by Zoe May
‘Hopefully! Although, my car’s a bit of a mess already, what’s another scratch!?’ I gesture expansively over the vehicle and it’s not like I’m being modest. My car is covered in rust. There’s a six-inch dent at the back from when I reversed into a bollard once. The windscreen is mottled with splodges of bird poo and I really need to go to the car wash.
Anders laughs awkwardly.
‘But how are you? Are you okay?’ He changes the subject, narrowing his eyes at me.
‘Yeah! I’m fine!’ I insist, although he’s eyeing me in an odd penetrating way that’s making me feel self-conscious.
‘Are you sure? Your pupils look a bit dilated.’
‘Really? Oh, that’s strange! Maybe they’re just always like that?’ I suggest, reminding myself to pay better attention to my pupil size in future.
‘Hmmm…I’m not sure. Maybe you should sit down for a bit. You don’t want to drive if you’re concussed. It could be really dangerous.’
I laugh. ‘I’m not concussed! It was only a tap.’
‘But don’t you think you should be on the safe side? You don’t want to crash again!’ he comments, raising an eyebrow in that ever so slightly playful way that reminds me of how he flirted with me in the lift when we first met.
I can’t help wishing he’d properly flirt with me like that again, even in the midst of these ridiculous circumstances – rain drenching us, cars honking and our bonnets slammed up against each other. If only we could slam together like that, I find myself thinking. Stop! I’m in the midst of a car crash. I should thank my lucky stars that it wasn’t more serious and here I am, having sexual fantasies about the poor guy whose car I’ve gone and driven into. If there’s one thing this crash should have taught me to stop me doing, it’s letting my mind wander.
‘You seem a little . . . ’ Anders searches for the right word ‘ . . . shaken.’
‘I guess,’ I sigh. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am shaken. Shaken by what I saw at the centre, shaken by the crash. Heck, shaken by him!
‘Look, I know we don’t know each other very well, but I’m a normal guy, I promise,’ he says.
I raise an eyebrow, wondering where he’s going with this.
‘I live around the corner. Why don’t I park your car on a side street and you can come over to my place, have a cup of tea and just take a break before getting back on the road? Even if you don’t need it, it’ll put my mind at ease. I don’t want to send you on your way back into the London traffic right now.’ He looks at me earnestly and I can tell he really is quite worried about my safety. And maybe he’s right, maybe it isn’t a good idea to get straight back on the road after a crash. It may not have caused much damage and I’m pretty sure I’m not concussed, but it was a little unsettling. Plus, I kind of want to see Anders’ place.
A driver honks loudly at us as we stand facing one another, our cars blocking the road. It makes me jump.
‘Yeah, sure. We’d better go.’
‘Do you want me to park your car then?’ Anders asks.
‘Yeah, okay.’
‘There’s a side street I can park it on over there.’ He points towards one of the turnings. ‘Wait in my car and I’ll be back in a minute, okay? And don’t worry about people honking. It’s just London!’ he says with an indulgent eye roll. ‘Everyone always seems to be in a such a hurry here! We’ll be gone in a minute anyway.’
‘Sounds good. But are you sure you’re not shaken? What if you’re concussed too?’
Anders laughs. ‘Honestly, I didn’t feel a thing! That car is built of solid steel, it felt like a leaf was brushing against me!’
‘Ha! Okay, cool. Here you go!’ I hand him my keys, feeling relieved that the charm on my key ring (a gift from Collette) broke off last week. It was a kissing emoji.
‘Thanks.’ He takes my keys and, as he does, our fingers brush against each other. It’s for less than a second, but it still makes my heart rate quicken. I glance away, hoping he can’t see the effect he’s having on me.
Anders pulls his car door open. ‘Hop in!’
I climb into the passenger’s seat. It’s such a big imposing vehicle that there are two steps I have to ascend in order to get in.
‘See you in a minute!’ Anders says. ‘Sit tight.’
‘Will do!’
