London from My Windows

by Mary Carter

  Ava put the garbage bag over her head. Cars honked again. There was at least a foot between him and the car in front of him and other drivers weren’t having it. He moved the foot forward and stopped. Busy, busy planet.

  “Only two suitcases,” the driver said. “Must be a record.” God, he sounded chipper.

  “For a woman?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Must be a record for a woman?”

  “No, no. No. Blokes too. Most blokes have more than two suitcases, especially if they’re staying awhile.”

  “What makes you think I’m staying awhile?”

  “You’re going to a residential address, not a hotel,” he said. She could hear him drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Was she getting to him or was it the traffic?

  She didn’t bother telling him she had actually only brought one suitcase. That the other belonged to her traitor of a therapist. Was there some kind of ethics board she could report Diana to? That would serve her right. What could Diana have put in the other suitcase? Ava didn’t need many outfits. Being a shut-in was certainly easy on the wallet. Really, all she needed was several pairs of pajamas. She would change into her horse pajamas the minute she got into the flat, cover the windows with sheets, maybe sit in the bathtub in the dark for a while. What were the chances there would be a bottle of wine at the flat? Not that she’d drink much. It wouldn’t take much with all these pills.

  “How is the temperature?”

  It was freezing. “Great. Thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome. Is this your first time in London?”

  “I’m sorry. I have a migraine.” That should be enough to get him to leave her alone. Europeans didn’t need to be bashed over the head; they were schooled in subtlety.

  “Dreadful. My ex-girlfriend is prone to migraines. Wait just a minute. Scratch that. Although technically she is my ex, I plan on getting her back. And in order to do that, I have to imagine—rather, create—my reality as if it’s happening now.” He pounded cheerfully on the steering wheel. “So she’s not my ex; she’s my current girlfriend—rather, she’s my fiancée. My fiancée—my WIFE—my WIFE gets migraines too.”

  Ava suddenly perked up. He was mental. Just like her. How refreshing. There was a moment of silence and then he laughed at himself and shrugged. Self-deprecating taxi driver. Who knew. They were pulling out of the airport now; she could feel the turn and the acceleration of the car. Rain fell on the roof. “You don’t mind if we chat, do you? Helps pass the time.”

  “I’m not really in a chatty mood.”

  “My iPod isn’t charged, and there’s no decent radio, so—”

  “Why don’t you call somebody?” Who cares.

  “I think it’s terribly rude to talk on the mobile while driving.”

  “I don’t mind, really. As long as you’re hands free.”

  “I hate when I’m in a taxicab and the driver is on his mobile—”

  “You take cabs too?”

  “Oh. Right. That must sound quite silly. Since I am, obviously, a driver myself. But I do take them as well. Once in a while, I do.”

  Ava slipped her hands into her purse—handbag or pocketbook, what did they say here? She rummaged around until she felt the round plastic vial. She edged around it with her thumb until she found the cap. She popped it and snuck her fingers inside. She scooted a pill up the side of the bottle and into her palm. It was a quick trip to her mouth. Xanax. Forget diamonds. That little miracle was a girl’s best friend. She wasn’t sure if it was actually time for one because the time change was messing with her. She just liked having something to do, and the floaty feeling was starting to wear off. Mission accomplished. All this, lying down, under the garbage bag. Ava would do pretty well as a blind person. The driver was still talking. Something about the architecture and the history of London. He had a pleasant voice. She didn’t really care what he was saying; there was just something soothing about the noise of him. Everyone sounded a bit more pleasant with an English accent, even the cleaning lady who shrieked at her in Heathrow. It would be difficult to be on a jury here. The accused could be an axe murderer and still get off with that accent. He probably did it all right, but he sounds like a lovely chap, doesn’t he? Why don’t we let him off? Be a good lad and don’t sever any more heads, all right?

  Diana’s warning barreled through her. Don’t abuse these pills. It’s not a slippery slope; it’s a slide straight to a life of hell. It was too late, already in her mouth, down her throat, coursing through her veins.

