Eleanor tottered down the high street in the rain, wobbling unsteadily in heels that were far too big for her. She made a mental note never to let the girls take her out again. Ever since they had moved in to 221b, she had felt isolated and lonely. She didn't know why. She empathised with John in that respect- but sometimes sitting at home by herself was a good thing. The others had so much energy. Shopping at 7pm? Thanks, but no thanks. Unlike them, Eleanor was content to sit with Luna on her lap, people-watching from the window of the flat. She'd become great friends with Mrs Hudson, who had learned to leave her well alone when she was in a thinking mood. "You know, he used to do that too", Mrs Hudson commented one evening. "Sher... um, he didn't like anyone disturbing him when he needed time to think. His 'mind palace', he called it. How absurd! But then, he was always so unusual. He would have liked you, I think. But enough about him. I'll put the kettle on, shall I? We've got tea, coffee... oh dear, the milk's gone off. What a nuisance! I'll just pop down to the shops to get some more." Eleanor was quite content to let Mrs Hudson's fretting wash over her like a breaking wave.
Right now, she wished that she had brought some other shoes. Her trusty boots would never have let her down. Walking onwards, a crack in the pavement tripped her up, and she ended up sprawled on the kerb, her white Hollister top splashed with mud and rain and minus a high heel. She swore repeatedly at the pavement in frustration. How she longed for an armchair! Besides, Luna would be missing her. She always did when Eleanor left home, even for a few minutes. She meowed pitifully until Mrs Hudson shooed her out of the kitchen, and she'd sit by the window like her owner and watch until she came home. Eleanor tried to scramble up, but her purple sarong was caught under one of her heels, and it ripped, leaving a ribbon of fabric waving in the ever-increasing wind. She shivered and slumped by a wall, fumbling for her mobile to ring the others. When she had left the club, Rachel was practically asleep in John's arms while the others swayed with guys they hadn't even met before that night. She liked them, sure, but one night isn't enough to get to know someone. She had sat in the corner with the vodka and lime the girls had bought her. Only one guy had asked her to dance. He was older than her, probably mid-thirties, with unfathomable eyes and a knowing smile. He had asked politely in a soft Irish accent, "May I have the next dance?", but she really wasn't in the mood for dancing. She had smiled bitterly and replied, "No thanks. Don't you ever get bored? At the moment, my life is just like this. Staying alive." She traced a straight line in the air with her palm downwards. He laughed and grinned back, "Tell me about it." Turning away, he took a mocking bow and melted back into the crowd. Puzzled, she settled back into her chair. There was something about him... what she said would have made any guy back off instantly, which was the effect she was going for. But he was different. Almost like he understood.
Eleanor shook her head, clearing any thought of the club out of her mind. The rain was dripping from her hair, and the drowned rat look really wasn't doing much for her. Headlights lit up the road in front of her. Shielding her eyes from the blinding glare, she took a few hesitant steps towards the car. Maybe it was Katie or Chloe, finally sick of the dancing? The passenger door opened, and she stopped as she saw an unfamiliar silhouette. Damn. Why hadn't she brought some pepper spray? All sorts of creepy guys could be around at this time of night. She opened her mouth to scream, but then she recognised her rescuer. The guy from the club. To avoid looking like a startled goldfish, she coughed instead. He tutted sympathetically and exclaimed, "I'm not surprised you're coughing, it's freezing out here. Want a lift?" She thought for a bit. Getting home with half an hour to walk and one shoe down seemed pretty stupid, but then so did catching a lift with a total stranger. Thinking about it, being killed by an axe murderer was infinitely preferable than freezing to death. She shivered, "Promise you're not a total serial-killing psycho?" He really laughed at that. He had a nice laugh. Recovering, he mimed making a halo around his head, "Promise. But then again, if I was actually a 'total serial-killing psycho', would I tell you?" Feeling slightly uneasy, she allowed him to usher her into the car. With a gasp, she realised that it was an Aston Martin One-77. The second most expensive car in the world. This guy had some serious cash. It shouldn't even be on the road - with a top speed of 220 mph, he must either have a really good chauffeur, or be completely insane. "You like fast cars?" she asked apprehensively. He slid into the seat next to her and slipped on a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses, even though it was still tipping it down. "Do you?" he whispered, and commanded his driver, "Give us some speed, Benson". The car sped off with a screech of brakes.
While Benson wrestled with the steering wheel, the man sat back in his seat and took a pack of chewing gum out of his top pocket. Eleanor noticed his designer suit. "Westwood?" she commented, and he nodded appraisingly. "You have a good eye for quality", he replied teasingly, and offered her the packet. She took some gratefully. "You know, I've got to stop calling you 'The Guy' in my head. It feels so weird. Do I have a name to go on? Usually that's the first thing you tell people." With a predatory grin, he answered "Yet the first time we met, you told me that life is a continuous line, and refused to dance. Not many people refuse me, you know." Blushing, she apologised hastily. "Sorry, my friends are always telling me to be less intense. But sometimes things just seem so...boring. They think I'm pessimistic." He looked surprised for a split second, as if caught off guard. The display of emotion faded back into a superior mask once more. "Pessimism is a virtue- it's another word for realism. Seeing things how they are in a world full of smoke and mirrors... now that takes skill. I once told a very old acquaintance something similar. Something about how the man with the key is king. I showed him. I almost did it. I almost burned him." Eleanor shivered, but not because of the cold. She asked hesitantly, "How did you 'almost burn him'?" The Guy smiled as if remembering something fondly. "I showed him my point of view, and he showed me his. We realised that were the same, him and I. Like the two of us." He glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. She squashed the stirring in her stomach, and pressed on. "Who was he? Your brother?" He closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the seat. "Something like that..."