I pull the door shut as Anders walks over to my car. He smiles at me before getting in. I try to remember if I’ve left anything embarrassing inside, but aside from it being a little grubby, I can’t think of anything too bad. There were a few leaflets Angie gave me about the centre on the passenger seat, which she wanted me to use for background in my article. And maybe there’s an old discarded crisp packet or two but there’s nothing too incriminating. I watch as Anders gets behind the wheel, his tall lean frame folding to fit inside my tiny vehicle. He’s so tall and striking. So handsome and impressive-looking. A real man. It must be a Norwegian thing. Perhaps there’s something in the water over there, because Prince Isaac’s got it too. That tall manly look. I watch as Anders turns on the ignition, the muscles in his strong arm flexing as he does so. The engine starts up and he looks over, giving me a wave and catching me drooling at his bicep. I smile, cringing inside at how closely I was focusing on his muscles, and give a polite wave back. He smiles, seemingly unfazed, and drives away.
Alone in his car, I cast my eyes around. It’s incredibly plush, all smooth beige leather and shiny brown wood effect features. Anders’s iPad is plugged into a sound system and I check out the last song he listened to: ‘Stay With Me’ by Sam Smith. Interesting. I would have imagined he’d have been listening to something a bit more masculine, maybe something faster, but who am I to judge. Men are just as entitled to listen to love ballads as women and actually, shame on me for thinking otherwise. But perhaps he’s recovering from a broken heart? Maybe that’s why he’s in London. Maybe he left his reporting job in Norway and came over here to escape a doomed relationship and get over his lovesickness? Or maybe he just likes Sam Smith.
What else is there to see in this car? What else is Anders into? I know I shouldn’t be so nosy, but what else have I got to do in here? There’s a packet of mints on his dashboard. I pick up the packet and pop one in my mouth before placing the pack back down. But, aside from the mints, his car is bare. I turn to look at the back seat and suddenly spot something a lot more intriguing than breath mints: some photographs of Kongelig Palace – the ancient Norwegian castle rumoured to be Holly and Prince Isaac’s wedding venue. It has a huge, stunning chapel that’s been used by royalty for weddings for years, and it’s easy to see why. I spent a dreamy half-hour googling it the other day at work and it’s beautiful. With vast spires rising to the sky, arched windows and an imposing clock tower, the castle shimmers in gold-flecked stone at the top of a hill surrounded by lush woodland. A winding river traces alongside, leading to a lagoon-like fjord in the distance; it’s like something from a fairy tale. Even me, politics obsessed as I am, couldn’t help but get swept up in slushy daydreams as I gazed at pictures of it. But the images Anders has seem different. They’re not just Google printouts, they’re professional shots. I peer closer and spot an annotated seating arrangement shown against one of the images. My eyes widen. A seating arrangement? The venue hasn’t even been confirmed yet and Anders has managed to get his hands on a seating arrangement? This guy is good! I’m tempted to reach into the back seat and rifle through all the images, but I’ve already been far too nosy as it is. Yes, it’s a little frustrating that Anders is obviously completely slaying at this royal wedding stuff, but that doesn’t give me the right to snoop.
I sigh and reach for another mint, when I spot Anders on the opposite side of the road, waiting for a break in the traffic to cross over. Thank God I stopped snooping when I did. There’s a quick lull and he races across the carriageway, before pulling open the car door and hopping inside. He’s so big that, unlike me, he doesn’t need to climb the steps of the four-by-four, he just jumps in.
‘
So, I’ve parked your car,’ he says, a little breathlessly. A few strands of hair have fallen across his forehead and I have a strong urge to reach over and sweep them back, but I resist. Of course, I resist. That would be weird. And this situation is already weird enough.
‘Thanks!’
‘So how are you feeling now?’ Anders asks, giving me a concerned look.
‘Oh, I’m fine! Much better!’ I reply, a little too brightly in an effort to conceal the fact that I feel a bit shady for having seen the papers on his back seat.
‘Really?’ Anders asks sceptically.
‘Yeah, fine. I mean, I don’t go crashing my car every day so obviously I’m a little taken aback but I’m okay.’ I smile.
‘Cool! Well, I only live around the corner and we’d better stop blocking this road!’ Anders sighs as he glances up at the traffic in his rear-view mirror.
‘Good idea!’
