‘Livy.’ Sylvie’s voice is barely heard over the rush of traffic and blurting of horns. She steps away from the roadside. ‘I think he may have been honking at you.’
I’m still partially bent as my eyes trail from Sylvie back to the car, where he’s sitting back, relaxed, with one hand draped casually on the steering wheel. ‘Get in,’ he orders shortly.
I know I’m getting in this car, so I don’t know why I look to Sylvie for guidance. She shakes her head. ‘Livy, I wouldn’t. You don’t know him.’
I return to vertical and my mouth opens to speak, but no words form. She’s right and I’m torn, my eyes swinging from the car to my new friend. I’m not careless or stupid – haven’t been for a long time – although every thought running through my mind right now is flooring that claim. I don’t know how long I stand there deliberating, but I’m distracted when the driver’s door of the Mercedes swings open and he strides around the car, clasping my elbow and opening the passenger door.
‘Hey!’ Sylvie tries to reclaim me. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
I’m pushed into the seat before he turns towards a stunned Sylvie. ‘I’m just going to talk to her.’ He takes a pen and paper from his inside pocket and scribbles something down before handing it to Sylvie. ‘That’s me. Ring the number.’
‘What?’ Sylvie snatches the paper from his hand and runs her eyes over it.
‘Ring the number.’
Landing him with a reproachful glare, she drags her phone from her bag and dials. A mobile starts screeching, and he pulls an iPhone from his inside pocket before handing it to me.
‘She has my phone. Ring it and she’ll answer.’
‘I could ring hers,’ Sylvie points out, ending the call. ‘What the hell does that prove? You could take it off her the second you drive away.’
‘Then I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.’ He shuts the door and strides around the car, leaving Sylvie on the pavement, her mouth agape.
I should jump out, but I don’t. I should protest and curse at him, but I don’t. Instead, I look to my friend on the pavement and hold up the iPhone that Miller’s just handed me. She’s right; this proves nothing, but it doesn’t deter me from doing something incredibly stupid – I’m not frightened of him, though. He’s no danger to me, except, maybe, to my heart.
More car horns start screeching around us as he slides into the car before pulling hastily away from the kerb without a word. I don’t feel nervous. I’ve practically been abducted on a busy London street and my stomach isn’t even turning in panic. It is, however, fluttering with something else. I discreetly look across to him, noting his dark suit and stunning profile. I’ve never seen anything like him. It’s silent in the enclosed space surrounding us, but something is speaking and it’s neither Miller nor I. It’s desire. And it’s telling me that I’m about to experience something life-altering. I want to know where he’s taking me, I want to know what he wants to talk about, but my desire for this knowledge doesn’t prompt me to ask, and he doesn’t seem like he’s going to offer the information up right now, so I relax back into the soft leather of my seat and remain quiet. Then the stereo kicks in and I’m suddenly listening in wonder to Green Day’s ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’, a track I would never have paired with this mysterious man.
We’re in the car for a long half-hour, stopping and starting with the rush-hour traffic, until he pulls into an underground car park. He seems to be thinking hard as he shuts off the engine and taps his hand on the wheel a few times before letting himself out and making his way around to me. Opening the door, he finds my eyes, and I can see reassurance in them as he holds his hand out to me. ‘Give me your hand.’
My response is automatic, my hand lifting to take his as I remove myself from the car while savouring that familiar feeling of internal lightning bolts attacking me. It’s more incredible each time I experience it.
‘There it is again,’ he murmurs, repositioning his hand to get a better grip on me. He feels it, too. ‘Give me your bag.’
I hand him my bag immediately, involuntarily, not even thinking about it. I’m on autopilot.
‘Do you have my phone?’ he asks, lightly kicking the door of his car shut and pulling me towards a stairwell.
‘Yes.’ I hold it up.
‘Ring your friend and tell her you’re at my place.’ He pushes through the door. ‘And call anyone else who might be worried about you.’
I can do nothing more than follow him as he takes the stairs slowly, still clasping my hand, leaving me to make the calls he’s demanded. ‘I should use my phone,’ I say, fiddling with his iPhone. My clued-up nan will soon clock the strange number on the caller display and start asking questions – questions I don’t want to answer or even know how to.