Category: Fiction

Emily and Sydney

In the back of Sydney’s cab, Emily sat with both hands on the straps of her oversized bag.  She wore a classic English print summer dress and sensible sandals, but the oversized blue/green mirrored sunglasses and scattered patches of smudgy, dyed red hair ruined the fille ordinaire look.  She didn’t care.  She’d grabbed the glasses when she fled the apartment to avoid another encounter with Mrs. Flintstone, and thank God she did because the flashing light and shadows through the window of the moving car were making her sick.

“Can we stop for coffee, Sydney?”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

Sydney had recognized something was wrong the second Emily got into the car, but he also knew that there were times when the best thing to do was keep quiet and let the problem come to you.  So he continued driving to nowhere (Emily hadn’t given him a destination) with one eye on a likely spot to get her a coffee.  On the other hand, Emily didn’t really know what she was doing there.  She’d called Sydney to cover up getting caught breaking into Sinclair’s desk, and it had turned into a convenient way out of the flat.  But now what?  She couldn’t just hide in the back of Sydney’s taxi forever – although, at that moment, the idea certainly appealed to her.  She felt alone.  She could also feel the leather case she’d taken from Sinclair’s desk in her bag — the heavy can’t-go-back weight of it.  She remembered Christopher Martin in the evil red neon night – giving her no choice.  And thought about Dreyfus, halfway around the world, unaware that the wheels of power were turning against him.  Right here, right now, Sydney was the closest thing to trust she was ever going to get.  Out of options, she made up her mind.

“Who do you work for, Sydney?”

It was a strange question, and Sydney glanced back at Emily in the rearview mirror.

“How do you mean?  I work for you and Mr. Sinclair,” he said.

“No, who do you really work for?”

Sydney thought about it.

“Who pays you?”

“That’s a little more difficult, ma’am.  We’re a family business sort of thing, so I don’t actually get paid.  It’s hard to explain.”

“Maybe you don’t get any money, but somebody pays somebody, Sydney.  You’re not a charity.  You don’t look after us out of the goodness of your heart.”

Sydney could hear the irritation in Emily’s voice.  He knew he needed to be careful. “It’s a family business.  My father and uncle handle that; I just do my job.  I don’t know anything about what they do.”

Sydney wasn’t actually telling the truth.  He knew a lot about the family business.  He’d been hearing the family history (ad infinitum) since before he was old enough to understand and knew it by heart.  And as an adult, he was slowly but steadily learning what it took to be a Khatri because, as Harbir Kharti Singh’s youngest son, he would eventually be the Khatri.  And as much as he took a personal interest in the well-being of Lady Perry-Turner, he was not about to discuss all that with her.

“Why does it matter?”

“I need to know.  I need to know who your boss is.  Who do you report to?”

“Nobody.” Sydney laughed, “As long as there aren’t any complaints, nobody wants to hear what I have to say.”  He looked directly at Emily’s sunglasses in the rearview mirror, “So I don’t say anything … to anybody.”

Emily hesitated.  She could still go back, except she knew she couldn’t.  There was only one way out of this mess.  Christopher Martin had made that clear.  Then, suddenly, it was just time to do something — even if it was wrong.

“I have to give somebody something, and I don’t want anyone to know about it.”

“Easy peasy, ma’am!  Give it to me.  It’s as good as done.”

“No, I have to do it myself, and no one can ever know I did.  No one — not even Sinclair.  It can never be traced back to me.  And … I … I don’t know how to do it.”

Sydney immediately caught the “never be traced back to me.”  It was an alarm bell that meant some kind of an investigation, which usually meant … But that didn’t bother him.  What he didn’t like was the ‘not even Sinclair’ part.  But he could hear the desperation in Emily’s voice, so he decided he would decide about that later.

“That’s right up my street, ma’am.  Here, we’ll stop and I’ll get you your coffee, and then you can tell me what you want to do, and I’ll take care of it.”

Sydney stopped the car and wheeled in backwards into a parking spot.  Emily wasn’t sure about this, but she had no choice.

“Come in with me, Sydney?”  She asked.