He starts the car and, for such a huge vehicle, the engine barely even purrs. Despite looking like a gigantic block of steel, it glides softly along the road as Anders loops around the roundabout, taking the second turn.
‘So, you’re staying around here?’ I ask, gazing out of the affluent streets. Even though we’re only a few miles from Bromley, the area could not be more different, but that’s what it’s like in London. Pockets of wealth sit side by side with the poorest boroughs.
‘Yeah.’ Anders glances over. ‘Just for a bit. A few months.’
‘While you work at The Chronicle?’
‘Exactly . . . ’ He frowns, focusing on the road, and it feels like he doesn’t really want to talk. Understandable, I guess. He probably wants to avoid any more collisions.
We lapse into a slightly awkward silence as he drives down a wide elegant road with well-groomed pines and panels of grass along the pavement, behind which are huge Georgian houses, four or five storeys high. Definitely extremely pricey. I gaze at them. It’s not often I have a cause to frequent such streets.
‘Wow. Gorgeous,’ I murmur.
‘Yeah, they’re not bad,’ Anders comments as he turns the steering wheel and pulls the car into the front drive of possibly the largest of all the properties on the street.
‘Oh! Is this where you’re staying?’ I ask, shocked. I’d automatically assumed he was going to keep driving until he got to a more modest road. Obviously with his incredible car, I wasn’t exactly expecting a grotty house-share or a high-rise housing estate, but a mansion? A six-storey Georgian mansion? Even the best paid journalists can’t afford this.
‘Errr…Wow! Okay!’
I want to ask him about it, but I can’t come up with a way of doing so without sounding ridiculously nosey or inappropriate. After all, he can live wherever he wants; it’s not really any of my business, and I’ve already put him out enough today by crashing into him. The last thing he needs is the Spanish Inquisition on where he chooses to lay his head at night. I should just be relieved he’s not fuming over the crash. A lot of drivers, particularly drivers of fancy Mercedes, would be.
‘It’s actually my friend’s place,’ Anders comments, as he parks the car, as if sensing my thoughts. ‘He let me stay here for a bit.’
‘Oh right, nice friend!’
‘Yeah, he’s pretty cool!’ Anders turns off the engine.
As we get out of the car, part of me wants to ask questions about Anders’ friend. What on earth does his friend do to be able to afford a place like this? My friends live in modest flat shares. We don’t have whopping great mansions ten minutes from central London! But again, I get the vibe that Anders doesn’t really want to talk about it and I don’t want to pry.
We walk to the front door, which is flanked by pillars. Anders opens it to reveal a wide hallway, with a marbled grey floor with a plush woven rug, lots of light and a winding staircase.
‘Wow, what a lovely place! Shall I take off my shoes?’ I ask.
‘If you like!’ Anders says, so I unzip my ankle boots and leave them by the door. Anders kicks off his trainers.
‘Take a seat next door, I’ll make some tea.’ He gestures towards a huge light-filled living room. I take a seat on the plush comfy sofa while he heads off to the kitchen. The decor is impressive – baroque wallpaper, a huge gilded mirror above the mantelpiece and an enormous TV, but what really catches my attention are the books on the coffee table. Three politicians’ autobiographies, two of which I’ve read. I pick up the one I haven’t read yet and flick through it until Anders comes back in from the kitchen, carrying two steaming mugs of tea on a tray.
‘I wasn’t sure if you wanted milk and sugar, but I brought some, so if you want it, you can add it.’ He places the tray down on the coffee table next to the books.
‘Thanks!’ I put the book back down and pour a splash of milk into my tea. ‘Were you reading that?’ I ask, gesturing at the biography.
‘Oh yeah, it’s a good one actually. Really enjoying it,’ Anders comments.
My ears prick up. A good one? He’s making it sound like he reads politicians’ autobiographies all the time! I thought I was the only person geeky enough to do that.
‘Did you read the other two as well?’ I ask.
‘Yeah! Well, I’m halfway through one of them. It’s all right. A little bit egotistical but quite interesting.’
