CHAPTER NINE #3
The Eurostar train was now speeding through Kent toward London.
France may have been sweltering in the blistering heatwave, but today England was getting a respite from weeks of summer heat.
The scene through my window was of a dull grey day with heavy rain.
The shitty weather did me a favour. I carried a small backpack go-bag that contained travel essentials.
I dug into it and removed a pouch with a black pack-away raincoat and trousers that were handy to pull out to shield from wet weather, as well as being useful as a disguise.
I unfolded the tightly packed trousers, carefully fitted my booted feet into the legs while still seated, and then shrugged into the jacket.
I stood and pulled the trousers up, then sat again.
Lucy gave me a nod; she’d sent a text to Ziggy to tell him the plan.
When the announcement monitor above the aisle said that we were thirty minutes from London I rose, shrugged into my backpack and started to walk up the aisle into the next compartment, and the next, so that I was closer to the top of the train.
The paps recognized all of the major London talent agents, and as they knew Lucy was with me in Paris, they’d be keeping an eye out for her to locate me.
I waited in a vestibule and readied myself.
As soon as the train passed under the Queen Elizabeth Bridge, I knew we had ten minutes to arrival.
The announcer informed that we were coming into London St Pancras International and so passengers prepared to disembark, pulling on coats, and then crowding the aisle, their luggage taking up too much space.
When the train doors finally opened and passengers began their slow trudge to the station exit, I hung back.
When several hundred passengers had disembarked, I hitched my small backpack higher, pulled up the hood and stepped down onto the concourse.
Swiftly I moved off, weaving between the passengers heading toward the double escalators that moved down to the ground level exit.
We walked the route that went from a narrow crowd control lane, to a bright wide-open station hall edged by shops and bustling with travellers.
It was then that I saw them, the ants—a huddle of photographers with their phallic lenses.
They searched the crowd for me. A particularly tall, portly man was walking ahead of me, and so, I hunched my shoulders and moved behind him until I passed through passport control.
I didn’t hear anyone shouting “There he is!” so I positioned myself beside a woman with a stroller and pretended we were together as she headed for the exit doors.
I couldn’t deny the thrill I felt at outsmarting the press.
“Here, let me get the door,” I said as I hurried ahead and held the glass door for the woman with the stroller.
It was raining outside, so on exiting she pushed the buggy aside out of the stream of travellers and dragged the rain cover down over her sleeping child.
I paused and stood beside her to check my phone to see if Martine was delayed.
“It’s a bloody washout! I’m kinda relieved. I couldn’t take the heat another day,” the woman said conversationally.
“Right! It was roasting in France. The change is a bit of a shocker. Do you have far to go?” I asked.
“Nah, my hubs is on his way, traffic’s brutal though…
you know everything floods in Central London as soon as we have a drop of rain.
” She searched in her shoulder bag and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a slim lighter then offered me one.
I shook my head. At the pickup bay I saw a couple of bedraggled photographers sat on mopeds wearing red windbreakers.
They were the ones that Ziggy had warned about.
Then I recognized the lovely Husqvarna Svartpilen 401 motorbike that pulled up at the curb.
It was a sleek, agile bike that cut through traffic with ease; it was Martine’s favourite ride in the city.
I wished the lady with the baby good luck, and then hurried down the steps.
Martine immediately passed me her spare helmet.
I pulled down my hood, before putting the helmet on and then straddled the back of the bike.
It was raining hard now and I was glad for the waterproof trousers and jacket.
After threading my arms around Martine’s slim waist, we moved into the flow of traffic.
I pushed the fogging helmet visor up so I could see.
A glance at a wing mirror showed that the paps on mopeds had spotted us, and they were following behind.
This wasn’t our first rodeo. Martine knew the streets of London better than most native Londoners and she’d gotten me out of a few tricky situations over the years.
She headed down the Euston Road before zipping through the backstreets of Fitzrovia, pulling into a sheltered alley between two red brick houses.
Riding to the end of the alley she then turned the bike around to face the road.
Martine eased her visor up, “Where do you want dropped off?”
“Golden Square,” I stated. “What are we waiting for?” I asked confused as to why we’d stopped.
“Cool your jets superstar! Any minute now,” she grinned as we both stared up the alley into the pummelling rain. Sure enough, a couple of minutes later two mopeds puttered past and continued up the road. Martine waited for a beat before the bike moved off again, taking the opposite direction.
Fifteen minutes later, I was dropped off outside the Global studios building on Golden Square, and the paparazzi were nowhere to be seen. I got off the bike and thanked my friend, putting the helmet into her courier box on the back of the bike.
“I’ll be in touch with the tickets,” I said.
“And a meeting with the lovely Mr. Linden!”
“Yeah, yeah…I’ve got you!” I shook my head.
She wouldn’t let me forget that! Martine blew me a kiss before she moved off into the traffic.
I checked my phone. I’d arrived too early for work, so I headed for the nearest café to have a bit of lunch and shelter from the downpour.
On the way to the cafe I couldn’t help but notice the plastic covered news stand display…
as I was on the front page of every tabloid!
I paused to take-in the images. I was pictured mid-leap as the attacker, his face in a rictus grin of determination, headed for Nate.
The photos were dramatic, and as we were surrounded by photographers at the time, they’d captured us from every angle.
I saw the frozen look of horror in Nate’s eyes when he realized what was happening, and I noticed the security guard who was supposed to be protecting Nate was staring at our pretty, scantily clad co-star Padme instead of his principal.
After lunch and a few easy hours in the studio fixing errors in the thriller audiobook narration, I was finally free to head home and relax.
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