Sassy London cab driver Kathryn Cheet uses a system of color-coded cell phones to juggle five different lovers, until she picks up Craig Summer, a difficult but charming passenger who seems determined to create chaos in Kathryn's life.
PART I
a
Star-Shaped Life
1 Night is my favorite time of day. I come alive and I hit the roads. It's 4:34 a.m. and I'm passing Westminster and skirting alongside the river with the window all the way down, letting that cool air wash over my face, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel in time to the rhythm in my head. Don't know what the song is-maybe it's just my heart. There are two guys in the back of the cab and one of them keeps catching my eye in the mirror, all twinkly. It's bugging me. Next time I'm going to snarl at him. The other man has fallen asleep. His bald head's lolling back and his mouth is gaping open-reminds me of golf courses; hole in one. He's dribbling down his neck. So attractive.
"Do you always drive at night?" It's Twinkle. Well, it would hardly be his mate, would it?
"Yep."
"Isn't it dangerous? I mean-for a girl, all on your own? Do you get much trouble?"
He's twinkling again. I'm not looking in my mirror-don't want to encourage him with unnecessary eye contact-but I can tell by his voice. His voice is sort of smiley.
"Nothing I can't handle." This shuts him up. Perhaps he's got the message. He leans back against the seat.
For a moment it's just me and the traffic lights, but then he's off again:
"Can't be good for the social life."
What does he think I am, a bloody hairdresser? Maybe he'd like me to ask him where he's going on holiday this year. Perhaps that would make him happy.
"So are you married or what?" he tries.
"Or what."
"I was married." He's leaning forward again. He's up close to the glass and Perspex screen that separates us, and there's a change of mood. He's about to turn my cab into a confessional. It happens frequently. One of the seldom recognized hazards of being a woman cabby. "Big nose, looked a bit like a horse-but in a nice way. Good bones."
I grunt something inaudible out of politeness. The Pisshead is snoring loudly and I'm a little concerned that he might choke on his own tongue.
"She left me three years ago. Christmas. We were due to fly off to Hawaii together on Christmas Eve but when I got back from work she'd gone . . ." There's no stopping him now. He's in full flow. "She'd found out about my girlfriend."
Say ten Hail Marys and twenty Our Fathers. "So did you take the girlfriend to Hawaii instead?"
"She left me too. She'd found out about my wife."
"Serves you right." Amateur . . .
"I gave the tickets to the couple next door. They had a great time."
We've been rumbling down the King's Road and now we're turning left down Lots Road past all those auction houses and glamorized junk shops.
"Right down to the end, mate?"
"Yes, please. There's a bit of private road. I'll show you where you can pull in."
I fail to understand why anyone with enough cash to live in Chelsea Harbour would choose to do so. It's half empty even at the best of times. I think you'd need to be a waterfront obsessive to like this soulless place-with your own speedboat and a plan to retire to Florida some day.
Twinkle directs me into a side street only yards from the harbor where a variety of four-wheelers, BMWs and Lotuses are parked. I pull up and show him the meter: £15.40. He looks as though he might be about to start having a go at me for taking a slow route (which I didn't) but then seems to change his mind. I hear him mutter, "Oh, whatever." He speaks into Pisshead's ear and shakes him softly.
"Henry. Henry, it's wakey-wakey time."
My father's name. Henry doesn't respond.
Twinkle takes a twenty from his wallet and tries to push it into Henry's lifeless hand. "Henry," he tries again, a little louder into the ear. "Look, mate, here's twenty. I'm getting out here."
"No way." I'm pressing my foot down on the brake to put the central lock on just as Twinkle tries his door. "He's not staying in my cab. You're taking him with you."
"Oh, come on, love." His face wears a beseeching look. He clearly doesn't want Henry messing up his nice riverside apartment. "He lives in Crystal Palace. Look, what if I pay you thirty quid up front? Will that do it? He won't be any trouble."
I'm not having any of this. "He gets out here. I like my fares conscious."
He tries a feeble laugh, all out of twinkles now. "He's not unconscious. He's just asleep."
"So wake him up, then."
"Henry!" Twinkle shakes him harder this time, virtually bellows in the poor sod's ear. "Henry, you bloody old soak!"
Finally Henry's head jerks upright and his mouth clanks shut like a drawbridge. His eyelids flicker open, revealing bloodshot whites and dilated pupils. His skin is deathly gray. I see it happen a fraction of a second before the event actually takes place, but sadly not fast enough to do anything about it. His chin suddenly juts forward out of the folds of neck in which it nestled, the drawbridge clatters down again, and with a sound that hovers between a belch and a moan, a torrent of the foulest imaginable pink vomit comes gushing forth, slooshing onto the floor and the seating, hitting the glass and Perspex screen (a screen for which I am once again heartily grateful) and splattering over the shoulder, arm and leg of Henry's former friend, Twinkle, who yells, "Jesus fucking Christ!"