The coffee kiosk was one of the many scattered along the river walk.  It had a couple of wooden picnic- style tables and large Heineken umbrellas.  The sun was already hot, and Emily sat in the shade while Sydney negotiated coffee.  He came back with two familiar green and white paper cups.

“Black, ma’am?”

“Thank you, Sydney.”

Sydney sat down opposite and dipped at his teabag.  He was willing to wait.  Emily took off her sunglasses.  She’d come this far ….

“Be honest with me, Sydney,” she said. “I need to do this, but if it’s … if you can’t, or you think it too difficult or if there’s something you … I don’t know – uh — I?  Just tell me.”

  “It’s no problem, ma’am.  This is what I do.”

Actually, it wasn’t.  Sydney knew the rules.  Yes, Dreyfus Sinclair was an important client, and he was Sydney’s responsibility 24/7 — no exceptions.  But — and that but was written large and underlined –“We do not get involved, Sajinder.  This man is out of our jurisdiction.”  Of course, Sydney had crossed that line a few times and had carefully covered his tracks (from the parents) when he did, but this was different.  Lady Perry-Turner was a Primrose, a Muggle – definitely not part of the business – and Sydney had no business dealing with her at all.  However, ever since he had carried her, blood-soaked and crying, out of a construction site one cold December night, there had been an affinity between them, and so …

“But I’ll need some information.”

“I can’t …” It was a plea.

Sydney raised his hand and moved it slightly, palm down.

“How big is the item?”

For a second, Emily was tempted to take the case out of her bag and show him, but instead she measured it out in the air.

“And how long will it take you to give it to him?  Is it an exchange?  Is he going to have to examine the contents?”

Emily thought about that.  She hadn’t actually thought about that — the doing of it.  From the beginning, it had been the coldest, clearest part of the problem, but she hadn’t considered the mechanics.

“No,” she said, seeing it in her mind, “No exchange.  And it will take less than a minute.”

“London?”

Emily nodded.

“Where and when?  Has that been arranged?”

Emily shook her head.  “No, but I need to do this quickly.  Tomorrow?  Sunday?”

Sydney brightened.  His world just got a little better.  Sydney knew London. Aside from Las Vegas, it was the most watched city in the world, and an anonymous transfer would not be anonymous for very long — especially if there was some sort of an investigation.  But now that he controlled the where and the when, the CCTV system would work in his favour.  All he had to do was convince the machines that Lady Perry-Turner was somewhere else when she delivered her package, and unless there was some direct connection he didn’t know about, no one would ever come calling. 

“No worries, ma’am.  I’ll take care of this.  Let me make a couple of telephone calls.”  Sydney stood up and pulled his telephone out of his pocket.  “One minute,” he said, scrolling the screen and walking away.

Emily looked around.  It was late morning London: young people, old people, mothers with their buggies, tourists with their telephones, a couple of suits laughing and a woman complaining to her friend about … who knows what?  But ordinary made Emily feel better.  Sydney made Emily feel better.  She wasn’t alone anymore, and that made her feel a lot better.

Sydney came back to the table.

“I’m going to set this up for Sunday?”  It wasn’t really a question, but Emily nodded anyway.  ‘We need to work out the details.  Are you alright to do that now?”

Emily nodded again, but opened her hand and looked uncertain.  Was this really the place for secrets?

Sydney laughed, “It’s alright.  We’re just two people having coffee, ma’am.  Now, can you still handle a motorbike?”

The question caught Emily off-guard, and it showed.

“Like the one I got for you in Paris?”

Emily smiled for the first time, remembering Paris.  “Yes,” she said.

“Good” Sydney smiled back.  He liked to see Emily smile.

