old Black and White movie. Maybe I should have worn the wig to look the part, but I can’t think of anything itchier and scratchier than a wig several other people have worn.
I lock up the office, say goodbye to Abbey on my way out of the building, and walk the short distance to the car park. I punch in the code, which grants me access, and navigate my way to Nigel’s parking spaces, which are side by side. Unlike in a public car park, the spaces are vast, with plenty of room for even the biggest, widest car. Rowan is standing beside Nigel’s white Rolls-Royce Phantom, polishing it with a cloth reverently. The vehicle gleams under the car park’s fluorescent lighting, making it almost painful to look at. I have to admit, it’s a beautiful car, even if it is an entirely unnecessary extravagance.
Nigel’s other car is an orange McLaren Artura. A supercar that’s utterly useless on British roads, where the maximum legal speed is seventy miles per hour. He calls it his ‘fun car’. Unsurprisingly, it spends a lot more time in the car park than the Phantom, which is for business.
Rowan turns, tucks the polishing cloth into his back pocket, grins at me, and opens the rear-hinged back door. “Your carriage awaits.”
I roll my eyes. “This is so over the top.” I feel ridiculous having a driver open my door.
Rowan seems totally unfazed by my gruff response. “Can I take your bag?”
I’m capable of putting my bag in the boot. I hand it to him nonetheless. He holds onto it, patiently waiting with one hand on the car door for me to get in. I do so with a heavy sigh. I don’t want to admit how gorgeous the car's interior is. The spacious seats are hand-stitched cream leather, with adjustable footrests and a large centre armrest. Even the sound of the door closingscreams opulence. Rowan puts my bag in the boot and then slips into the driver’s seat. He turns the engine on, which purrs. At the same time, dozens of tiny lights come on in the roof, creating a starscape above my head. It’ll be much more impressive once we’re away from the artificial lighting in the carpark and the bright lights of London, but it’s breathtaking all the same.
Rowan looks at me via the rearview mirror. “Privacy screen up or down?”
The privacy screen will cut us off. We won’t be able to see each other, and we’ll only be able to talk via an intercom. I should welcome the solitude. I’m not exactly the king of chit-chatting, but I like being able to see his smile and sparkling eyes via the rearview mirror, even though I shouldn’t.
“Down,” I reply, against my better judgement.
“Your wish is my command.”
Oh, how I would love to give him commands of a different kind. I tug at my collar, wishing it didn’t suddenly feel so hot in the car. I fiddle with the air con controls on the centre console until the vent is blowing cool air onto me.
“Next stop, the ball.” Rowan puts the car into gear and smoothly steers it out of the carpark, straight into nose-to-tail traffic.
“Did you check the weather report?” I ask, after twenty minutes of going nowhere.
“Yes. The prediction has changed.”
“Oh?”
“They’re saying it’s going to be worse than expected, but the direction of the wind should blow it away from where we’re going to be.”
I huff out a sigh of relief. “At least we won’t get stuck.”
“Doesn’t look like it.” He smiles. Damn, he has such a joyous smile.
“Although we might be stuck here.” I peer out the window. The car’s excellent soundproofing muffles street noise, but I can still hear the high-pitched blare of car horns as drivers vent their frustration.
“Nah, we won’t be.”
“You sound confident.”
“I am. We’ve left plenty of time to get there. I’m used to driving in this traffic, remember. Trust me, boss, I know what I’m doing.”
I bite my tongue to stop myself from whimpering. He needs to stop calling me that. Not that I’m going to, in case he asks me to explain my request.
“Just sit back and relax,” he says.
Sit back and relax. Easier said than done when I’m on the way to a social event, which is going to be hell on earth. Even so, I might as well make the most of being in such an extravagant car. I use the controls to move the footrest into a comfortable position, rest my chin on my hand, and stare through the privacy glass at London, as we crawl through the busy streets.
