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“Yes, and I need to go home and sort myself out first.”
“Okay, I’ll send my driver to come get you at ten, how’s that sound?”
“Oh, god. Your driver?”
“Yes, why? Is that a problem?”
“No, I… fine.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.” His fucking driver?!
“Take care until then, Mirabelle. Okay?”
“I will.”
Almost three hours later, his driver arrives on the street and I fly down the stairs, aware that my neighbours are going to start noticing the amount of luxury cars I keep getting picked up by. Even working for Albie, the most luxurious thing I was ever picked up by was a Mercedes van with blacked-out windows. And that could’ve easily been mistaken as an airport taxi.
As soon as the driver sees me, he’s out of the Rolls Royce Phantom and has the door open for me, ready and waiting. “Morning, Miss Perez,” he says, doffing his cap.
Jesus, if Kallie could see me now. In an ivory Phantom where the doors open the wrong way and the interior is so bright white, you start to panic about whether you wiped your arse properly that morning. The neighbours are going to start wondering if I’m dating a gangster, or if I suddenly got TikTok famous.
Not sure I’ve dressed appropriately, the driver pulls away and says, “Mr Linklater will meet you there. Would you like some privacy?”
“Not at all, I’m used to chatting up the driver.”
He’s a big guy, probably ex-marine or something. Hair cut severely short, face shaved extra smooth, uniform with not one button out of place.
“Yes, it’s not the first time I’ve heard your name, Miss Perez.”
“Drivers talk to one another, then?” I giggle lightly.
“Yes, all of Mr Hart’s drivers couldn’t recommend you enough. I nearly left Mr Linklater just to find out why. And I’ve no reason whatsoever to leave him,” he says, laughing.
“Ah, I’m the one who knows all the good ways to get in and out of places… because I know all the bouncers everywhere. Hence giving all of his drivers an easier life.”
He laughs heartily, then clears his throat. “Actually, I think it had rather more to do with the fact you always made sure the drivers ate and drank well.”
“I’ve always been mindful of helping the common man. We’ve all got to stick together.”
“Ooh, well, you’re going to have fun getting to know Mr Linklater, then.”
“He’s a good boss to work for?”
“The absolute best. Exacting, a bit of a tyrant on the surface, but once you get to know him… total teddy bear.”
“And now I’m picturing you two cuddling. I might need that privacy screen up now, Mr…?”
“Call me George,” he says.
“Nice to meet you, George.”
The drive over to Chelsea is pretty smooth and before long, I’ve got a few things out of him about Aidan and also a lot about himself, too. George lives in Gravesend, has two sons who are both training to be PT’s, a wife who works in social care, and a dog called Arnie.
Apparently, Aidan swims every day in the basement of his apartment building, sometimes plays squash after work and always runs the Park Run on Saturdays. George says he himself used to be an active man in the Navy (knew it), but that Mr Linklater is a bit of a fitness fanatic. I wonder if that’s why Aidan has yet to find Mrs Right. Being rich, good-looking and a fitness fanatic are one thing, but then… he sends out George in a Phantom to pick up his dates. Believe me, I stood backstage with the entire Rolling Stones gang once and not once did I ever look at any of them and think, “Phwoar, how sexy are they? And I bet they send a chauffeur-driven Phantom to pick up their coffee dates.” Yet there they all were, with their women fawning over them.
When we arrive on the King’s Road, even the label-obsessed, Botox zombies look twice at this vehicle. They must all know someone richer than rich owns this, to be showing it off so brazenly in Chelsea, a chauffeur at the wheel.
