One Man, One Woman, One Unfortunate Cab Driver
Walter Grant was forty seven years old and drove cabs for a living. He was an honest man who was easily satisfied, with his greatest worries limited to the payment of the month's bills, birthday present selections for his two teenagers and remembering his wedding anniversary. He didn't love his job, but it was needed to make ends meet and he hadn't, in the past twenty odd years, considered giving up his job –until now.
"The umbrella you ruined cost me twenty dollars," the woman snarled in spite of her obvious shivering. He couldn't blame her for trembling; it was cold out in pouring London, especially in this time of the year and rainwater dripped from every inch of her.
She was a subtly pretty sort of woman, in her early twenties with mahogany curls kept in a ponytail, mussed by the humidity. She was easy on the eyes; slender with all the curves in the right places, sun-kissed skin, a pleasant face and bright green eyes that would have been much prettier if they weren't so intent on burning holes into her friend.
Or at least, what Walter assumed was her friend. It was just as likely that he would be her first homicide victim.
He, on the other hand, was obviously, almost flamboyantly, handsome, with dark and shaggy windswept hair that was slightly damp with the rain, sharp blue-grey eyes and a strong, masculine jaw line. He was well built and broad across the shoulders, tall enough that his legs had to be cramped under the seat with a lean figure that promised to do well in any athletic sport. Walter was strongly reminded of one of those brooding 'bad boys' that his daughter regularly swooned over.
He was dressed in a well-cut suit, complete with a dark blue tie and crisp white shirt, screaming loaded for the entire world to hear. The man was not amused and the glare he leveled at her conveyed it. "That Armani suit cost me two thousand," he pointed to the blazer draped over her shoulders, steely blue eyes narrowing. His daughter would have completely melted under that smoldering stare, Walter decided. The smooth British accent that Walter was so used to seemed very sophisticated when it rolled off his tongue. The little lady, however, bristled.
"In case you didn't notice," she bit back, her tone equally icy, "it is twenty five degrees out and my shirt is white. Oh wait, you did notice, since you obviously got me drenched on purpose, you pervert." She appeared to be trying, and failing, to stomp down on the urge to viciously stab the man in the chest with her newly broken umbrella.
The man either didn't notice or didn't care. He was affronted by the allegation and wasn't afraid to show it. "It was an accident," he insisted, and the temperature of the cab dropped to zero degrees Celsius. "I was getting into the cab–"
"A cab I was hailing down," she interrupted. "And you accidentally knocked my umbrella away, causing it to get run over by a truck." She didn't mention that she had promptly shoved herself into the cab after the man, demanded his jacket and compensation for her umbrella, all of which, Walter witnessed. He had to give her credit though; the little missy had spunk. He could count on one hand the number of women he knew who would have reacted with anything other than stuttering and flirts with this very attractive and evidently wealthy young man. Her words were laced with acid and practically dripping with venom.
Walter believed it was about time he interrupted, before a murder happened in the back seat of his cab. "The-There's a towel in the back of that seat you might want to use, miss," he ventured. He had tried to keep himself warm and friendly, like the manager of the company had instructed them to multiple times, but his nervousness showed through.
The woman, however, didn't seem to notice his slight stutter. After extracting the slightly worn towel, she smiled at him through the rear view mirror through the rear view mirror and the transformation was instantaneous. Perhaps it was how her eyes lit up and glittered in the light; or the way deep dimples made their way to either cheek; or the genuine gratitude that shone through her expression; but at that moment, Walter Grant could easily say that she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever the pleasure to meet.
Her companion frowned as he watched her, unhappy with the obvious difference in treatment. "Obviously, he would offer you a towel. You are dripping all over his car." Walter desperately prayed that he wouldn't get any dragged further into the conversation than that. The woman's difference in conduct was made even more apparent when the woman turned back to the man when he spoke again.
The lovely brunette glowered. "And whose fault is that?"
"Yours," the man haughtily replied, and Walter knew, from twenty years of marriage, that this was not going to end any time soon. "It was you who deigned to enter the cab whilst soaked to the bone."
Walter wondered if the atmosphere in his cab could freeze beer.
"I hope you die in a car crash," sneered the lady. Ah, they had already escalated to death threats. What was the expression that sailor from last winter used? Ah yes, that was right, cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.
It was probably time for him to interrupt, especially since he had driven aimlessly into town for the past few minutes. Not that it felt like minutes. "Pardon the interruption, but where should I be heading?"
"Longbourn Hotel," the man said crisply, ignoring the woman. The little missy cast the man a horrified look and he snapped, agitated and more than just a little infuriated by her insinuation. "You aren't nearly pretty enough for anyone to attempt anything of the sort." Walter winced, partly for the sake of the pretty missy on the account of the obviously false and hurting statement, and partly for the man, seeing as the lady's eyes were growing darker with the promise of pain. "I wouldn't touch you with a ten foot pole even if heavily compensated in cash."
Then –God save me –the green-eyed woman smiled brightly and Walter could see the burning of Hell through his rear view mirror. "Well," she retorted, her tone cloy. Her words and expression was so overflowing with obviously false, mawkish, saccharine sweetness that Walter might have laughingly gagged if it weren't so bloodcurdlingly terrifying. "I would shove a ten foot pole up your ass without any sort of monetary compensation, but there's one already there."
"We're here!" Walter announced, a little too loudly and too enthusiastically, the cab skidding a little on the road, accidentally soaking the shoes of a bell boy who promptly yelped in shock. He had kept under the speed limit, but it was a little too fast for rainy weather. Either way, he was glad that the pair could finally step out of his cab.
To his surprise, the little lady was the one who got out first, handing him a wad of cash and telling him to keep the change, tucking the neatly folded towel into the front seat and rudely throwing the man's blazer in his face. She then bolted out of the car, four inch stilettos in one hand as she raced up the marble steps of the Longbourn Hotel.
The remaining passenger growled under his breath, tossing his dampened jacket over one shoulder and thanking Walter with a surprising amount of civility, given the way he had treated the missy earlier. Then he was out and off, with Walter Grant hoping that he would never have such difficult customers ever again.