  “Jack the Ripper,” the driver said.

  “What?” Was she riding with a psycho? Was he going to chop her into little pieces? So much for trusting everyone with an English accent.

  “I was saying you could take the tour. It’s quite fun if you like a good fright now and then.”

  “I’m having a good fright right now.”

  “Does it help your migraine? Hiding under a rubbish bag like that?”

  A rubbish bag. Not a garbage bag, a rubbish bag. “Not with you talking.”

  “If it doesn’t help, you might want to look out the windows. Wouldn’t want to miss your first glimpse of London now, would you?”

  Maybe he was right. Didn’t she come here to change? She could do this. Ava kept her eyes closed, but lifted the bag, then slowly sat up. She opened one eye. Oh, God. Dizzy. Cars, so many freaking cars. She cried out. He swerved, and then swore. Then apologized.

  “You’re on the wrong side of the road!”

  “It’s the side we drive on here, luv.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry, governor.” She didn’t mean to make fun of him, but he did just call her luv and “governor” kind of just slipped out. But instead of taking offense he laughed. At least he seemed to have a good sense of humor to go with those baby blues.

  “Do you want to talk about Downton Abbey?” he asked suddenly.

  Yes, I kind of do. “Why would I want to talk about Downton Abbey?”

  “Americans are obsessed with it. Why do you think that is?”

  “Maggie Smith,” Ava said. “And the mansions, and beautiful clothing, and the servants versus the upper class. I’ve heard London is still very much about who’s who. Money will only get you so far in the door—and I like that part—but you’re only accepted into the inner circle if your name is such and such and you’ve been here since the dinosaurs roamed the earth. It’s all nonsense if you ask me.”

  “Since the dinosaurs, did you say? Yes, I think we traced my family line back to the rex on my mum’s side, brontosaurus on me dad’s.” Ava laughed. “You have a beautiful laugh,” he said. “But I bet you hear that all the time.” He stared openly at her through the rearview mirror. She wanted to thank him and tell him that she’d never heard that, ever. Cliff was more interested in a quickie than conversation or compliments. Of course now she knew why. At the time she simply thought he couldn’t wait to have her. The driver was still watching her. Ava made eye contact with him and he smiled. “Welcome to London.” His voice had lowered and for a second he sounded very attractive. Ava forced herself to look out a tiny section of the window. She didn’t like beards, and even if she could get past it, she wasn’t here to shag the driver.

  Gray, rainy, blurry, busy. Why was everyone in such a hurry all the time? It had never made sense to her. Rushing to the grave. She, for one, planned on taking the slow boat.

  “Do you like sports?”

  “No.” Don’t look at everything at once. Look at one thing at a time. One tree. One car. One building in the distance. They were going too fast. How was she supposed to do this? She would look at the back of the driver’s head. She would imagine sketching him. He had a nice neck. Underneath his cap his hair was light brown and wavy. She wanted to run her fingers through it. Maybe she was a nympho. What do you call an agoraphobic who is also a nymphomaniac?

  “Football, cricket, rugby, darts?”

  “No.” A slut who never leaves the house.

  “You like
the theater then?”

  In other words, Cliff’s dream girl. “The theater?”

  “Are you a loyal thespian?”

  “My aunt Beverly is a stage actress. In the West End.” Was. Why was she speaking of Aunt Beverly in the present tense? It didn’t seem real. Even though Ava had never met her, she ached. She missed the fact that she’d never get to meet her. Talk to her about Ava’s father. Ask what he was like as a little boy. Ask why she never made an effort to visit, why they never visited her. Why did Beverly leave her her flat? It must mean she had regrets. Did that count for anything? And what about Ava’s regrets? Ava should have visited when she was alive. What did this look like? Coming only after she was gone just to inherit her flat?

  “An actress, you say?”

  “Was,” Ava said.

  “Pardon?”

  “My aunt is no longer with us. She died.”