After a few seconds, she stared out of the window and watched London go by. Suddenly she was aware of him sitting up and offering her a hand. "The name is James." She took it and they shook hands. Now she knew one small thing about him. She moved as if to remove her hand from his grip, but he tilted it upwards and delicately sniffed her wrist. "Chanel No.5? I like it." Keeping his eyes on her face, he turned her hand so her palm was downwards and lightly brushed his lips across it. She reclaimed her hand quickly, facing away to avoid him seeing her face redden. She could sense him smiling behind her. She fought to regain control of her emotions – how could she let him get to her like this. James yawned lazily, and spoke again. "Did you eat at the club?" She wondered why he was asking, but guardedly replied with a no. He grinned and put on a posh English accent. "Then I would be delighted if you would do me the honour of becoming my guest at dinner." She opened her mouth to refuse politely, but before she could answer her stomach betrayed her with a growl. Embarrassed, she accepted his offer. The car changed direction and went in the direction of Marylebone. Despite her apprehension, she was intrigued as to where they would be going for dinner. Her question was soon answered when James escorted her out of the car to the entrance of the famous restaurant Le Gavroche, owned by Michel Roux Jr. She wasn't aware that she had gasped audibly until James laughed and offered her his arm. She nearly took it, until she realised that she was still wearing the dirty Hollister top and torn purple sarong. "I can't go in like this! They'll kick me out, or fine me, or something..." He nodded to Benson who was standing dutifully by the car. Benson walked around to the boot of the car, and produced a box with a designer label on. He gave it to James, who opened it with a flourish. For the second time that evening, she gasped aloud.
Nestled in the box was a stunning purple column dress. One-shouldered with an Armani label, the chiffon fabric pooled as she reverently took it out of the box. It had a split down the side and an empire waist embellished with beads, finishing with a sweep train. James took it from her and held it up beside her. "A perfect fit," he declared smugly and handed it back to her. She was still in awe of the amazing gown. "How did you know what size I am? And, more to the point, why did you have it in the boot of your car?" James held his hands out innocently, and darted behind her. He laid his hands on her shoulders and murmured in his lilting voice, "How could I resist? I saw you walking in the rain, I saw you falling over and swearing at the pavement, I saw you crying. I turned a corner and there you were. Telling Benson to drive as fast as he could, I stopped off at a designer store on the way to pick you up. I had been thinking about you all evening. Like I said, nobody refuses me... so I felt determined that you wouldn't refuse me at dinner. And your size...?" He ran his eyes over her appraisingly, "I had a pretty good idea of what I was looking for. The purple complements your eyes." She closed her eyes momentarily, feeling a little faint. James gestured towards the car. "If you don't want to get changed in the bathrooms, I suggest you try the car. I won't look... promise," he breathed. She opened the door and sat down, gathering her thoughts. Why was she letting him affect her so badly? She usually ignored guys altogether- the ones her age were all idiots. She should be finding him creepy. He's so much older than her, but then she'd always been into mature guys. Besides, she's mature for her age anyway. She started putting on the dress, puzzling it over in her head. Looking in the wing mirror, she could see that James was being true to his word. As far as she could see, anyway. The dress looked amazing, even on her. Politeness had prevented her from saying that she, Eleanor, never wore dresses. Or skirts, for that matter. Fortunately, the dress was long and disguised her legs. She had a thing about her legs. Also, she had worried that the startling red streak in her hair would clash with the purple fabric, but James was right. She looked... pretty good. Very good. Unusually good. Hearing her step out of the car again, James turned around and whistled in disbelief. "Honey, you would not believe the difference a new dress makes." He nodded to Benson again, who produced a pair of strappy silver diamante heels from somewhere in his voluminous overcoat. She put them on gratefully, massaging her tired feet. At least the heels were lower on this pair- her feet couldn't have taken much more of the previous ones, even without the missing heel. James escorted her into the restaurant, and the rest of the evening passed like a blur of happy conversation. They had so much in common- their taste in music (remarkably, the Bee Gees...), their idea of a great holiday and even their favourite dishes. Eleanor was aware of James buying two more drinks, and everything became even more hazy. She remembered laughing and seeing his face, and then everything spiralled into blackness.
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead. You've been asleep for almost twelve hours". She woke up to a room with ornate gold wallpaper and a beautiful scarlet chaise longue. Startled, she gathered up the duvet around herself, and was relieved to find that she was still in the purple dress she was wearing at dinner. James walked into her field of vision and smirked, "Don't worry. I'm not the kind of guy to take advantage...although sometime you might allow me to try." She blushed hotly and replied, "We'll see. Where am I?" after ascertaining that they had to be somewhere in Covent Garden, because of the horizon she could see from the large window. "The Waldorf Hotel, The Strand. I've taken the liberty of informing your friends that you won't be joining them for breakfast." She narrowed her eyes at James, already in another designer suit. "How did you know where I live?" He smiled and raised his eyebrows. "I could tell you a lot of things. I could tell you that I've been watching you for a while. True, although not for the reason that you may think. I could tell you that I've had my people research you thoroughly. And I mean thoroughly" He winked at her, "And finally, I could tell you my full name. Let me introduce myself." He took another mocking bow, and Eleanor felt a deep-rooted sense of dread at what he was about to say. The designer clothing. The fast car. The lilting voice and deep, dark eyes. He extended his hand again and laughed. "My name is James. James Moriarty. But you can call me...Jim."