Michael Elliott

Michael Elliott lived alone and liked to read mystery novels.  It was his one vice, except for single malt whisky, the occasional Turkish cigarette and the less than occasional pay-as-you-go sexual encounter.  Fictional mysteries baffled him.  He never knew ‘whodunnit” which was odd because, in real life, he had built a reputation on knowing exactly that, and bringing the perpetrators to a swift and permanent end.  Sometimes, that meant jail time and sometimes – well – those results never made it into the files.  Actually, he’d only killed three people in his life – an Iranian man (who turned out to be his wife’s brother) the man standing next to him (which was unfortunate) and, a few years later, an IRA hard boy (who was hindering negotiations.)  These deaths didn’t bother Elliott: they were work-related, and he had been young and very eager.  Soon after those heady days, however, his employers discovered he had a talent for administration which freed him from field work and found him a desk.  And over the next 25 years, he turned that desk into a complex network of agents, informants, contacts, businesses and a number of locations that can only be describe as undisclosed.  This organization ran parallel to (and just out of sight of) the one he actually worked for.  It had earned him a seat at the most powerful tables in the realm and the nickname St. Michael, the Archangel who challenged Satan to personal combat – and won.  The secret of St. Michael’s success was, of course, success.  He got results.  Chinese spies went home, Russian gangsters paid their taxes, arrogant drug dealers disappeared and the antics of the aristocracy remained behind closed doors.  If it landed on St. Michael’s desk, it usually stayed there and was never heard of again.  Therefore, Michael Elliott, Deputy Director of – well, nothing, really – was allowed to ply his trade in a nondescript building in Pimlico without prying eyes looking into how he did it.  This was a good thing because St. Michael’s devotion to “England’s green and pleasant land” was relentless, ruthless and not for the squeamish.

Of course, the people on the leafy green suburban cul-de-sac where Elliott lived didn’t know any of this.  To them, Michael Elliott was a pleasant fellow who had some vague but important job (He had a car and driver.) in The City.  Banking was the general consensus.  He was a regular, if largely absent, member of the neighbourhood who was always good for a charity raffle ticket or (when available) an emergency Pub Quiz replacement.  He knew everyone by sight, and everyone knew him.  Some of the older residents even remembered Mrs. Elliott, a lively, foreign woman who served with distinction on the local park, sports and school committees until her sudden death.  And, of course, there were the children (two boys) who had been parcelled off to boarding school (after their mother’s death) and now made regular visits with tiny, teetering grandchildren.  Elliott had a housekeeper, a gardener and an oddly well-dressed handyman who showed up in a clearly marked van at odd hours to fix things.  He mostly declined social invitations but always had a good word to say and said it without fanfare.  In all, Michael Elliott was the neighbour most people want — congenial, convivial and careful with the bins.  So, his odd hours were ignored, and when his lights burned bright into the night, anyone who did notice simply put it down to “Elliott’s reading his Agatha Christies.  It must be lonely rattling around that big house by himself.”

Ironically, that’s exactly what Michael Elliott was doing one cold December evening.  He’d recently discovered Nordic Noir and had gotten his hands on an advance copy of a novel by some new fellow named Larsson.  It was very good.  He was enjoying it.  And when the telephone rang, the interruption was an irritation.

“Yes?” he said, abruptly.

“I see Her Majesty’s government never sleeps.” It had lost its twang years ago, but the North American voice was Dreyfus Sinclair.

 “I hope you’re calling me with a result.”

Dreyfus laughed.  “Eighty years later, and I find your knickknacks in 24 hours?  Miracles take time, Michael — even for me.”

“Fair enough.  So why are you disturbing my warm milk and slippers, then?”  It was a throwaway response but Elliott knew this wasn’t a social call and had already abandoned his book and placed it open on the side table.

“I need to know if you put any of your people on this.  Some heavy boys to shake the bushes.”  Dreyfus had found something.  Elliott clicked over the possibilities, and the time frame dictated that there must be some connection to Lady Perry-Turner.  He made a mental note to take a longer look at the Duchess of Weldon.

“No, this is a personal project,” he said. “I haven’t even reported it upstairs yet.  Just in case I don’t have to.”

Like everyone else on the planet (including many of the people Elliott worked with) Dreyfus wasn’t certain exactly where St. Michael stood on the government ladder.  However, experience told him that upstairs probably meant either Downing Street or Sandringham.

“Alright, good.  I didn’t want to step on toes.   Item two, then.  Could you get your minions to work up a profile on Pamela Gilbert, spelled just like it sounds, and the company she owns, Gym and Swim?   A chain of activity centres, I think.  And I need anything you can find on an employee of hers named Paul.  I don’t have a last name, but he’s late 30s, early 40s, square-rigged, six-two, maybe three, 230 or more — a hard case, and he looks the part.  I’m pretty sure he’s in the system somewhere – GBH or worse.  Tomorrow morning would be nice, but I’ll take what I’m given.”