This is really all I need.
Henry gives a relieved sigh and settles back to sleep.
Golden rule number one-always stay put; don't get out of your cab. But the smell is asphyxiating and we're out fast, Twinkle and me. His face registers surprise when he sees how tall I am-half a head above him. He's rubbing his face and cursing under his breath. His suit is pebble-dashed with puke.
"Well?" I say.
"Look, I'm sorry." He reaches into his jacket pocket for his wallet. "I had no idea he was that far gone. He's had a rough time. His wife has just left him for another man-she went round with a van today and cleared out the house. She took everything worth taking . . . Look, how much do you want?"
My anger is subsiding. It's all too pathetic for words. "Another twenty'll do it. And remove the poor sap from my cab."
He hands me the notes. I stand and watch, hands on hips, as he takes a deep breath and opens the passenger door. Henry lolls sideways almost knocking him over. Henry is a big man and Twinkle looks out of condition. Twinkle puts his hands under Henry's arms and pulls. For a moment Henry doesn't move but then Twinkle gives a great heave-putting all he has into the effort-and Henry sort of slides out. His legs bump down onto the tarmac and the bulk of him is clearly so great that Twinkle's knees buckle and give way and he stumbles and falls backward onto the road. He goes down hard on his back and Henry comes down on top of him, still sleeping peacefully.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
I want to get out of here. Now.
"I need some help," groans Twinkle, trying to wriggle out from under Henry's dead weight. He sees the expression on my face. "Please. Please."
I contemplate stepping over them without another word, getting into my cab and driving off. The Conrad hotel leaves a hose out the back for cabbies in this situation. I'll nip round there, pull my rubber mats out the back and give the whole thing a good slooshing. I'll be off the road for an hour tops, then it's straight back to work.
But Jesus . . . that smell.
Twinkle's on his feet trying to brush the crap off his suit. Henry's still lying on the road.
"What's your name?"
"Kathryn."
"Well, Katrin, I have to get my friend inside, and I can't do it on my own."
I don't want to look at him. "Listen, mate, this is really beyond the call of duty, know what I mean?"
"I'll pay you another twenty quid if you'll give me a hand."
I really don't need this . . . but he looks so desperate . . . "Make it forty and you're on."
"All right, Katrin. Forty it is. Jesus, talk about daylight robbery!"
"The name's Kathryn." I'm leaning into the stinking cab and pulling my leather money bag out from under the seat, strapping it around my waist.
---
I have Henry's right arm over my shoulder and Twinkle's got the left. I'm grabbing onto Henry's right wrist with my left hand. My right arm is around his waist to support him. I don't know if "waist" is actually the right word for it-he doesn't really have one, it's all blubber. He weighs a ton. We're dragging him up the sloping path to this fancy apartment block. His Italian leather shoes are scraping along the concrete. His head is hanging forward. I'm praying he's not going to puke again. We removed his jacket (my idea) as it's covered in vomit, but even with the jacket gone he still reeks to high heaven. Twinkle is puffing and blowing and sweating. He's well out of shape.
We get to the top of the path and there are big glass double doors.
"The security guard'll come and lend us a hand," says Twinkle, but this proves optimistic. There's no sign of any security guard in the white marble foyer. He probably took one look at us staggering up the path and hid. I don't blame him. We hang around for a minute or two-or rather Henry hangs, we just stand there bearing our load. When there's still no sign of this elusive security guard I decide we should press on. Twinkle's sweating more and more and I'm worried he's going to drop his side of Henry if we have to wait about much longer.
Balancing on my left foot, I kick at one of the doors with my right so it swings open. Then I barge sideways with my right shoulder to keep the door propped open so we can get through. Should have warned Twinkle I was going to do that-he almost falls over.
"You've got quite a set of muscles on you, Katerina." Twinkle sounds impressed.
"Yeah, well, I work out. You should try it." He should try it. He's a pathetic specimen. And as for Henry, well . . . "Where now?" I ask as we pass the front desk. Henry's shoes are leaving a greasy trail over the white alabaster floor. It's like we're carrying an enormous gray slug between us. Smells like it too.
"Seventh floor."
"You've got to be kidding!"
"Don't worry-there's a lift," says Twinkle, and nods at a steel lift door th...
