London Fog

Her teeth chatter as Elena bundles herself in her beige overcoat. Hazy mist shrouds the bridge as though it were gauze. The view would be romantic, if only it were sixty degrees Fahrenheit instead of a rather chilly forty five. Pardon, 15 degrees Celsius. Stupid metric system?it?s no wonder ?Mericans get busted for going 154 in a 96 per-hour zone over here.

Elena shakes her head. How Britons put up with the weather is anyone?s guess. Then again, they?ve put up with insurrections, rebellions, and missile strikes for the past millennium or so. A little cool weather isn?t going to make their lips any less stiff. Other parts of their body as well.

She curses under breath and gathers her purse over her suitcase, lugging all her valuable equipment with it. By rights she should be bulking up, carrying at least ten pounds of gear all by herself, which isn?t even counting the bugs. She told them she?d need help. But nooo, they had to go and make her do it all on her own??it builds character? ****-Donna told her.

That?s before she booted Elena?s ass onto the Gulfstream IV. But at least the intern can take solace in her newfound freedom. She squint her eyes, adjusting to the light. The sight of the bridge alone is enough to make her heart swell. The urge to hit the shops and take in the sights is hard to resist.

But what the Invisible Hand giveth, it can take away as well. The sooner she nails this Woodrow bloke to the wall, the sooner she can get home. Then again, knowing Invisible Hand?s modus operandi, it might be a good idea to put that off as much as possible.

Elena flags down a livery cab. As the black vehicle glides into the city, she can?t help but catch a view from her passenger window, glimpsing at the blur of blue and brass and steel racing by. She glances up in time to spy a massive phallus of glass and steel rising into the sky, a modern day ziggurat in one of the financial capitals of the world.

?Excuse me, sir.? She asks the rough hewn driver. ?What?s that??

?Huh??

?That building.? She points.

?Oh. It?s tha Towering Innuendo.?

?The Towering Innuendo??

?That?s what tha locals call it, alright. ?Right nice metaphor, innit? Bunch of City dicks, the way they focked us honest blokes over. That?s how come I got this job in the first place, ya know? But at least we had Brown lookin? out for us, ?guess we could take consolation in that.?

?Oh.? Elena cranes her head.

As the cab pulls up to her hotel, she pays her fare and waves goodbye to her driver. By the looks of it, he could use the pay. The wait in the elevator feels like forever, but as soon as she swipes her card she collapses on the bed without so much as taking a pin out of her hair.

And so ends day one of her exciting, covert journey.

She stumbles out of bed the following morning, somnambulant yet otherwise feeling fine. She offers room service coffee and steps into the bathroom. Before she even has time to undress, she gasps as she glances at her watch.

Oh shit!

She throws on her high heels and rushes out the door, barely giving a thought to her disheveled appearance as she dashes frantically towards the nearest elevator. The middle-aged woman two doors down raises her eyebrows as she picks up the mornings Times and thinks nothing of the apparently crazy woman?probably some businesswoman who overslept her appointment. If she gives her neighbor much thought at all.

Elena?s chest tightens as her Pakistani cabdriver screams through the city. She closes her eyes and tries to imagine herself lying on a tropical beach, colada in hand, bathed by the rays of the sun. A balmy breeze drifts over her arms and chest?followed by a torrential downpour. She blanches.

So much for lucid dreaming.

The vehicle finally comes to a stop at a white modernist building, sticking out amongst a row of otherwise unremarkable bleak brown and gray offices. Elena blinks in disbelief.

?This your stop, ma?am?? Her driver asks in perfectly accented English.

She nods and hands him the change. As the cab speeds away, she glances up at the squat edifice, not quite sure whether to walk in or turn around, hail another cab and disappear into the throng of London motorists. She could always tell ****-Donna Carruthers changed his mind about the press conference. Or fake her **** or whatever, though it would mean resigning herself to staying behind. She?d never get a chance to reunite with her family, never resume the life she had before she interned at PPI. She?d have to start all over again, just as her immigrant grandparents did many years before.

She swallows her fear and strides toward the entrance. Her eyes are assaulted by a pair of nude manikins flanking the front desk. Then she remembers these are the offices of Eros Publishing.

?Excuse me, is Mr. Carruthers in??

The ginger secretary looks her up and down with disdain.

?I?m afraid he?s in a meeting right now.? She smiles wanly. ?May I help you??

?My name?s Elena Bancroft. I was scheduled to have an interview with him at 9:30??

?Let?s see?? The secretary consults her schedule. ?I don?t see a Bancroft anywhere in the appointments this morning. I?m so sorry, ma?am.?

The woman?s dismissive tone crawls up Elena?s spine.

?He invited me in at the last minute.? She smiles reassuringly. ?He wants to look at my portfolio.?

The secretary rolls her eyes. He wants to see your portfolio, alright.

?I?ll see what I can do.? She presses the intercom button on her phone. ?Mr. Carruthers??

?Is there a problem?? The man?s hoarse, affected accent reeks of formality and pretentiousness. ?Can?t you see I?m in a meeting right now.?

The receiver crackles with static.

?There?s a woman here to see you. She claims you need to see her about a?portfolio.?

The pause lasts for several minutes. Elena nervously fidgets with her watch as the secretary waits dispassionately for a response, as though Carruthers is deliberating the merits of letting an unknown from the street into the bowels of his lair. Labored breathing can be heard from the other end?presumably his, but no one can be sure.

?Can you vouch for this girl??

?She just walked in a few moments ago, sir--?

?Thank you, Nina.? Carruthers cuts her off. ?As you know my schedule for the afternoon is booked. But there is a two hour window between 10:00 and noon. Send her up around then, okay? And put on a nice pot of coffee?Genvalia, not the other kind. I like my guests to be comfortable while they wait.?

Click

The secretary sighs audibly and closes her eyes.

?Is something wrong?? Elena asks with concern.

?No, no.? Nina reassures her. ?It?s been a long day. How do you like to take your coffee? Cream or sugar??

?It doesn?t matter to me.? The brunette waves her hand dismissively.

?Make yourself comfortable. Knowing him, it?s going to be a long wait.?