Elliott looked at the mantle clock.  He knew he could have anything he wanted within a couple of hours – including Ms. Gilbert in the back of a police van.  But a large part of St. Michael’s genius for getting things done was not only knowing what to do but when to do it.  Right now, the circle of secrets was small.  And when even a minor indiscretion could rewrite European — and, more importantly, British — history in a less than favourable light, it was best to keep it that way.  Elliott knew that Sinclair probably realized that there was more going on here than 40 million pounds’ worth of lost Faberge eggs, but he trusted him.  Dreyfus Sinclair would find the eggs (if he had enough time) but, more importantly, he would keep quiet about it.  So, even though the clock wasn’t working his corner, St. Michael decided not to commit any more ears and eyes to the project.  He’d let Sinclair handle it, and put the finishing touches on Plan B if he didn’t.

“Tomorrow morning works,” he said. “I’ll come to you around nine.  You have some files I need to pick up.”

“Thanks. You better get back to your milk before it gets cold, Michael.”

“See you in the morning, Sinclair.”

Dreyfus Sinclair went back into his flat, opened the slender cardboard box of police files and settled down with his coffee to read them.

Michael Elliott made two telephone calls, both of them short and direct, and he was back enjoying the adventures of Blomkvist and Salander in less than 15 minutes.

You can read more about Michael, Dreyfus and Lady Emily Perry-Turner here in Dreyfus and the Duchess

Under The Windows – Complete

“I remember these,” Emily said, looking out over the river.  She was nervously answering a question Dreyfus hadn’t asked.  But he was busy searching through the kitchen cupboards, trying to find where Mrs. Flynn kept the serving trays.  He never used them, but for some reason, he wanted the square silver one to serve the drinks on.

Emily turned her head and gestured back at the windows. “I didn’t remember they were quite so big.  This place is huge.”

Dreyfus stopped and pointed to the loft behind him. “This from a woman who eats breakfast in a cathedral.  Besides, you spent most of your time up there.”

“I spent most of my time whacked out on painkillers.”

Dreyfus opened another cabinet door.  Pans.  No luck.  This was getting awkward.  Emily wasn’t sure what to do either.  She looked around, trying to remember things so she’d have something to talk about.  This was not the reunion either one of them had envisioned in the long goodbye at Peterborough train station.

They hadn’t seen each other for nearly a month.  Dreyfus had left Pyaridge Hall a couple of days after New Year to catch a plane for Panama.  The purpose of the trip was to explain supply and demand to a corrupt government official who was demanding a bigger bribe to supply customs clearances for Hudson and McCormick ships.  Normally, Dreyfus loved the tropics (especially in January) but when he arrived, he discovered that Senor Estasfador was arrogant and enthusiastically stupid.  Plus, despite the sun, sand and pina coladas, Dreyfus found he was oddly homesick for the chilly rain of London.  It made him irritable, and after a couple of weeks of failed negotiations, haughty dismissals and hurry up and wait, he decided to solve the problem.  He walked into El Estasfador’s office, pulled him out of his comfortable chair and threw him out the window.  The flight from the first floor and the cuts, contusions, broken wrist and shoulder convinced everyone that there had been a misunderstanding and the bribe was, indeed, satisfactory.  The papers were signed that very afternoon, and the next day Dreyfus was on his way home.

Meanwhile, Emily had stayed on at the estate, to hurt a little and heal a lot and divide her time equally between being an unhappy puppy and a snarling bitch. Eventually, Janet Miller, estate manager and concerned friend, suggested Emily either fly to Panama and get it over with or risk being smothered in her sleep.  Two days later, Emily was on a plane to New York City.  However, unaware of the surprise, Dreyfus was already changing planes at JFK.  They passed each other somewhere over the Atlantic.

Now, maxed out on frustration, they were together again and couldn’t quite figure out what to do with each other.  The simple fact was neither one of them had ever done this kind of thing, and they didn’t actually know how to act.  The ten plus days at Pyraridge Hall had been a full-on love affair, giddy and silly and just a bit dizzy, with enough erotic content to make Aphrodite blush.  But that had been time out of time, hidden in the country — and now this was the real world.  And they were both desperately afraid that the other one had had time to think about it. 

