Abigail Abbas’s debut novel, The Driving Seat, is dark, comedic thriler. Emma Propeller’s domestic life is not going to plan, so she finds herself escaping to the Highlands to take on the job of a driver for a mysterious Marchioness. In this excerpt, we are introduced to Emma through her relationship with her Mother-in-Law.

The Driving Seat
By Abigail Abbas
Published by Polygon

Hilary was very happy standing on the top step looking down at me, I could tell. how I wish it had been a colder winter, the steps slippery with ice, and that moment might have brought an end to her tyranny, but that was not how she was to meet her maker. alas, that November was unseasonably warm. 

‘Gorgeous day,’ she said to me, but I wasn’t buying it. 

The day was too bright. The light hurt my eye. 

And then she looked down at her watch so I took the opportunity to scowl at her lividly. 

‘Well, aren’t you going to let me in?’ 

She sounded just like Katharine Hepburn: like an American impersonating an Englishwoman impersonating an American. 

I was looking forward to sharing the news with her, truth be told. I wasn’t sure whether to tell her there on the steps or to protract the moment and wait until she was in the flat, sniffing around my things, wiping surfaces with her index finger. 

‘James hasn’t come back yet,’ I told her, hoping it would make her leave and never return. 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘He was meant to come back last night, but he hasn’t. He texted me when he was getting in the Uber from the airport, but then he didn’t turn up.’  

‘Well, have you tried calling him?’ 

‘Yes, I’ve called and texted, but there’s no sign of him. His phone is turned off.’  

‘Turned off?’ she said.  

‘Try calling him,’ I urged.  

She snatched her phone out of her bag with her nasty raven claw hand and pressed a couple of buttons in that strange way she had, as if the phone was going to bite or poison her. She put the phone to her ear so that it flattened the nest of her starched brown hair and she glared at me, burning holes through my skin. 

‘James, honey, call me when you get this message. I’m outside your apartment building and I was expecting you to be here. I just can’t wait to see you. Love you, Mommy.’ 

Nothing sounded as sinister as Hilary saying Mommy.  

And then she looked at me as if she would definitely have more luck with that. As if I had been doing the calling and texting thing all wrong my entire life. 

Inside the flat, she stood in the hallway and declared that she was going to use the loo. I panicked. I couldn’t remember if I’d flushed it. Sometimes I don’t if it’s a wee. I would always flush a number two. But if I had done a wee I would be thinking carefully about flushing in case I disturbed the baby because the baby screamed if woken by a flush. 

‘Let me just check,’ I said.  

And I ran to the loo and my arms went all over it, so rapidly, that I took on the form of an octopus. I neatened the towel. I flushed. I put the loo roll the right way on the holder. I cleaned the basin with my hand, scratching away the limescale with my fingernails. I scrubbed the loo pan for any tiny trace of poo because I did not want to give Hilary content, anything of value to share among her coven: not that she would have been able to see anything anyway – she was always complaining about her macular degeneration. (Although I struggled to believe that there was anything wrong with her eyesight because I used to catch her running a silent inventory of the wrinkles on my face and my new grey hairs. Believe me, she saw everything. Everything.) I needed to get a hold of myself. I felt woozy, unsteady, as if I were submerging. I had to tell myself to calm down. 

‘Go ahead,’ I said to Old Hairy as I re-emerged from the room. A clammy sweat coated me. I was flushed.  

‘Would you like some coffee?’ I shouted down the hall, and just before I heard the door lock, she said, ‘Americano.’ 

She was in there for the longest time. I couldn’t hear a tinkle or the rush of water from the tap. I wanted to ask her if she was okay but I’m pretty sure she would have muttered something beneath her breath about me being a ‘stupid girl’, which is something she liked to do.  

I asked the baby, ‘Do you think Gan Gan’s alright?’ 

The baby blew a raspberry. 

I went up to the bathroom door and put my ear against it. I couldn’t hear a thing. I knocked and there was no answer. I knocked louder and I shouted and shouted but there was no response. 

‘HILARYYYY!’ I shouted. ‘ARE YOU OKAY?’ 

Bang-bang-bang went my fist on the door. I pulled at the handle and I shook the door about for a bit. She was definitely dead. I was in no doubt. Hilary was dead. The dark forces had taken her. Perhaps they weren’t so dark after all. I phoned Hannah.  

‘Hannah,’ I said. 

‘I’m on my way to a thing,’ she said. The world sounded very busy wherever Hannah was. 

‘Oh, sorry,’ I said. 

‘Are you okay?’ she asked. 

‘I think Hilary’s dead. I think she’s dead in the loo.’  

The Driving Seat by Abigail Abbas is published by Polygon and is priced at £9.99.