  “My apologies. I’m sorry for your loss.” Ava was too. She was sorry about a lot of things. She simply nodded to the driver. “You’ve come to settle her affairs then?”

  “I’m meeting with a lawyer. I guess you call him a barrister here.”

  “Ah. Barristers. They can be dodgy. Have you met him?”

  “Just a video chat.”

  “What sort is he?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean how did you find him?”

  “He called me.” This man was a little bit nosy.

  The driver roared with laughter. “No, I meant how did you find him—as in what did you think about him? Dodgy?”

  “No. I quite liked him.” She laughed.

  “What’s funny? C’mon now. Give us a laugh too.”

  “Nothing. Just.”

  “Go on.”

  “Even my mother found him attractive. She was shamelessly flirting.” In her little cowgirl outfit. Ava didn’t mention that part. Oh, how her mother embarrassed her at times. Not that Ava was a saint. She had all but sealed her mother out of the London deal. It wasn’t very kind of her. She’d have to have her mother for a visit soon. She just wanted to do this alone. Aunt Beverly was her family. Her last connection to her dad.

  “Ah. Good-looking, was he?”

  Ava raised her eyebrow. “Not in a traditional sense.”

  “A real uggo then?”

  “No. If by that you mean . . . ugly.”

  “Ugly, yes. A real uggo.”

  “He wasn’t. He was good-looking if you must know.”

  “But you said he wasn’t. Not in the traditional sense.”

  “He had kind of a goofy air about him. But he had nice blue eyes. Like yours.” Oh shit. The driver was smiling at her now. He thought she was hitting on him. “And I think he’s tall,” Ava added, wanting to distract the driver from the compliment.

  “You think?”

  “He was sitting down.”

  “So it was his personality that got you, was it?”

  “He was friends with my aunt. They went skydiving together.”

  “He’s an adventurer. A bloke you could really fall in love with, I suppose.” He suddenly sounded twenty times more chipper.

  Maybe the driver was gay. How could she tell? All British men seemed a little bit gay. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “You wouldn’t know about what? Falling in love?”

  “Do you always get so personal with your passengers?”

  “You’re the first. So go on, answer the question. A pretty girl like you. Is there a special lad?”

  Was he hitting on her? Did it matter? That was the beauty of taxi drivers, a built-in time limit; you could say anything you wanted to them because they eventually dropped you off. “There was. But he was married.”

  “That sounds complicated.”

  “I didn’t know he was married.”

  “I’m sorry. Must have come as quite a shock.”

  “Shock is my middle name.” Ava forced herself to look out the window. Maybe that’s what was wrong with her. She was like an electric fence, ready to spark at any second. The cars looked boxier here. Like cute little milk trucks in the rain. She’d seen enough. She went back to looking at her hands. Her sketch pad was in her purse if things got too bad.

  “Love is one of those things,” the driver said.

  “One of what things?”

  “It’s just hard. Even when it’s going swimmingly.”

  “Let me guess. Your ex?”

  “You’ve caught me.”

  “Complicated?”

  “It is.” He sighed. And waited.

  “How so?” If he was going to talk the entire time, at least he could tell her the good stuff.

  “Do you think you’re supposed to know, I mean, really know when you’re in love? Without a doubt?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Oh. Right then. That’s me sorted.” He gave a fake laugh.

  “So she wasn’t sure she was in love with you and that’s why she broke it off?”

  “You hit the nail on the head. ‘I don’t think we’re really in love, do you?’ ” He shook his head, then met Ava’s eyes in the mirror.

  “I don’t know,” Ava said. Why was he putting her on the spot? “How would I know?”

  “No, sorry. That’s what she said.”

  “What?”

  “ ‘I don’t think we’re really in love, do you?’ That’s what my girlfriend said to me.”

  “Oh.” Duh. Chatting. Not really her wheelhouse.

  “You see—it was a test, and I failed.”

  “What was your answer?”

  “I said, ‘You’re not expecting the earth to move, are you, because that’s a fairy tale. We’re attracted to each other. We get on. What more do you want?’” The driver finished his speech and waited for Ava to respond.

