The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [78]
I slammed on the brakes and stared, aghast, in my rear-view mirror. The headlights of the car behind went out. A door opened, and a foot stepped out onto the sodden, pinging tarmac. I leaned my forehead onto the steering wheel, shut my eyes, and prayed hard.
Oh dear God, no. Oh please, God, no. I'll do meals on wheels from here to eternity. I'll jiggle tins in Waitrose. I'll jiggle my tits in Waitrose. Just please, don't let it be him.
16
I opened one eye a fraction and saw a pair of jeans and the ends of a flapping overcoat strut my way, towards my open window. His crotch drew level and then he crouched down until his face was proximate with mine. I snapped my eyes shut, kept my head on the steering wheel, and simulated concussion.
‘Bloody hell,’ I heard in disbelief. ‘Bloody hell – you again!’
‘Hm? Whaa…?’ I opened my eyes blearily, took my head slowly off the wheel, but kept my mouth dopily open. Through half-shut eyes, I gazed around, dazed. ‘Where am I?’ I whispered.
‘In the back of my bloody car again. For the second time in as many weeks!’
I peered at him through what I hoped were semiconscious, but perhaps more drug-crazed-looking, eyes. ‘Who are you?’ I croaked.
‘Oh, don't give me that,’ he snapped. ‘If that little jolt knocked you senseless you've got bigger problems mentally than I thought!’
Realizing I should have simulated death rather than concussion I sat bolt upright. ‘There's nothing wrong with my mental powers,’ I retorted. ‘It's your bloody car that's the problem. That was my space and, what's more, you saw me backing into it!’
‘Like hell it was yours. You just barged across from the wrong side of the road, then kept on reversing straight into me!’
‘I was committed,’ I hissed.
‘Doesn't surprise me. Give me the name of the asylum and I'll tell them to take you back.’
‘To the space!’ I squeaked. ‘I was halfway in – you saw me. And anyway, how come your car is always outside my house?’ I clutched my mouth; stared at him in horror. ‘Are you stalking me?’
‘Don't be ridiculous, why would I want to do that?’
‘You've seen me in my underwear!’
‘Which might make me leave town. No, madam, I am not stalking you.’
‘Then why are you always in my street?’ I hissed.
‘Because I live in your street,’ he hissed back.
‘Since when?’ I snarled.
‘Since two months ago, if you must know,’ he snarled back.
We were nose to nose now, snarling and hissing like tomcats, our eyes, centimetres apart. His were flecked with gold; greeny gold. His black hair flopped into them. He looked like a dark lion with that mane of hair. Mum was right. Very masterful.
I jerked away smartly and, without thinking, opened my door, which since he was crouched behind it, sent him flying backwards.
‘Shit!’ he barked as he sat down in a puddle.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered, climbing out. ‘Sorry… here…’ I attempted to help him up, but he swatted away my hand in horror. ‘Oh God – your coat…’ There was a large wet patch on the back of what was clearly cashmere. It looked as if he'd wet himself.
‘Never mind my coat, what about my car!’ he roared, staggering to his feet.
‘Oh Lord. Oh heavens. I really am terribly sorry.’ Blinking through the driving rain we both gazed, aghast, at the crumpled remains of his car. The boot was almost entirely concertinaed in. Even by my standards it was not good. ‘That's dreadful.’ I hastened across. ‘I had no idea! I mean – I only tapped it. What's it made of?’ I touched it curiously. ‘Fibre glass?’
As I turned back, his eyes widened. ‘Of course, it's my fault, isn't it?’ He rocked back on his heels and hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘My fault, for having a car made of substandard material. It's all becoming crystal clear, forgive me, forgive me. And you, of course, and your Chelsea tractor, made from galvanized steel and with a cowcatcher fastened to