‘Right.’ I nod, taken aback. The thing is, I totally agree. The book he’s talking about was really egotistical. Huge chunks of it were just the politician giving himself a massive pat on the back. I can’t believe Anders thinks so too. I rarely meet anyone, let alone super-hot Norwegians, who read politicians’ autobiographies for fun. Finding someone with the same opinions as me on such books is even more rare.
‘So, are you into politics?’ I ask, an unashamedly hopeful inflection to my voice.
‘Yeah, definitely. If you don’t understand politics then you don’t understand the world,’ Anders comments, as he adds milk and sugar to his tea.
‘I couldn’t agree more!’ I pick up one of the other books. ‘What did you think of this one?’ I ask and again, he replies with exactly the same verdict I would have given myself. It’s incredible, and within minutes, we’re deep into a niche conversation about a US politician’s biography released a decade ago that never even made the bestseller lists but that we both agree provides a powerful insight into the workings of the White House.
Anders takes a sip of his tea. ‘So, if you don’t mind me asking, what happened today?’ he asks, changing the subject. ‘No offence, but I saw you driving and you looked right at me, but you were looking right through me. You seemed a million miles away. It’s not often that people miss me in that car.’
I smile awkwardly. ‘Actually, I guess I was a bit lost in thought,’ I admit. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have been driving.’
‘How come?’
‘Umm…’ I think back to the centre, the protest, the hungry scruffy-looking kids and their tired mothers, the displaced immigrants and recovering addicts. I’m not sure it’s the kind of thing Anders wants to hear about in his fancy Georgian mansion. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t interested,’ Anders comments, picking up his tea and settling into an armchair. ‘I know you don’t know me that well but let it out! Why not!? Maybe not knowing me that well is a good thing. Sometimes it helps to talk to a stranger.’
‘Yeah, maybe you’re right,’ I reason. ‘Although, I should warn you, it’s not exactly upbeat. It’s not exactly a nice story.’
‘Most of the time, when someone’s got something on their mind, it isn’t,’ Anders says.
‘That’s true!’
‘Go on!’ Anders smiles kindly. ‘Hit me! I’m all ears.’
‘Okay! But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘Got it! I’ve been warned and I’m ready!’ he insists.
‘Right, well…’ I take a deep breath, before telling him all about the centre – the struggles of the community, the people it helps, the vital role it plays, and,
before I know it, I’m telling him about Angie, her life story, the hours she puts in and the sacrifices she makes. I’m pouring my heart out about all the people I met today and how giving the girls the wedding trinkets and seeing how excited they got kind of broke my heart because it’s probably the happiest they’ve been in a while. I tell him about the centre’s fight for survival amid funding cuts and find myself ranting about miserly government policies to the point that when I take another sip of my tea, it’s gone cold. Anders listens intently and empathetically. He seems genuinely engaged and at one point, when I’m mentioning what Angie said about the pale listless kids dragging their heels as they arrive at the centre, he’s so moved that he has tears in his eyes.
‘That’s awful,’ he says.
‘I know.’ I look down at the carpet. ‘That’s why I was miles away, I guess. It shook me up.’
‘That’s understandable.’
We lapse into silence and I think both of us are a little depleted from the depressing conversation. It really does feel like a hopeless situation. I gaze out of the window; it’s gone dark outside, the sky inky blue.
‘I should probably head home,’ I sigh, placing my mug back down on the tray. ‘I was going to write an article about the centre for my blog.’
‘Okay, I’ll drive you back to your car,’ Anders comments. ‘Are you sure you feel better now?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I insist.
He places his mug down and we head off. We’re both a little silent on the short drive to the side street where Anders left my car, but it’s not an awkward silence any more; it’s quiet and contemplative. I don’t feel embarrassed or uncomfortable for having opened up. In fact, Anders was right; sharing what was on my mind did help. We pull up behind my car and hop out of the jeep. There’s a chill in the air and Anders shivers slightly, still wearing his T-shirt from earlier.
‘Thanks, Anders,’ I comment. ‘Thanks for not freaking out that I crashed into you. Thanks for the tea. Thanks for everything, really.’
‘It’s nothing, don’t be silly. Come here,’ he says, stepping towards me. For a second, I’m not sure what he’s doing but then he pulls me into a hug. A kind, tender, warm hug.