  Apparently she wasn’t the only one out of touch. “Ouch.”

  “Bodged it, did I? Even if I was being honest?”

  “When you’re in love, the earth should move a little. At least that’s what I believe.” It was what she believed. Which meant she had never been in love either.

  “Perfection,” the driver said, almost to himself.

  “No, God, no. Love is so far from perfect. It’s hard. Sometimes it’s searing pain. It’s beautifully imperfect. But it just is. You never have to question it, because it’s like air. You know that it’s always there and you just breathe. I think love is about two very imperfect people falling in love with each other’s flaws.” Their eyes met again in the rearview mirror. There was kindness in his, that was part of it, but that wasn’t all. He was looking at her as if he found her attractive; dare she say, he was looking at her as if he desired her.

  “That was beautifully said, madame.”

  “Thank you.”

  He fell silent. Rain pelted against the rooftop and Ava found the vibration of the road soothing. Was he thinking about what she said? Would he go home and tell his ex that he thought she was beautifully imperfect? Maybe she should have kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want to bear the weight of anyone else’s burden. Her own was heavy enough. They were getting off the M4, turning into London. Even the names on the signs were startling. Chelsea, Battersea, Kingston. Buildings lined up on both sides of the street, clean and regal. Red double-decker buses, and fancy yellow license plates with black letters. London. She was in London. Oh, God.

  She lay back down and placed the garbage bag over her head again. Much, much better. God, having a conversation was exhausting. She dozed off to an orchestra of sounds. Car horns, the thump and swish of the tires, the whistle of the wind. She didn’t wake up until the car slowed down. They were pulling over. They had arrived. She could hear voices, and horns, and trucks backing up. London smelled like rain and baking bread.

  But the pleasant feeling wore off quick as her brain began prepping her body for a five-alarm fire. Danger. Outside. Danger. Ava’s heart immediately kicked into high gear. “It’s a wonderful building,” the driver said, looking up at it. “In the heart of it
all.”

  “Goodie,” Ava said. She was going to have to sit up. She was going to have to look at the building. She was going to have to ring the bell to the top floor and wait for Jasper Keyes to come down. He was supposed to meet her here. How long would it take him? How long would she be standing on the stoop? What would the driver think if she asked him to stand with her? He was probably busy. As soon as she paid him he would flee.

  “I can help you out. I can get your luggage.”

  “Yes, thank you.” She sat up, eyes closed, and waited.

  He came around and opened the door. He was holding a large, black umbrella. The rain had stopped. But he was holding it open, waiting for her to seek refuge underneath. It was almost as if he understood. And it was still so gray that it wouldn’t look odd at all. Her suitcases were perched on the sidewalk. She opened her wallet.

  “The fare has been paid.”

  “What?”

  “Your fare has already been taken care of.”

  “By who?” Was it “whom”? Brits probably cared about things like that.

  “Perhaps it was the nontraditionally good-looking barrister.”

  “A tip then.”

  “Already paid.”

  Ava scooted over and the driver held his hand out. Ava felt a ripple of shock run through her as she took it and he helped her up. It so startled her, she snatched her hand away. “Thank you,” she said quickly to make up for it.

  “My pleasure.”

  Ava was actually touching the pavement. Now she would have to walk toward the building. One step at a time. She looked up at the black umbrella. Thank God he hadn’t removed it yet even though it wasn’t raining. He was astute, this driver. Maybe in his profession you learned to read people, just like a sketch artist. From behind them a car door slammed and suddenly a man was shuffling toward them. He approached Ava’s driver.

  “You’re bloody late.” The man snatched the hat right off her driver’s head. What was going on? Were they sharing the taxi, switching shifts?

  “Sorry,” her driver said. “Traffic.”

  “Traffic me arse. This was the last time it was.” The man put the hat on his own head and, sure enough, got into her driver’s car and screeched away.

  “Your taxi,” Ava said. “Someone just stole your taxi.”