Page 6 of Always the Bridesmaid

I started out my swanky pants flight with a complimentary glass of champagne and soon found myself four glasses in, having eaten far too much overly salted and overly sweet (deliciously so) food, and watched three good movies in place of sleep.

So, whilst I might have enjoyed re-watching Top Gun: Maverick and Where the Crawdads Sing, and being glued to Elvis from my swish recliner seat, I do wish I had closed my eyes instead.

If there is one thing I am certain of receiving this coming week, it is late night, boozy renditions of Elvis’s hit songs – obligatory amongst the group when we get together – most likely acapella from Jake. His rendition of ‘Suspicious Minds’ is a close second to the real thing, not least because it’s hilarious. In fact, I am certain too that his version of ‘Suspicious Minds’ was what finally clinched the deal between him and Jess.

I yawn as I exit arrivals and look for an old Ford Fiesta in bottle green. Whilst I was adamant on the phone to Drew last night that I am more than capable of getting from Heathrow into London and then out to Surrey Hills myself, I can’t deny how grateful I am to have a lift instead.

A man with slightly crazy, strawberry-blond hair and wearing an un-fancy jogging suit makes strides toward me from his Fiesta, which is blinking its hazard lights and parked on a wonky angle to the sidewalk.

I move in for a hug and air kisses (after all, I am in Europe).

But my friendly greeting is met with a less than gentlemanly ‘Hi’ grunted from the Englishman picking me up.

‘You’ll have to hurry,’ he says, almost panicky. ‘I’m parked illegally. This place is only for taxis and I’m not in the market for a fine.’

At least he took my bag, I think, as I drop my arms to my sides and follow him to the car.

‘I’m Charlie,’ the guy says eventually. He glances at me, then quickly gets back to focusing on the road ahead as he moves off in front of the arrivals traffic, receiving tooting horns from numerous cab drivers.

He wears the look of a mole as he grips the steering wheel with two hands and leans forward over it, approaching what I know from reading British novels to be a roundabout. Afraid for my life, I close my eyes as Charlie pulls out in front of a car coming from his right, until I remember that Brits drive on the opposite side of the road to Americans and he is turning left, too, in the same direction of travel as the other car.

‘Sorry,’ Charlie says. ‘I’m not one for talking and driving, especially at a roundabout. You might not appreciate me telling you this, but I don’t drive very often. There’s no need when you live in the city.’

‘You know, I couldn’t tell,’ I say with sarcasm.

In truth, I don’t often drive because there’s no need in Manhattan either, and if you do drive, parking in the city is through-the-roof expensive. Yet, I drive enough to know that Charlie is an appalling driver.

‘I’ll hopefully get you there in one piece,’ he says.

It’s impossible to tell whether he is trying to be funny or whether I should really fear for my life.

It’s very unlike me to find it difficult to make conversation or to struggle to get a read on someone’s personality, but that is the case today. Perhaps tiredness is to blame, but for once I can’t think of a single topic to bring up.

Thankfully, Charlie seems adept in making small talk, in that way actual cab drivers can.

‘Good flight?’ he asks.

‘It was smooth and I watched some good movies.’

That could’ve led to a discussion about which movies, I think, but once again, a deafening silence descends in the car.

If my peripheral vision isn’t playing tricks on me, I’m fairly sure Charlie makes a gun with his fingers and thumb and fires it at his temple.

This may be the longest drive of both our lives, especially at the snail’s pace Charlie is driving.

I watch four minutes tick by on the old-style dashboard clock before Charlie says, ‘I’m pleased to see you can get a good real fake in Manhattan.’

I have no idea what he’s referring to and Charlie must realize because he feels the need to explain.

‘Your luggage. Louis Vuitton, is it?’ And he ends the insult with a wink.

I feel my lower jaw hang loose as I wonder whether this guy is entirely, or just partly, socially inept. Is he trying to be funny, maybe?

But then he adds, ‘Is it from Turkey or China?’ His face is deadpan.

Irritability and lack of sleep mean I am incapable of exercising the level of empathy I usually pride myself on having for others. Unable to help myself snapping my next words, I tell him, ‘My luggage came directly from Saks Fifth Avenue, thanks.’

I turn away from him, looking out of the passenger window as we drive onto a highway, which I remember has another name in England but what that is has escaped me. As we head down a ramp to merge into multiple lanes of fast-flowing traffic, I cast a glance over my right shoulder and see an oncoming truck with Eddie Stobart written on the front. Charlie apparently sees nothing coming and swings his wheel right.

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