Chapter Two
Rain Check?
I look for Irene in the large crowd of people entering the grand, but I come up short. Her distinctive Parisian perfume is absent from the air. A couple walks past me, the woman gives me a pitiful look, and I turn the corners of my lips up at her. It must look pretty tragic, sitting alone at a table for two. I glance at my watch and realize Irene is more than fifteen minutes late. I decide to order without her. I grab the menu from the center of the table.
As I sip my red wine, a small, shaky waiter approaches my table. His face twitches and his beady eyes move back and forth anxiously. He carries a small tray with him, with an aluminum cover over a large plate. I haven't ordered anything yet. It is not a bomb; he is carrying the tray too carelessly; switching hands and bumping tables as he comes forth. It's either something harmless, or he has no idea. It is obviously meant for me though, but when he reaches my table I object anyway.
"I think you have the wrong table, Sir. I say, politely, but with a slight edge to my voice. I don't recall any waiter being such a nervous wreck delivering food. I get another look at the man, and I see that his shirt is different than the other waiters', and the shoulder of his waistcoat has traces of ginger that have been carelessly brushed off, smearing it into the fabric. A ghost of a woman's red lips are on his cheek. "I haven't decided." I look back down at my menu.
"Ms. Wilson said you would be expecting this." I look up from my menu at him.
"Nellie Wilson." I say, staring through him. He nods, then sets the tray down in the middle of the tabletop. I wait until he leaves to lift the cover off the plate. A small bowl filled to the top with olives sits in the middle, along with a folded note in The Woman's handwriting.
Got caught up. So very sorry. Rain Check? I did send your favorite.
-Nellie
With a discreet smile, I fold the note and place it back where it was on the plate. I fix the napkin tucked in my shirt and proceed to eat my meal.
As I step out the doors of The Grand, olive in hand, and heavy droplets of rain immediately soak my hair. I take out my umbrella and walk back to the flat. As soon as I unlock the door, the aroma of The Woman's perfume fills my nostrils. I step quietly up the stairs, which is utterly redundant considering how creaky they are. When I reach the door to my room, I see her leaning on the doorframe, hair perfectly curled and a mischievous smile gracing her beautiful features. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes, though. Weariness and a bit of fear are mingling somewhere in there.
At a closer inspection, her dress has a small stain that resembles red sauce, and her skirt is ruffled on one side, with tiny pieces of gravel or loose cement caught in the cobalt blue fabric. Her cheeks are flushed from rushing over. She notices my gaze and smirks at me.
"Hello Sherlock," She says, sauntering over to me, her American accent ringing in my ears. "I do hope you enjoyed the olives, those are hard to get." Her fingers daintily trace the collar of my jacket, slipping it off my shoulders.
"Why are you here, Irene?" I ask, a little curiously. There is a reason to everything she does. I'm not sure why she showed up at the here, and not at the grand. She must be hiding, but from who? She walks further behind me and I turn to her. She takes off her hat, chocolate brown, curly tendrils of her hair fall out to her shoulders.
"You were right." She sighs, draping the coat on the arm of the tattered couch, then she sits down beside it.
"Of course I was. I'm never wrong." She smiles at this.
"We both know that's not true." Her face goes from light to dark, a fearful expression set in her eyes. "I need to get out of London. Out of the country, actually." She says.
"Who are you running from, Irene?" She stands from the sofa and walks around the room, facing the opposite direction. She studies the violin leaning on the mantelpiece, plucking each string, one by one.
"That isn't important, at least not now. If I get out of England undetected." She says. Her movements are stiff, every step is careful and precise, where her movements are always so fluid and elegant. Her fingers tremble with what I assume to be anxiety. Whoever she is running from, must be dangerous. Irene likes to play with criminals and delinquents like puppets, bending them to her will, just for the excitement, the sake of the game. I've never known her to run from anything, except husbands, of course. For her, getting caught and escaping was half the fun.
"I need your help, Sherlock." she states, pacing over to where I am. A portrait on my side table catches her cerulean blue eyes. The last time she was here, I'd thrust it face down on the tabletop. She gives me a lopsided smirk and stands it up. I am acutely aware of how close her body is to mine, but I don't feel very inclined to move. She tilts her head closer to mine.
"I need to be out of London by Thursday." She whispers, her lips treacherously close to my ear. I can feel her hot breath on my neck, which, regrettably, causes my voice to stumble, which I know she enjoys. She smirks against the skin on my throat. I pull away and walk past her, picking up my pipe from inside one of my slippers.
"In over your head yet, I Irene?" I muse, she doesn't seem to find it very amusing.
"Will you help me?" She states, her eyes silently pleading for my assistance. I nod, and she gives me a warm smile.
"We'll take the train to Liverpool tomorrow." I say, letting a puff of smoke from my pipe. She gives me an embrace, and this time I don't pull away.
Sorry about the long wait again, I've been extremely busy. I hope you liked it. This chapter was shorter than I wanted it to be. R&R?