“What are you looking for?”  Emily’s exasperation bubbled over.

“Something for the drinks,” Dreyfus said, defeated. “I’m trying to impress you.”

Emily pointed to the low liquor cabinet across the room. “Whisky?  Glasses?” 

“No, I was trying to find a tray to put things on and …” Dreyfus was embarrassed. “I just wanted everything to be nice.”

Emily turned directly to Dreyfus, who was clearly uncomfortable, and tilted her head sympathetically. “I know what you mean,” she said. “I bought a bikini.”

Dreyfus looked the question.

“At JFK, before you called.  When I was still going to Panama.  I bought a bikini.”

Dreyfus shrugged and opened his hands, palms up.

“I don’t wear bikinis, Sinclair.  Too much Emily,” Emily fluttered her hands and shivered her shoulders, “Hanging out everywhere.” 

Dreyfus, who’d seen quite a bit of Emily over the Christmas holidays, didn’t understand, and his face showed it.

“I bought it for you.”

Dreyfus recognized Emily’s tone and swallowed the adolescent joke.  He exhaled. “We’re trying too hard?”

It wasn’t a real question, and Emily didn’t answer.

“Go sit down.  I’ll pour you a drink.”  Dreyfus gestured to the sofa and went to the liquor cabinet. “There’s a remote on the table for the fireplace.”

Emily walked across the room. “I remember the fireplace,” she said, sitting down. “And the soup.  God!  That was the best soup.”

“Do you want some?  Mrs. Flynn usually leaves me some.  I could look?”

“Maybe we’re trying too hard?” Emily said, over her shoulder.

Dreyfus agreed to himself and poured two generous glasses.  He went over, handed Emily her glass and sat down on the floor at her feet with his arm on her leg.

 Emily touched her glass to his and said. “Let’s start again.”

There was a ting and they both drank.

“How was Panama?”

Dreyfus shook his head and chuckled. “Nothing special.  I threw a man out of a window.”

Emily nodded. “As you do,” she said solemnly.

There was a pause.

“What about you?”

“Janet threatened to kill me.”

It was Dreyfus’ turn to nod. “How is the indomitable Ms. Miller?’ There was a touch of mock sarcasm.

“Be nice.  She likes you.  Actually, I deserved it.  I’ve been an absolute horror for weeks.”

Emily reached down and pressed Dreyfus’ hand against her leg. “I missed you so much it hurt,” she said, shaking her head and looking at Dreyfus as if it were the first time.

Dreyfus looked up and it was his Emily and nothing had changed. “I missed you so much I threw a man out of a window.”

Emily laughed, bent her head down, “You win,” she said and kissed him, long and deeply.

And the late afternoon became evening and the evening became night, and they talked the hours away and didn’t go to bed until morning.

But that was alright because they didn’t leave the bedroom again for three days.

–

Emily sat in the big chair by the tall windows, wrapped in a sheet — toga style.  She was warm — content without being sleepy.  It was raining and the light was January dim.  She took a bite of old, cold pizza and considered the half glass of wine.

“What time is it?”

Dreyfus half rolled over in the bed to look at the clock.  “Six, just gone.”

Emily tried to look through the rain to the city across the river for a reference.  The lights were all wet and runny.    

“Is that morning or afternoon?”

For a second Dreyfus wasn’t sure. “Morning … I think.  Why?”

“I have to go home.  I have work to do — I hope?  I haven’t done anything since before Christmas.” Emily sat up and put the half-finished slice of pizza back in the box. “And I didn’t get paid for that.”

“Back to the country?”  Dreyfus sat up.

“No, Notting Hill.  I have to go to the studio.  I need to get my mail.  See who’s on my answering machine.”  Emily shook her head, “I have things that …”

“Wait. Wait.  It’s pouring out there.  Nothing’s that urgent.”

Emily was about to answer but stopped, startled.

“Jesus Christ!  My suitcase is still at the airport!”

Dreyfus shrugged.

“I don’t have any clothes, Sinclair!  Somebody broke the zippers on my one and only pair of slacks.” It was an accusation. “Any hope of a couple of safety pins?”

