Over the Hill

No chance. Not today. He’s messing with the wrong woman. He can tap on the window and wave his arms around all he wants. It’s not going to do him any good. I’m sick of being pushed around. Well, not anymore. And certainly not by him. Another idiot who thinks they can put me down and…

… Don’t you dare. Don’t even think about it.

I stomp on the accelerator and ram my bumper against the van in front. No way. There’s no way I’m letting him cut in. He saw the signs, same as me. Idiot.

I glance in the rearview mirror watching him squeeze his silver BMW into the gap behind. I can’t believe the other driver let him in. She’s an idiot too. My eyes narrow as he laughs and leans across to whack his passenger on the arm. They both look quite young. I’m not sure either of them is old enough to be behind the wheel. Not a fancy car like that anyway. Still, age is no excuse for such boorish behavior.

Such thoughtlessness.

It's down to inconsiderate people like him that it’s so horrendous on the roads these days. There’s no pleasure in driving anymore. Just look at it this evening.

Snappy drivers in snarled up lines of traffic. The tetchy honking of car horns and angry red splotches from the brake lights stretching for miles and miles. I hate it.

I just want to be home. Stretched out on my couch, the curtains drawn, the world silenced. Maybe a small glass of wine to take the edge off things. Blur the lines a little.

I slump in the seat, letting my eyes close and resting my temple against the cool glass. Weariness washes over me. It’s hard to remember a time when I don’t feel exhausted. Bone tired and used up, like the best days are behind me.

Certainly, this afternoon’s meeting hadn’t helped. My cheeks burn when I remember how Barnaby had yawned and tossed my presentation to one side, the folder skittering across his desk.

“Not bad, Eileen,” he’d said. “Just a bit old school. A little dull. Our clients want something zingier and more exciting; you know?”

I didn’t know. I’d stared down at my woolen tights and flat black loafers and felt my eyes prickle.

“Perhaps you can work alongside Chelsea for a few days. She can point you in the right direction. Talk you through what the younger folk are into,” he’d said, nibbling on his avocado toast and nudging his glasses further up his nose.

Chelsea? I doubt that very much. That girl could get lost in a wardrobe. What kind of direction is she going to give me?

I didn’t trust myself to respond. I’d sat quite still, my hands clasped on my lap, my knuckles white. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to lean across the table and rip the spectacles from Barnaby’s face.

It’s not like he even needs them. It was just last week I’d caught him perched on Mel’s desk, smoothing down his blond curls and telling her he only wore glasses because they made him look more distinguished, more likely to be taken seriously by the ‘oldies in the office’.

Idiot.

There was no chance I was putting my granny goggles on in front of him. I’m plenty old enough, thank you very much. It’s not like he noticed me squinting and angling the sheets of paper towards the light anyway. I’m not sure he actually sees me at all. He’d just reclined in his chair and carried on yapping.

“Got to keep pace with the times, Eileen,” he’d said, locking his hands behind his head. “If you’re not moving forwards then you’re falling backwards…”

He’d paused, his lips twitching as he’d sniggered: “Come on Eileen.”

Idiot.

I’m not sure how I made it out of the office without ripping the door off its hinges. I’d smoldered along the corridor, bursting into the bathroom, sick to death of listening to his corporate jargon nonsense.

… Let’s circle back. Let’s see if the juice is worth the squeeze….

Let’s bloody not.

I’d braced myself against the sinks and splashed cold water on my face, letting the droplets trickle down my cheeks. I’d scowled at my reflection, tugging at my grey hair, and smoothing out the wrinkles on my forehead. It’s hard to recognize this monster in the mirror. When did I become so washed up and joyless. So decrepit. Is this how other people see me?

My eyes snap open as someone leans on their horn. The traffic’s moving. Everyone’s waiting on me. Before I can even crunch the gearstick into first, the silver BMW whips past me, the driver’s arm sticking out of the window, his middle finger raised.

How dare he.

The engine judders, my car hiccupping as I release the clutch too soon. Oh god don’t let me stall. Not now. Not in front of all these people. They’ll think I’m another doddering old woman who shouldn’t be on the roads.

I pound the dashboard, the speedo needle quivering, as I race after the silver beemer.

Wait…

… What am I doing? Calm down Eileen. Forget it. Forget him. Just focus on getting home, pouring out a glass of wine.

I relax my grip on the steering wheel and swing my car into Chapel Street, hoping to beat some of the queuing traffic on the bypass. Why they do roadworks during rush hour I have no idea. Complete lack of planning. No thought at all. Now I won’t get home until well after six and I still need to pick up some milk and bread and…

… You’ve got to be kidding me.

I roll up to the junction just in time to see the silver BMW pass the end of the road. The driver rolls down his window, making some obscene gesture with his hand and jeering ‘daft old cow’.

Old.

I tear out of the side road, stomping on the gas pedal and barging my way into the traffic. The young woman in the battered old fiesta flashes her lights, her car horn blaring. Tough.

The BMW is just ahead, so close I can see the driver peering in his rearview mirror and laughing. Laughing. I’d like to know what he finds so funny.

We lock eyes and I hunch forward in my seat, fury fizzing round my body, sweat beading on my forehead. I want him to know what it feels like. What it feels like to be bullied and…

Jesus, he’s stopping.

My tires slither on the tarmac, the car bucking, and I spin the wheel to avoid crunching into the back of him. My heart thumps in my chest and I’m still panting as I watch the BMW glide away. There’s nobody in front of him. There was no reason to stop at all. Wait. He wanted me to hit him.

I shriek at the top of my voice, my throat burning, my hands trembling, as I slam the car into gear and tear after him.

Get out of the bloody way.

We’re through the roadworks and all three lanes are open, so I don’t know why these other drivers are going so bloody slow. Is it their first time in a car. Jesus. Move. Just get out of my way.

My foot is jammed on the accelerator, the car whining and shuddering as I weave between vehicles, gaining on the BMW. His eyes widen when he spots me thundering along in the lane next to him and he glances across at his passenger. For a second, I think he’s scared. I hope so. But then he looks back at me and winks, swinging his car onto the slip road.

Oh no you don’t.

I yank the wheel, the tires squealing, as I veer across the white lane markers, chasing them towards the roundabout. I take the bend too fast, my car rocking and pitching to stay upright. The seatbelt whips into my collarbone, my arm cracking against the door as a sharp pain chokes all the air from my lungs.

I pump the brake pedal, slinging my car off the road and onto the gravel. Throwing myself back in my seat, I gasp for breath, my hands pawing at my face.

What the hell am I doing. I nearly rolled the bloody car. I could have been killed. And for what. Just because I was mad. Because I wanted to make a point. Jesus Eileen, enough.

I ease the car back onto the road, both hands gripping the wheel as we crest the hill, breathing a sigh of relief when I see the road is empty on the other side. I’ll go straight home. I can do without milk for one night. I’ll just…

… What’s that? I stop on the verge, peeking through the side window, mesmerized by the beams of sunlight flickering and dancing across the metal. My eyes follow the trail of splintered plastic and glass to the broken, hissing mess in the trees.

No. No, that can’t be right.

The back wheels of the silver BMW are still spinning. Petrol oozes from the tank and seeps into the dirt. Blood. There’s so much blood.

My hands fly to my ears as I try to silence the roaring in my head. What have I done. What have I done.

I stumble out of my seat, clutching hold of the door as more people arrive, swarming out of their vehicles and whispering into their phones about reckless drivers.

Reckless.

My head jerks up and I collapse against the side of my car as I overhear a woman talking to one of the police officers.

She points in my direction and says: “You might want to speak to her. She was here first. Yes, that’s right. The old lady over there...”