“Where too now, Madam?”
It’s not the words themselves, but the way he says them. The little pause before the “madam”. The slight sneer. Every time. As if he’s better than all this. As if he’s better than me.
I didn’t ask for this. I’m quite capable of driving myself around, but no. It comes with the job. It comes with the position. A driver. A chauffeur.
Chauffeur. A driver. From the French chauffer, to heat, and by extension, chauffeur. Stoker. Someone who stokes. The car I’m in doesn’t have a boiler, and there’s nothing to stoke but my ire. He’s my chauffeur.
“The office, please. Robert.”
I try to pause between “please” and “Robert”, but it never has the same effect.
He nods. Or tuts.
I can’t see from back here.
I can just see the back of his head, and that stupid cap, and his eyes in the mirror, watching me. I see him looking at me, sometimes. His eyes. They’re not on the road behind, they’re on me, and when I try to challenge him, to stare back, it’s always me that breaks off. Another victory. To him.
It’s a stipulation. I’m apparently too important to drive myself. It’s expected now, of my position.
‘You’ll like Robert,’ they said, ‘he’s very discreet.’
I don’t want discreet. I don’t even want a driver. Even if I did, even if I needed one, discretion wouldn’t be top of my list of essential characteristics. Ability to drive. That would be it.
Why does he have to wear a cap. That stupid, look at me cap, on top of a stupid, look at me uniform in a look at me car.
Polishing the wheels.
Who polishes wheels?
I hate him. I hate this. I hate his attitude, his arrogance, his conceitedness.
I hate his greasy, grimy, chauffeur guts.
This follows the daily prompts for a ten minute write from Putting My Feet In The Dirt The idea is to use the prompt and write for ten minutes only. Which is what I did, prompted by the words Greasy Grimy Chauffeur Guts