Dreyfus looked at her as if she’d asked him for a unicorn.

“I didn’t think so.” Emily looked around, “And where?  Never mind.  If you find my knickers, burn them.”

Dreyfus chuckled and swung his legs over the bed.

“I need to have a shower.” Emily stood up, moved her hips uncomfortably and frowned.  “And you need to shave.”

Dreyfus stood up and rubbed his chin.  “Okay.  Okay.  Slow down.  It’s Sunday.”  Dreyfus closed one eye and thought about it, “Yeah, it’s Sunday.  Let’s go take a shower and we can figure things out from there.” 

Emily tightened her lips, looked sideways and stuck her arm straight out with her index finger in the air.  The sheet drooped provocatively and she clutched it with her other hand.

“No.  You stay over there.  I’m perfectly capable of having a shower by myself.”

 “What if you get soap in your eyes?”  Dreyfus smiled.

“That’s the only thing that’s going to be in me for a bit.  And put some … clothes …” Emily paused and took a quick look around.  For the first time, she realized there was nothing in the loft but a bed, an upholstered chair and a small round table.

“Where are your clothes?”  It was a cautious question.

Dreyfus looked vague and gestured to the floor in front of him.

“No, your clothes?  Suits?  Ties?  Shirts?  Clothes?  Your clothes?”

“Oh,” Dreyfus laughed and pointed, “Behind that wall.”

It was Emily’s turn to look vague.

“Here, I’ll show you.”

Dreyfus stepped up, walked across the bed and stepped down.

He certainly does look good naked, Emily thought, without actually thinking.

Dreyfus pushed one of the white bricks and part of the wall swung open, throwing a slant of hard light across the dim loft.  Emily couldn’t see into the space properly, but it looked large.

“It’s a closet … um …” Dreyfus twinkled his fingers, “Ah – a walk-in closet.  I keep everything in here.  There’s another one just like it on the other side.  That’s where you can put your things.”

Suddenly, it was definitely morning.  There was no mistaking it.  Emily wondered why men always got so nesty after an abundance of sex.  She smiled to herself.  It was as if, having discovered a source, they were determined to safeguard the supply.

“Do you have Narnia in there?”

Dreyfus detected the subtle millimetre of distance in Emily’s tone.  It was definitely morning.

“I haven’t found it yet, but I can probably find you something to wear.  It won’t be stylish, but it’ll cover the vital bits.”

Emily recognized the step back in Dreyfus’ voice, as well.  It was nice to be understood.  She turned, dropped the sheet and walked across to the bathroom.

“Fresh towels in the …”

“Nah, I’m alright.”

Dreyfus watched her walk away.

–

Sometime later, Emily leaned on the rail and looked down at Dreyfus.  He was sitting at the table behind a newspaper and a silver pot that was probably coffee.  She hadn’t noticed it before, but the whole place was cloister bare – all straight lines and flat surfaces.  There weren’t even handles on the cupboard doors.  She rubbed her hair with the towel.  The shower had been difficult — too many knobs and she couldn’t remember how Dreyfus had manipulated them.  But eventually, she got hot water, and now she felt crisp and clean, although between Dreyfus’ sandpaper soap and eau d’antelope shampoo, she thought she smelled a little manly.  She rubbed her hair and walked back to the bathroom to get rid of the towel.

Dreyfus had left clothes on the bed, a gigantic pair of wool hygge socks and a kosovorotka shirt with white brocade at the neck and cuffs.  It was long, but oddly, aside from the sleeves, it fit rather well.  She tried the belt – it made her look like cinched-in potatoes.  She discarded it and rolled up the sleeves as she walked down the stairs.

“What do you think?” she asked at the bottom and did a heel to toe catwalk walk across the room.

Dreyfus folded the newspaper and dropped it on the floor.  “Pure sex.  That shirt certainly fits you a lot better than it ever did me.  Coffee in the pot and cups behind me.  No cream, I’m afraid.  And there’s sugar somewhere, but I …” Dreyfus shrugged.

“Black is fine,” Emily said, picking a cup off the tree.  She sat down across from Dreyfus and poured herself coffee.  It was a dull and rainy day, but the light through windows told her it was definitely day.  

