The Women Who Ran Away - Sheila O'Flanagan Page 0,164
though after a day’s driving, I usually pull on jeans, a T-shirt and trainers as soon as I get home. And ‘pull on’ are the operative words. I don’t style my clothes the way Gina does. I just wear them.
I hold up my iPad. Gina sees it and strides across the arrivals hall towards me.
‘I’m Gina Hayes.’ She extends a hand. ‘Are you my driver?’
‘Roxy McMenamin. Pleased to meet you.’
I use Thea Ryan’s umbrella again as I escort Gina to the car park – it’s only a short distance, but I’m not entirely sure that the designer raincoat will be much use in the sort of Irish drizzle that can soak you to the skin before you even notice it’s raining. Besides, I don’t want her to get her artfully styled hair wet. Somewhat weirdly, the exotic umbrella gives me a certain confidence that I associate with Thea. It bestows me with a sprinkling of her personality and makes me feel less intimidated by the powerhouse that is Gina Hayes.
‘I’ve never had a woman driver before,’ Gina remarks as she gets into the back seat of the Merc. ‘And it’s never occurred to me that there might be women drivers out there. Which is annoyingly un-woke of me.’
‘I’m not a driver to make a point,’ I tell her. ‘I’m a driver because it’s my job.’
‘But nice to see women doing jobs that were traditionally male,’ says Gina.
Please tell me she doesn’t want a conversation on gender equality at this hour of the morning. I know taxi drivers are supposed to have opinions on everything, but I’m a chauffeur and I don’t. I glance in the rear-view mirror; fortunately for me, Gina has already moved on and is scrolling through her phone.
‘We’re going to the TV station for your interview first,’ I tell her. ‘Your PR agent will meet you there. Then to the bookshop for your signing session. And after that I’ll be driving you to Belfast. I’ll drop you off at the airport there after you’ve finished.’
‘Fine.’ She’s totally concentrating on the phone and I wonder if she’s a bit pissed off at me for not engaging in the feminist conversation. I’m all for equality and women’s rights. But I can’t bear people who bang on endlessly about it. Whenever I drove the car for Dad, I wasn’t thinking about being a woman driver; just a driver. And yet, I acknowledge to myself as we leave the airport, all of the other drivers I know are men. There must be other women drivers out there, but I’ve never met one. So maybe, despite myself, I’m a feminist icon.
The very idea makes me laugh. Nobody I know, least of all my husband, would think of me as any kind of icon. Dave never made a thing of my driving in the past. He was matter-of-fact about it. Dad needed help and I stepped up to the plate. It’s what you do for family. Simple as that.
I speed up as I turn onto the motorway. Gina is leafing through a folder of papers that she’s taken from her tote bag. I wonder if she’s nervous about her interview. But why should she be? She’s used to being on TV. Her health show is very popular and I’m sure her cookbook will be a bestseller. I can’t help envying her. It must be great to have it all sussed. To know exactly what you want from life and go out and get it. Gina Hayes is seven years younger than me. But she’s still the grown-up in the car.
By the time we arrive at the studio, she’s replaced the papers and has returned to scrolling through her phone. I get out and open the door for her, and tell her that I’ll be waiting here when she’s finished. She walks inside without a backward glance.
I get back into the car and drive to the small café that I always wait in when I bring people to the TV studio. Waiting around is an occupational hazard for a driver. So is drinking coffee. I’m ready for another caffeine hit and I’m feeling peckish again too. I’m not the sort of person who lets emotional turmoil affect her appetite. I’ve put on almost a kilo since I walked out on Dave. I don’t need Gina Hayes to tell me that comfort eating isn’t a good idea. But it helps.
When I’m settled with a coffee and a scone, I text Mum to ask if the