The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [60]
I wrenched the gear stick into reverse and shot backwards, too fast, into another car. Shit. Sweat breaking out in beads all over, I leaped out to assess the damage. Not much, actually. Well, a dent to mine and a tiny one to his, but only the bumper, and that's what bumpers were for, weren't they? I bent down, licked my finger and tried to rub the scratch off the one behind. Bugger. Bit worse. Best left, Evie. I turned to scurry back to my car, but my way was barred by a dark-haired man, smartly dressed but tie loosened, collar of his unseasonable overcoat turned up. He looked like that Chelsea manager, José whatsisname, and just as furious.
‘Is this yours?’ He held up a piece of broken china pot between his forefinger and thumb.
‘Oh. Yes, where did you—’
‘On the back seat of my car. After it smashed through the rear window.’
‘No! Oh, how awful.’ I swung around to scan the cars in the street. ‘I'm so sorry, which car?’
‘That one, behind you. The one you've just reversed into.’ He pointed, green eyes blazing, to what I now realized, when I wasn't looking just at the bumper, was really rather a smart locomotive. Dark blue, slightly old-fashioned – perhaps classic was the word I was groping for – and very sleek. Only not so sleek now, with a dented bumper and… oh heavens: a huge gaping hole in the back window, glass and cream all over the back seat.
‘Oh Lord. I – I'm terribly sorry,’ I faltered, appalled. ‘You see I was having an argument, and I picked up the pot and accidentally, well, I threw it, and—’
‘You could have killed someone!’ he spluttered. ‘Do you realize a pebble coming out of that window –’ he jerked his thumb up to the gaping hole in our bedroom – ‘could have knocked someone for six? This,’ he held the piece of china right under my nose, ‘could have bloody finished them off!’
His eyes were boring furiously into mine. Quite close. Quite cross.
I swallowed. ‘Yes. Yes, I do see. And I'm really very sorry. It's not like me at all. You see, my husband and I had a row, an argument, and – and stupidly I reached for the first thing that came to hand. Luckily I missed him, because, as you say—’
‘I couldn't care less about your steamy bedroom fights or your squalid domestic violence,’ he spat. ‘What does concern me is my bloody car!’
I drew myself up to my full five foot three. ‘We do not indulge in domestic violence. My husband and I are civilized professional people. He's a don at the university, if you must know, and—’
‘If he was the Archbishop of Canterbury I couldn't be less interested, and if you threw pots of cream at him all night long it would be all the same to me. Just get your insurance details, right now, lady, and stop holding up my life.’
‘Ooh… there is no need—’ I stopped. Those green eyes were quite intimidating. Rattled, I turned and hastened to my car. I rifled in the glove compartment and found the relevant bits of paper. Ghastly man. I quickly wrote it all down on the back of an envelope, marched back and handed it to him.
‘There,’ I said icily.
As he passed me his, he held on to it for a second longer than was absolutely necessary. I had to glance up. A muscle was going in his cheek.
‘You'll be hearing from me,’ he snapped.
‘Can't wait,’ I snapped back, matching him now, glare for glare. I threw a particularly poisonous one over my shoulder before stalking back to my car.
I got in and shut the door with a flourish. As I started the engine,