“I sent Sydney to find your suitcase.”

“Mh-mh, Sydney.” Emily sort of laughed, then thought about it. “My suitcase isn’t lost.  It’s at baggage claim.” She saw the question on Dreyfus’ face and added, “I was in a hurry.”

He smiled and nodded.  “Do you want me to have him stop and pick up your mail or bring you anything?”

Emily sipped her coffee.  “No, but maybe he could wait while I get changed and then take me home.”

Dreyfus considered his options.  He didn’t want Emily to go home.  But the truth was she was the first woman who’d ever been in the loft the morning after the night (nights?) before, and he really didn’t know what to do with her.  “I thought we could go out to dinner.”

Emily put her cup down.  “It’s seven-thirty in the morning?”

Dreyfus tilted his head, “Early dinner?”

It was Emily’s turn to consider the options.  She didn’t really want to go home, but sitting having your morning coffee in somebody else’s clothes doesn’t offer a lot of reasonable alternatives.

“You know, we’ve never really had a first date.  And I’ve had a standing reservation for us at Clos Maggiore since – uh – December.  We could get some proper food.  I don’t know about you, but I’m definitely tired of takeaway.  Fresh air.  Take a walk in the rain.  Go see a show if you like?  Or …” 

It all sounded fine, but getting there was the problem, and Emily, still a little muddled over the last few days and trying hard to work with “This is your closet.” suddenly found herself speaking.

“For God’s sake, Dreyfus!  What the hell do you do in this place when you’re not on top of me?”

Dreyfus laughed.  It was a good laugh, full of fun.

“Fair question,” he said and made no attempt to explain.

“Seriously,” Emily said, looking around, “You’ve got a coffee pot, four cups and a …” She waved her hand.

“Toaster,” Dreyfus volunteered.

“A toaster.” She sat back in her chair.  “Gandhi had more personal possessions.  There’s nothing here.  This is on the road to pathological.”

“You just noticed?”

“I’ve been busy.” Emily widened her eyes.

Dreyfus laughed again and shook his head.

“Don’t worry.  I don’t have a mental disorder.  I just spend a lot of time living out of a suitcase, and I like it that way.  So …” He opened his hands.

Emily stopped in mid thought and thought about it.  It made perfect sense, actually.  Dreyfus Sinclair was the most ego neutral man she’d ever met; of course that would show up in his personal life.

“My place must have driven you crazy.  Five centuries of clutter.”

“No, it’s not like that.”  Dreyfus shrugged, “I don’t care what other people do.”

“But what is it you do?  I mean here.” Emily moved her hands, “By yourself.  I know you don’t listen to music.”

Dreyfus pointed a warning finger, and Emily almost giggled.

“I don’t know.  What everybody does?” He half squinted at her, “I read.  I write.  There’s always letters to write.  I like doing that.  I go out.  I – uh – I go to school.  When the mood takes me.”

“School?”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of schools in London.  Weekends, evening classes.  I’ve taken all kinds of things.  History.  Geography.  I took a woodworking class once.  Fascinating!  All those little machines that do things.  Last spring, I took Ballroom Dancing.  That was fun.”

Emily felt a deep involuntary twitch as she imagined Dreyfus in a tuxedo. “Can you tango?”

“No,” Dreyfus exhaled, “I had to fly out to – umm – Germany, I think. I didn’t finish.  But I can box step like a champion.”

“They never taught us tango at Cheltenham Ladies.  I’ve always thought it was a huge gap in my education.”

There was a pause.  And for Emily, that moment was the best moment of the morning — when Dreyfus didn’t immediately offer to sign them up for lessons.  It meant that “This is your closet” was simply a place to put her clothes.

“Any chance of some toast?” she asked and poured herself more coffee,

Sometime later, Sydney showed up with her suitcase and long Italian sandwiches – said his hellos, read the room, admired Emily’s hand and made his goodbyes.  Eventually, Dreyfus went up to shower and shave.  Emily’s suitcase was distinctly tropical, but she added a layer, and with a hairband elastic crimped at the hip for a more formal look.  Then, unfashionably early, they called a taxi and finally managed to have a first date.

You can find the start of Dreyfus and Emily’s adventures here