‘Oh Oscar, what have you eaten?’ she scolded the sleeping white Pomeranian lapdog lying by her side and tried to waft away the toxic smell he omitted with herhands. He briefly opened one brown eye, shuffled his body further towards her thigh, then closed it again.
Sofia unhooked the clasp of her vintage Chanel handbag and removed a compact mirror. She applied another coat of her trademark crimson colour to her lips and watched, displeased, as it bled into vertical lines under her nose. She squinted at how pale her grey eyes had become and made a mental note to ask Rupert’s assistant to research medical procedures that might reduce their milky hue. With her veneers, enhanced cheekbones, hairpieces and breast augmentations, momentarily she wondered if all that was left of the original Sofia Bradbury was her ambition.
‘Do you have any new scripts for me to read?’ she asked Rupert.
‘A couple have appeared but I don’t think they’re right for you.’
‘Surely I should be the judge of that?’
‘Well, one is playing an aging prostitute with terminal cancer in a long–running hospital drama and the other is in a music video for a girl group. You would be … playing a ghost.’
‘Oh, for the love of God,’ Sofia sighed. ‘So they either want me on my deathbed with my legs apart or returning from beyond the grave. Sometimes I wonder what the bloody point of it all is.’
‘I’ll send the treatments to the car now and you can read them en route.’
By the time Sofia had rolled her eyes, the characters’ outlines were available to view on her windscreen, which at the flick of a switch turned the glass into a panoramic monitor and television. She only needed to read the first couple of lines of each character description before dismissing them.
It wasn’t a wage that she needed; it was recognition and appreciation. And annual appearances at sci-ficonventions or TV chat shows would not suffice. It riled her that the British Academy of Film and Television Arts had yet to offer her a lifetime membership despite her having first trod the boards at the age of seven.
Do they know?she asked herself suddenly.Have there been rumours? Does BAFTA know what you’ve done so they’re punishing you?She hated that voice. It had haunted her for almost four decades. She shook it from her head as quickly as it appeared.
Sofia sank her aching back into the seats and pressed a button to massage it with deep, penetrating vibrations. She poured herself another brandy from the refrigerated armrest. She decided the best thing about driverless cars was being able to drink and drive legally. She ran her manicured fingernails across the plush calfskin. Then she tapped the Macassar wood panelling and dipped her bare feet into the thick Peruvian vicuna wool carpeting. By dispensing with her driver, she could afford a top-of-the-range Imperial GX70, the most expensive autonomous vehicle in production. She had no idea how a driverless car operated and she didn’t care – as long as Rupert ensured she got from A to B remotely and on time, that was all that mattered.
‘Rupert?’ she asked tentatively. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Of course. How can I help?’
‘Will my … will …Patrick… be joining me today?’
‘Yes, his account is still linked to your diary. He expressed an interest in attending so I’ve a car booked to pick him up from the golf course. He’ll meet you at the hospital.’
Sofia let Rupert’s response hang in the air knowing the complications her husband’s appearance might bring. ‘I’ll speak to you later,’ she said quietly, not waiting for his reply before hanging up. Her nails were embedded in the palm of her hand before she realised she was close to drawing blood.
‘Good morning, Sofia,’ a male voice she didn’t recognise began.
She glared at the console, assuming she had touched something accidentally and answered a phone call. ‘Rupert? Why are you putting on a silly voice?’
‘It’s not Rupert,’ the voice replied. ‘And it might surprise you to learn that your vehicle is no longer under your control.’
Sofia laughed. ‘It’s never under my control, darling. That’s why I havepeople. To make sure things are controlled for me.’
‘Alas, I am not one of your people. However, I am in charge of your destination.’
‘Good for you. Now, can you stop playing silly beggers and put Rupert on please?’
‘Rupert has nothing to do with this, Sofia. I have programmed your car to take you on an alternative route this morning. And in two hours and thirty minutes, it is likely that you will be dead.’
Sofia sighed. ‘I’ve read the script, darling; I’m not playing a bloody dying whore on a Saturday night hospital drama. I am Sofia Bradbury and I think Sofia Bradbury is worth a little more than that.’
‘You will hear from me again soon.’
The car fell silent again.
‘Hello? Hello?’
Sofia glanced at the map on her windscreen and it was only when she saw icons for the M25 and M1 that she realised she was leaving London and heading north, and not towards a hospital in Essex.
‘Rupert?’ she said. ‘Rupert? What in God’s name is going on?’
