I’m not proud of what happened. Not ashamed, but not proud.
I’m going to write it off as a blip in character.
I like to think of myself as levelheaded and grounded but sometimes, well… I slip up. London is a tough city. And on a Saturday night finding a taxi does put one into a rather Machiavellian mindset.
So yes, a blip in character and after today we shall never speak of it again. A ceasefire between my moral ‘good cop/bad cop’ has been declared.
I met some friends tonight in a bar near Brick Lane for some rather stupid drinks – sake martinis, lemongrass mojitos, pineapple caipirinhas, whatever. Eventually I got tired and wanted to go home. I weaved my way through the drunken crowds to Liverpool Street where I tried to get a taxi. That’s where the trouble began.
London taxi drivers are the reverse Cinderellas of this world. After midnight, they don’t turn into pumpkins, they turn into assholes.
After being refused, rejected and simply driven past by no less than thirty cabs, I finally managed to wave one down. The driver was surprisingly boyish and cheerful. Maybe that was what made me ask him.
I don’t remember the chit chat from the beginning but after about five minutes the idea came into my head. It’s a long way home. I wonder if..
“Would you let me kiss you instead of paying the fare?”
I could see his reflection in the rearview mirror. He was grinning like an eager schoolboy.
“Alright luv. But I’ve got to stop doing this or I’ll never make any money.”
£31.40 was the amount on the meter by the time we pulled up in front of my building. Good decision.
I climbed out and walked around to the driver’s side. It was the first time I’d managed to get a clear look at him. He was young and had an almost goofiness about him.
I leaned in through the window and he planted his lips on me. It was that kind of mechanical, all tongue no substance kiss that a girl knows all too well. Not a drop of soul. But then what was I expecting after an acquaintanceship of only 25 minutes, mainly with the back of his head.
We separated and I rushed inside worried that he’d ask me for my phone number or change his mind and demand his thirty quid.
A few moments later the doorbell rang.
Oh fuck. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get that this was a one-off thing. That it was a moment. That he was supposed to drive away and leave us both with a quirky memory. Why do men have to be so dumb?
I opened the door with my speech all prepared to set him straight. The poor soul – probably hasn’t a clue how these things are done.
“You forgot your purse luv.”
