acting a little, how can I put it? Grand? But, I can’t be bothered to elaborate. She’s leaving. I’ve got my own problems to sort out. A mountain of them.
‘I’m not, you know,’ she continues. ‘I’m not a princess. At all. And I know why you think that. You’re as cliché as everybody else. It’s because you know I live in Dubai. You just presume I live in a palace with servants and camels, that I’m about to be married off to some mega rich sheikh …’
‘Well … are you?’
‘NO!’
I’m holding back a sly smile. I fail.
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
‘I didn’t say anything, love.’
‘You still think I’m a princess.’
Christ. I’m not going to entertain this.
‘Just because I went to boarding school doesn’t mean I’m a princess.’
I raise my eyebrows, dare to give a little whistle.
‘I went to school with actual princesses. I was like dirt on their shoe in comparison.’
‘Me heart bleeds.’
‘And I was expelled.’
‘Right.’
‘Anyway, that’s beside the point. I’m just sick of people presuming I’m someone I’m not. I don’t have a job, and –believe it or not – I really wish I had one, and I don’t have much of … anything. And! I have to pay my father rent for a room in a villa he gets to live in for free from his company.’
The man with the soggy newspaper turns around again, adjusts his glasses.
‘For free?’ he asks, gently.
Zara nods. ‘For free.’
‘Can you afford a taxi all the way to London?’
‘What choice do I have? Thanks to that damn tree.’
A waiting black cab honks, impatient. The man’s now at the front of the line. Zara’s next, her black cab turning into the rank and crawling up beside us. The driver steps out to assist with the bags.
‘Going the airport, love?’ he asks.
I open the taxi door.
‘Your carriage awaits,’ I joke. ‘Your highness.’
‘You’re an asshole,’ Zara says.
‘It’s been a pleasure.’
The driver settles back in his seat, and looking through the glass shield, he barks at Zara to ‘get a move on’. There’s no need for that; she hasn’t been taking her time. If anything, quite the contrary. As she gets in, I’m still holding her canvas bag, swinging it from its straps. I look properly at the cartoon image printed on one side. It’s a meerkat sat in a jacuzzi. It’s pretty funny, actually. Zara leans across from her seat and snatches it.
‘Why so tetchy?’ I ask.
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Ah, come on. Is this some cult foreign cartoon you’re into?’
‘No. I drew it. Okay?’
‘What? You drew it? The meerkat?’
‘Yes. And the hot tub, and the … everything. It’s my design. My cartoon.’
‘Ooh, get you. It’s good,’ I admit. ‘You got others?’
‘I love how you wait until now to spark up a conversation, Jim.’
Zara pulls the twisted knot on top of her head and her hair falls loosely down her back, around her shoulders. The driver knocks on the glass shield. It’s time to go.
‘See ya later, your highness,’ I say, and close the door, giving the roof of the cab a tap.
‘Bye, Jim,’ Zara says through the open window. ‘And thanks.’
I’m free.
Approximately thirty seconds later, I’m not even out of the taxi rank, psyching myself up to run back through the rain, I hear Zara yelling again. Only this time, it’s not directed at me. She’s back at the front of the line, the driver placing her luggage around her.
‘Please take me,’ she’s begging.
‘You’ve wasted me time, love.’
‘I’ve done nothing of the sort. You’re a taxi driver, you take people where they need to go and you get paid for it.’
‘I’m not taking you all the bloody way to London.’
‘Why?’
‘And how am I supposed to get the bloody hell back from London?’
‘Drive?’
‘You know what that’ll cost me in petrol? In time? Me and the wife are going to a silver wedding tonight. I won’t make it back for last orders.’
‘I’ll pay for your petrol, your time. Just take me. Please.’
‘No.’
‘Please.’
‘Bloody tourists.’
Another driver steps out of his black cab.
‘What’s the hold up, mate?’ he asks.
Zara’s driver stretches out his arm and points a finger right in her face.
‘This one here wants me to drive her all the bloody way to London.’
‘Well, you can’t do that, mate.’
‘I bloody well know.’
‘Listen, girl, he can’t take you to London. Now move.’
Those waiting in the queue are having a gander, standing on their tip toes to get a good view, muttering mixed opinions on whether or not this girl should be taken all the way. Some woman shouts, ‘Don’t be a lousy