Page 3 of Fit for Love
I thought back to the woman I’d hooked up with in Estonia, before she’d dumped me for a hunky Aussie surfer. Amalyia and I had ‘dated’ all the time I’d been there. All three weeks of it. Intense wasn’t the word. However, I missed that closeness with someone, sharing my thoughts and ideas and dreams.
The initial novelty of driving little old ladies to the hairdressers or the supermarket was beginning to wear off. Sure, I didn’t mind the tips, though the job wasn’t exactly doing much for my love life.
I checked my phone to see what was next on the WW Cabs schedule. It appeared that I had a couple of free hours before the end of my shift. Switching over to my email, I saw a cancellation for that evening from one of my personal-training clients. I rolled my eyes. That was twenty quid I wouldn’t see.
Mal’s name flashed up on the screen.
“Mate, what can I do for you? I’ve got a free evening now if you fancy grabbing a beer?”
“No you haven’t, I’ve got a job for you. Can you get over to Westbourne station at six?”
Given the cancellation, I supposed I could. “Sure, who needs picking up?”
Mal went quiet and I heard him talking to someone in the background, probably Piper. “It’s a bit delicate, Ethan. You got a moment to chat?”
I frowned, intrigued. “Sure, go ahead.”
Even in her ridiculous disguise, I recognised Cora Appleby the moment she stepped off the train—First Class, natch. The fake name she’d told Mal didn’t fool me either. Clara Pomme.
I’d only met her a couple of times before when she and Mal had been together. With her holier-than-thou attitude and rules toward her diet and lifestyle, it didn’t come as a complete shocker to me when her and Mal’s relationship failed. He hadn’t told me the reason for her sudden arrival in Westbourne Water, just that she was going to stay at the house for a while.
Not one of the flood of people that got off the train took any notice of the woman with the black bob and likely clear-glass, tortoiseshell frames, save for a cursory glance at her two huge Louis Vuitton, monogrammed suitcases. Westbourne and the nearby towns, with their solid stream of second homeowners and thriving London holidaymakers, were used to that level of extravagance.
Cora’s gaze scanned the assembled band of taxi drivers, before falling on me. As usual, I was easily the youngest and most attractive of the bunch, not trying to be modest or anything. I waggled the card that bore her fake name and quirked a smile in her direction.
“Ms Pomme?” I tried to stifle a laugh as I said her moniker aloud. “Your taxi awaits, with Mr Colten’s compliments.”
The other taxi drivers mumbled and complained under their breath, seeing a huge fare opportunity slip through their grasp. It was common knowledge that a guest of Mal’s would likely have a penny or two.
“Thank you.” She wheeled her cases towards me and I took one from her, walking purposefully in the direction of the unmarked vehicle.
I couldn’t help but notice that she kept glancing nervously around, as if she expected someone to recognise her.
“Not being funny, Cora, I’m pretty sure you’re safe from recognition here.” I hoisted her cases into the boot, grimacing slightly at the weight of them. How long was she staying for?
Her face twisted in horror as I addressed her by her real name. She scuttled to my side, her gaze darting around at the other people milling around the car park. No one batted an eyelid.
“Who told you? I explicitly told Mal not to tell anybody I was coming,” she snapped. “And now he’s blabbed to some random taxi driver. I bet you can’t wait to share this juicy little titbit with your friends.”
I almost laughed out loud. If I could be bothered to be offended, I would have taken her comment to heart. But I wasn’t. Clearly Mal hadn’t told her who would be picking her up, nor did she recognise me from the few times we had been in the same room.
“You really should get those glasses checked.”
“I beg your pardon?” Her nose wrinkled as she frowned at me.
“Don’t recognise me, do you?”
The wrinkles deepened. “Why would I? I don’t make a habit of getting taxis around here.”
There was a part of me that wanted to tell her exactly who I was, but I shook my head. Her shitty attitude made me think otherwise. How would she react when she found out we would be living together?
“We should get going. I don’t want to get struck in traffic.” I opened the back door of the car. Cora got in and fastened her seat belt, while I closed the door with a heavy thunk, barely looking at her. Traffic at this time of day would be no more than getting caught up in the school run or maybe getting stuck behind a tractor. She wasn’t to know that.
As soon as I got into the driver’s seat, I switched on the radio and turned up the volume to eliminate any chance of further conversation.
Not that Cora Appleby wanted to talk to me anyway.
On the drive back to Bayview House, I observed her in the rearview mirror. Her head was bent over her phone, fingers flying across the keys as she tapped out messages. I assumed she was telling her thousands of followers about the arsey taxi driver she’d just come across in some sleepy South West backwater town. Just when I was going to make a flippant comment, I noticed her swipe away a tear from beneath her glasses. I didn’t know her reasons for being here, but whatever it was, I didn’t like seeing her upset. I wasn’t that much of a cold-hearted bastard.
