The road rolled under the bonnet of the car, sucked like a long string of black spaghetti into the maw of the hot engine. The wind tangled my hair and I shouted to Max,
“Can you put the top up?”
“Not while we’re moving, I can’t. Wrap something around your head.” He had taken his eyes off the road to shout at me and I remembered I shouldn’t speak to him when he’s driving. I scrabbled my hand in my bag, feeling for my scarf. Found it. I began to wrap it around my head and tie it under my chin—and gasped!
We were careering down a steep hill. The car waltzed across the centre line onto the wrong side of the road and Max seemed oblivious… staring ahead. If a car came round the approaching corner we would be killed in a head-on collision. Bang. Thwump. Squish. Dead.
I screamed, “Max!”
He started, and hauled rapidly on the wheel, taking us back to our side of the road. We rocketed around the corner. missing the front fender of an oncoming car by a hare’s whisker. A red flash passed. The wide-eyed, open-mouthed terror on the driver’s face imprinted on my brain. My scarf flew out of my hands, to decorate the roadside litter. I clamped my hands to my ears, holding my hair back from my face and screamed in Max’s ear, “Stop!”
Slowly, carefully, gently we slowed, halting on a patch of grass at the bottom of the hill.
“What the hell happened?” My heart had crawled up my throat into my mouth and my breath struggled to get out. “Did you go to sleep?”
He shook his head and hunched over the steering wheel. I patted his back and waited, patiently. After a minute or so I retrieved my phone and began to dial for Road-Side Assist. The tapping must have registered. He sat up.
“No, don’t, I’m fine, just highly embarrassed.”
“No need to be embarrassed. If you’re ill I can drive the rest of the way. No problem.”
The last thing we needed was to be late for the start of the Writers’ Festival. Max was the guest speaker and I was his fawning acolyte. Actually, I was his wife, but who needed to know that? Not his adoring fans, with their fluttering eyelashes, hugging his books, sighing as he autographed their purchase and added a personal comment. A wife would not enhance his image or improve his book sales. Our long-term nourishment depended on his fans’ adoration, and his book sales.
“Are you ill?”
“No, just horrified. I could have killed us.”
“Where was your brain?” I swallowed, rapidly, pushing down a pulse of anger, now growing as my fear receded.
He took a shuddering breath. “I was in the middle of a plot. It came to me a few miles back. Clear, exciting, the main character is appealing but ruthless – and I was writing a scene in my head. Totally engrossed.”
My clenched jaw ached from not commenting.
“This amazing story will be the beginning of a new series.” He held my gaze. His bottom lip quivered and I watched his Adam’s apple float up and down. “It’ll keep us in champagne and chocolate for years.”
“It would’ve been hell to die and miss out on your next big thing.” The sarcasm I tried to hide, unfortunately sneaked into my voice.
Max’s mouth twisted. He indicated, pulled out and drove on, sedately, dictating, while I scribbled down the plot lines, turning points, story arc and dénouement—for me to write.
May 2024 have more ups than downs. Thank you for reading my work. I appreciate your comments and support. Cheers Deryn Pittar
Been there! Done that! Great story, as always, Deryn.😊
Great read as always :)