God, I can’t deal with this. I curl up in my seat and shove my fingers in my ears, keeping my eye on the silent, slow clouds above.
My strange position means I see her face, framed in the window. She steps out of the car next to us, I think. Her icyblonde hair is cut into a sheer bob, her mouth a mirrored red lipsticked slash.
I sit up, and see the slinky scarlet dress wrapped around her curves. She glows, I swear she does. It’s notjustmy overstimulated brain warping the colours; she is a Goddess of Wrath.
I can’t keep my eyes off her, spinning round up onto my knees to watch her through the back window as she storms over to the perma-honking car behind ours, and slams her fist down on the bonnet. ‘Can youse shut thefuckup?!’
Woah.
The driver holds up his hands in apology and quite a lot of terror, mouthingSORRYover and over.
Imagine being that brave. It must be easier to be brave when you’re tall.
There’s a chorus of cheering around us.
Even Victor applauds. ‘Nowthatis a woman.’
‘Are blondes your type?’ I ask, then regret it. You can’t just ask someone that. I’m not onWedded Blissyet.
But he laughs. ‘Any woman who puts a dickhead in her place is the kind I want to go home to. Having someone set you straight when you’re out of line?’ He makes a noise that would confound any spelling bee participant. ‘A beautiful woman who can see right through your bullshit?Thatis my type, Miss Carys. Mind you, I’m about twenty years too old for her.’
I smile at him. ‘Is that what Shreya is like?’
‘Oh, you bet. I was a total mess when we met – what twenty-year-old man isn’t? But she said this is how it is and how it’s gonna be, and if you want that you gotta be this way.’ He laughs and shakes his head. ‘Boy, did I get in line quickly!’
‘I can’t imagine you being that much of a mischief.’
He laughs, but it drops off quickly. ‘Oh now, where is she going?’
I follow his gaze, as our blonde saviour storms through the rows of stationary cars.
Her driver gets out his car, waving his arms furiously.
Victor whistles. ‘Hey! Mike!’
‘Vic! What is this business?’ Mike yells, and I wonder if all car drivers in London know each other. ‘Come back please, Miss! I can’t leave the car!’
Victor sucks his teeth. I guess he can’t either.
Maybe I should go after her? I can’t see where she’s gone. My hands still shake with adrenaline, and it’s not got quieter outside. I peer through the front window, trying to see where she is.
And that’s when I see a plastic iced coffee cup tumbling out of the car in front of me onto the grassy verge, lid still attached. Perfect bait for a small animal to get stuck in.
Something in me snaps. You don’t work on a city farm without developing some strong feelings about littering.
I can do this. I am a champion of nature!
I barely hear Victor’s protests as I get out the car, nor register how numb my legs are. Channelling the blonde Goddess, I strut up to the metal barrier at the roadside and lean down to pick up the cup with my fingertips.
The barely-older-than-teenagers react with horror to my knock on the window. They panic bicker for a moment, and I knock again so they know I’m not leaving.
The passenger window rolls down very slowly, releasing Billie Eilish’s husky vocals into the air like perfume.
I hold out the clear cup spattered with iced coffee, and with a deranged smile I say, ‘You dropped this?’
They stare at me, open mouthed. What, like they’ve never seen an angry girl in a tea dress berate them for littering?
The passenger gulps and takes it from me, setting it back in the empty cupholder, which is evenmoreinfuriating – why litter when you had space?!
