Playing Her Cards Right. Rosa Temple
brakes and I was flung forward into the back of the seat in front of me and thrown back again so that my neck whipped half off my neck with a crack. I nodded several times, involuntarily, before my head rocked back into place. I rubbed the back of my neck, picking my man bag up off the floor.
‘Boot,’ she declared and leapt out.
This time she opened the door for me to get out. I tried to catch her eye as I tentatively stepped onto the forecourt outside my hotel, hoping I could at least give her a dirty look. As I tried to straighten my coat and adjust my bag over my shoulder I noticed she was smiling as she got out my suitcase. Well her teeth were showing – she could have been in pain.
‘Enjoy your hotel,’ she said. She held up my suitcase. I took it and she dropped the weight of it into my hand so that I toppled forward.
‘Er,’ I stuttered. ‘You’ll be here at nine tomorrow morning?’ I had a breakfast meeting with my first designer.
‘For sure,’ she said.
In my heart of hearts I wished she’d said: There’s been a big mistake and I should have picked up the other Magenta Bright. Your proper driver will be here in the morning. But no, this Lewis Hamilton wannabe would be there the next day.
I limped to the reception and checked in. I called Riley, hoping she’d still be at the office. Maybe she could arrange a new driver in time.
‘Oh, hey, Riley,’ I said.
‘Magenta, hi, how’s your hotel?’
‘All good but I was wondering if you could sort a new driver for me.’
‘Is he no good?’
‘She. She seems like a lovely person but she must have broken every speed limit from the airport to the hotel. I’m seriously frightened for my life. Could you sort it out?’
‘Of course I will. Leave it to me.’
My fingers were crossed; in fact everything was crossed when I went to bed that night, hoping Riley could be relied on to put this right. I didn’t sleep a wink.
The Bag
I showered in tepid water to try to revive myself for the impending meeting with my first women’s handbag designer. I hoped Riley had come good on the chauffeur swap and had found me someone less Sandra Bullock in Speed and a bit more Driving Miss Daisy. But my heart sank as I left the hotel and spotted the same driver from yesterday. Her eyes were bright and she looked eager. I took a deep breath.
‘Good morning,’ I said in a shaky voice. ‘I mean bonjour.’
She showed her teeth and reached for the passenger door. ‘Bonjour. Allons-y?’
‘Um, yes. Let’s get going.’ I hadn’t climbed in yet. ‘I didn’t get your name yesterday,’ I said to her, offering my hand. She looked surprised but gave my hand a tightly gripped shake.
‘Nadia,’ she said.
‘I wonder, Nadia, if you could drive a little slower this morning. I’m nice and early and I don’t think we’re too far from my meeting.’
‘Slower?’ Nadia’s brow was twisted into several deep lines. I could tell this didn’t compute.
‘Yes, don’t drive too fast. I’m a bit of a nervous passenger so go slower.’ I made a gesture with my hands, moving my palms slowly up and down towards the ground.
‘Drive too fast?’ she said. ‘I will.’
‘No, I mean don’t drive fast.’ I shook my head side to side. ‘No fast. Slow.’ I hated it when Brits spoke like Tarzan to foreigners but my life was at risk and I wanted to see my family again.
‘So,’ said Nadia, ‘my instruction from the boss was drive very fast; the client like the speed to be quickly, non?’
‘Non!’ I shook my head. And then the penny dropped. Riley. She told me she spoke fluent French. What on earth had she told the chauffeur company I needed from a driver when my instructions were I needed to be timely? I dreaded to think.
I grasped at what little French I could muster to try to make Nadia understand that I didn’t need to be anywhere at breakneck speed and that being on time was good enough.
‘Non, rapidement, aujourd’hui. Ce matin, conduire lentement, s’il vous plait.’ That small amount of French really hurt my head. At sixteen, I’d spent most of my French conversation classes in the toilet smoking Gauloises. Now my biggest regret.
Nadia lifted her head in a slow nod, clenching her lips together, and I hoped she understood that I wanted her to slow down. To be on the safe side, when I got into the car I buckled up tight.
Down the curved drive in front of the hotel Nadia pushed as gently onto the accelerator as I imagined she knew how. She signalled – I hadn’t noticed her use any other controls in the car except gas and brakes before then – and we pulled out onto the fairly busy road. At a speed at which I was able to lip-read full conversations by passing pedestrians, Nadia poodled along the road for approximately five minutes and gently stopped at a restaurant bar just metres from the hotel.
‘Here is your meeting,’ she said in a drawn-out voice.
I looked out, quizzically. According to Google Earth, my breakfast meeting should have been further away. I checked the address on the schedule on my iPad. Nadia was quite right, Bar Bonne Amie. I could just as well have walked. Having completely lost faith in French chauffeurs and my ability to read Google maps, I gathered my man bag and got out.
‘Thank you,’ I said to Nadia. I leaned over and peered into the passenger side window. Nadia lowered it. ‘As my next appointment isn’t until this afternoon, I’ll meet you back at the hotel at three o’clock.’
‘Certainly,’ she said. Then she drove off like a normal person, observing the speed limit and making appropriate signals. I shook my head.
After adjusting the front of my coat I pushed open the door to Bar Bonne Amie and went in.
My appointment that morning was with Clara Marchand, a young designer of leather accessories whose workspace was not too far from the café bar but who obviously wanted to charm me with the food and win me over. She chose the right place. The aromas coming from the kitchen were making my mouth water. So much so I was looking at the counter of pastries and chocolates and, at first, didn’t notice Clara waving to me from the far corner.
‘Magenta?’ she called and I peeled my gaze away from the display counter.
‘Oh, hello! Yes. You must be Clara Marchand.’
Clara was a short woman in large dungarees over a red sweater. Her fair hair was mostly hidden by a bandanna, tied in a triangle on her head and knotted at the front. We shook hands and she walked me to a window seat in the corner. On top of the small round table was a large, leather-bound portfolio. An enormous cardboard box was tucked underneath.
‘If you don’t mind,’ said Clara, ‘I’ve ordered coffee, hot chocolate, and a platter of croissant and bread with butter and preserves. I didn’t know which you would prefer.’ She nodded to the waitress at the counter.
‘I really don’t mind that at all.’
As we settled in and exchanged pleasantries about the flight and the weather the waitress appeared with two carafes: one of coffee and one of hot chocolate. Which to choose? Very closely behind the drinks came the platter. I was in continental breakfast heaven for the next hour or so. Clara didn’t hold back. She grabbed the pain au raisin I had my eye on. With crumbs down our clothes and the chocolate moustache Clara had acquired after her first sip of the creamy drink, we began the meeting.
Clara opened out her portfolio and I was stunned into silence. These