Jayne Amelia Larson - Driving the Saudis: a chauffeurs tale of the worlds richest princesses (plus their servants, nannies, and one royal hairdresser)

For Chris
wherever you are, I hope you are happy

This book is based on my real-life experiences while working as a chauffeur in Los Angeles over a period of several years. For narrative purposes, I have merged or compressed many of those experiences and have also changed somewhat the timeline of their occurrences.

The names and identifying characteristics of many of the individuals whom I met and with whom I worked have been changed, as well as some of the settings in which I encountered them. In some cases, I have created composite characters in order to portray the spirit of the people concerned while sparing the reader an overwhelming onslaught of characters.

I have worked hard to convey the essential truth of my experience, and have re-created events, locales, and conversations based on notes I took at the time as well as my memories of them. I believe I have a careful memory, or at least Ive happily convinced myself that I do. Ultimately, though, human memory is flawed and it is likely that I havent gotten every last detail just exactly right.

This is, in the end, my own interpretation of events of my own witnessing and my own participation.

T he best thing for being sad, replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, is to learn something. Thats the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it thento learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn.

T. H. White, The Once and Future King

T he drivers were sent to pick up the family and the entourage in the middle of the night. No one was there. Los Angeles International Airport (LAX) was hushed, practically shut down. Id been there dozens of times before, but Id never seen it like that; it was spooky. Even the light seemed different, as if all the exterior fixtures had been gelled and dimmed to create an ominous orange haze.

Everything was quiet but I was not. I was way revved up, like a Ferrari at a race start. I felt as if I was in the middle of a $100 million movie set filming an international thriller. Just as on a movie set, our instructions had been minimal and information was scarce, as well as constantly changing. Everybody was silent as if cameras were rolling, but this wasnt a film shoot. This was real.

The head security officer said the Saudi royal family wanted their arrival at the airport to be low key, but we had pulled into the airport with at least forty vehiclesLincoln Navigators, Cadillac Escalades, Porsche Cayennes, bulletproof armored Mercedes-Benz S600s (the big boys), and even a couple of $300,000 Bentleysall black, with full-on black tinted windows, and we snaked through the horseshoe-shaped airport in a tight convoy as if we owned the place. Id never driven before in a caravan of so many cars and it was forceful. We had several LAX police escorts, but they didnt have their bubbles flashing. Even so, we were not low key. We were impressive.

Fausto, the lead driver, waved at us to park along the curb, put our flashers on, and wait. Our windows were open and I could see that many of the other drivers looked as nervous as I felt, their foreheads glistening with beads of perspiration. Our eyes darted about maniacally, trying to follow the torrent of commotion around us; every now and then a driver would wipe sweat off his brow or pull at his collar.

We drivers were told that the Saudi consul and his staff were in attendance to usher the passengers through customs. Since no one spoke to us, we had no idea who was who, but I presumed that the group of men in sharp suits, talking in low tones among themselves just ahead of the convoy at the entrance to the Bradley International Terminal, were from the consuls office. A cadre of serious-looking Saudi Army officers in khakis came out first and conferred with the consulate staff assigned to greet the family. Several linebacker-sized men in civvies strutted about, stepping away from the gathered men to bark instructions on Nextel radios.

As I looked down our line of sedans, SUVs, and luxury vehicles, my eyes tracked the large assembly of black-suited drivers and armed security personnel attending the family. I was the only woman.

We had started work at noon and then waited around for several hours for the cars to be made available from various Beverly Hills rental agencies. We then made sure they were carefully detailed, inside and out, and provisioned with waterFiji water onlyand assorted snacks and goodies that the Saudis might request. Some of us had a prior list of what we should be buying for the family member wed be driving, such as Mentos or Ritz crackers, but we had all stocked up on breath mints and tissues.

Most of us had been working nonstop all day prepping the cars and running errands for the familys security; it didnt look as if wed be getting a meal break anytime soon, and it was now late evening. I hadnt eaten anything since the morning, and hopped-up nerves had made my throat sandy from thirst. I had stocked my car with the required designer water, placing the pint-sized bottles in each of the cup holders and several more in the pockets behind the front seats along with crisp current copies of LA Confidential, 90210, and Angeleno magazines. When I saw that most of the other drivers had gotten out of their cars and were making cell phone calls, tugging at their pants, and lighting cigarettes, I retrieved one of the extra bottles from the trunk of my car and choked down a few sips of the fancy water. It was hot, car hot. It tasted like it could be LA River water. I made a mental note to start carrying an iced cooler in the trunk as Id seen other drivers do.

My stomach churned from hunger. I took another sip of the car-hot water and popped a few Altoids.

Id never met any members of a royal family before, so I was keen to know what they might be like and to see if they were really all that different from me. Were they smarter? Were they prettier? Were they happier? Would they like me?

It was an unusually warm July evening, and by this time we had been waiting several hours for the family to arrive. I felt as if I was burning up and clammy at the same time. I had so wanted to make a good impression on the royals, and now that seemed lost for good. As I picked up the acrid scent of wet wool wafting up from the inside of my jacket, it was apparent that the eau de toilette I had spritzed on in the morning was now gone, long gone. I had chewed all my lipstick off hours ago, my feet were pink and screaming in the stiff new stacked heels I had just bought for the job, and the silk lining of my black suit was sticking to me like a wet bathing suit. I wriggled around and shook out my legs. I felt like a snake trying to shed its old skin. Every now and then Id surreptitiously pluck at my suit to put some air between my skin and the lining. I hoped no one noticed.