Chapter Four: "All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts." ~ William Shakespeare, "As You Like It"

I keep hearing a faint noise that sounds like my phone. I roll over, burrowing under a soft coverlet, but I can still hear it. Oh, hell, it IS my phone. Staggering out of the four-poster bed, I go over to the side-table where I parked my bag and paw through it. My phone stops ringing, then starts again, and I sleepily answer it.

"Angel!" The woman's voice is both angry and full of concern. "Angel, are you all right?"

"Yeah," I mumble. What the hell time is it anyway? "Yeah, I'm okay..."

"You did not text in after your meeting." My manager's voice is cold as ice. "I have been trying to get in touch with you for an hour. What happened?"

"The client left, and I fell asleep...I'm really sorry!" And that's the truth, I am sorry. I don't like making people angry.

Stiffly, she says, "I would appreciate it if you could possibly remember to text in after successful completion of each assignment, as you are supposed to. I hope you have not also forgotten that you have a lunch meeting Friday-today, that is! As well as a GFE in the evening. Do you need me to repeat the particulars?"

"No, ma'am, I have them written down. I won't forget," I yawn, covering my mouth so she won't hear.

"Angel," her voice softens a bit, "this is not the time to be lax about your personal safety. We have our little protocols for good reason, please take them seriously, will you?"

"Yes, ma'am. I will."

"Good night, then." Click.

I wish I knew her name; I feel like a schoolgirl calling her "ma'am" all the time, but I can understand why the managers at the Agency insist on anonymity. The laws regarding prostitution in this country are so messed up, that neither I nor my clients are doing anything illegal - but the agency that brokers the deal and makes my appointments, is. Go figure.

Well, I can either go back to bed here, or call for a minicab and go home...decisions, decisions...that bed is just too inviting. I set the alarm on my phone for a reasonable time, and tumble back in.

# # #

It's raining miserably in the morning as I leave the hotel, and I am quite glad to have that big, black umbrella with me. I hope Holmes has a spare one so he won't have to go without. I arrive back at the flat in a real downpour, and wet to the knees just from the splashes. I'm going to be so mad if this silk dress is ruined...I'll have to see what miracles the dry-cleaner can do.

Pablo runs over miaowing when I get in the door, but he declines to rub against my legs when he realizes how wet I am. There is a note from my sister on the kitchen table; she wasn't home last night either, it seems. She's been staying over at what's-his-name's place off-and-on all week, probably avoiding me after our little row on Monday. Whatever.

I feed the cat and myself, and I'm just settled in over a nice, hot mug of tea when Sara calls. I almost don't bother to answer, but change my mind at the last minute. She doesn't even bother to say hello, but clips out, "Turn on the television. You need to see the morning news."

"Why, hallo and good morning to you, too, sister dear!" I chirp at her, fake-cheerful.

"Just turn on the damn telly," she snarls, and hangs up.

I put the phone down slowly. I really don't want to, but I go and turn on the morning news.

Another escort was murdered last night. Shot in the head on her way home, just like Calypso, in a cab, in the middle of the night, and not too far from Kensington. No name given, not even her working name, so I can't tell if I know her or not. God, that could have been me! If I had taken a cab home last night, I might've gone by that way.

They have a drawing of the shooter, taken from descriptions given by the drivers, and it looks like police drawings always do - so generic it could be anybody. The picture shows a white male with a dark beard, glasses, and a dark hoodie drawn up tight around his face. Right. The beard and glasses are probably fake, and how many men with dark hoodies are in this city? Several thousand?

The sound bite of an interview with the Met detective is the usual vague no comment, no comment, several good leads but no comment at this time. Can't blame them for not wanting to tip their hand.

And then come the man-on-the-street reaction interviews, and I can't believe it. I want to reach through the screen and slap the smugness off the faces of a couple of them, particularly the arsehole who shrugs and says, "Well, at least somebody is taking it on themselves to get the rubbish off the streets." Unbelievable. Unbe-fucking-lievable.

# # #

I am still fuming when it comes time for my lunch meeting, and I have to spend a few minutes alone in the ladies' room before I can face my client. Sometimes, when I'm just not feeling it, I have to psych myself up to get through a meeting. I learned a few techniques in acting class that really help you to focus on calling up the feeling you need to project, the person you need to be for that circumstance. I need to be charming for the next hour or so, because this client is actually more interested in my companionship than my body. Strange, but it does happen.

The restaurant we're at, One Twenty One Two, is a foodie haven, and this client, "Mr. Jacobs," loves to take escorts here so he can enjoy pleasant company with his meal, and show off his culinary knowledge to someone who will act as if they appreciate it. He's actually very nice, if a bit tedious, but he's paying me to pay attention so I have to have my head straight. The Gloucestershire Old Spots Pork Belly with Cumberland sauce for starters is delicious, but it leads into nearly twenty minutes of lecture on hog breeds and breed conservancy, and how modern breeding is destroying the finesse of fine English pork. I have a hard time not yawning.

By the time we are to the Kent Apple and Blackberry Crumble, and the lecture on heirloom apples and how modern apple varieties are soulless and evil, I am ready to scream. It's a relief when "Mr. Jacobs" breaks with routine and delicately asks if I would mind giving him a massage and "some special attention" with the time remaining. I'm definitely game, and after agreeing how much of a tip is required for the extras, we retire to a room at the hotel above.

I have strong hands, and I've been told I give an excellent massage. The blow job isn't too shabby either, and "Mr. Jacobs" goes back to work, wherever he works, with a smile on his face.

I have the rest of the afternoon to kill before I have to get ready for my evening assignment, so I decide to hit the gym and work off some of that heavy lunch from the One Twenty, and I also vow to avoid looking at any more news about the latest shooting. I don't want to feel sluggish tonight, or depressed. A GFE can be very demanding.

GFE stands for Girl Friend Experience, and it's basically going out on a paid date. It's always an over-night, although exactly what you do depends on the client and what he likes-it might be an opera, it might be a nightclub, it might be a rugby game. Whatever it is, you have to act like you are having the time of your life. It always ends up back at the client's place, with sex and cuddles and back-rubs and pillow-talk in varying amounts.

This GFE will be a little different because, according to my manager, the client wants a sexual experience "in an unusual environment." Now, there is an interesting phrase...in an elevator? In an alley? On a bus? I've done it in all those places, but we'll have to see what this fellow means by "unusual," and if it's something I want to go along with.

# # #

It turns out that his idea of "unusual" is pretty outrageous. He wants to stand-up shag in various places, in plain sight, and jump into his car and drive off before the police arrive to arrest us for indecency! I laugh and tell him he's completely mad, but he promises me a big tip if I'll play along - and to bail me out and pay my fines if we get caught. I give it a few moments and decide, what the hell? It's certainly something different.

I am definitely not feeling into it tonight, but my acting skills carry the day - or night, as it were. My client, "Bobby," is young and good-looking, a Canadian by his accent, although I don't ask. We don't ask personal details, it's part of the protocol. He is obviously just visiting London, though, and wants a tour guide as much as a partner in crime. After a late dinner at a small, exclusive club I've never even heard of, we take off in a little hired Mercedes to do his dream-tour of the City. He has a bucket-list of the usual tourist spots, plus some others. Thank goodness the rain has cleared off, and it's a very mild night.

"Bobby" parks the car as close as possible to the target site, and we get out and stroll hand-in-hand like lovers. When he gives me the high sign, I hoist the hem of my dress up a bit, he undoes his zipper, grabs my bum and we go at it for a few minutes, oblivious to onlookers, then stroll back to the car. Well, in one case, we have to run for the car - we didn't know there would be a policeman in Trafalgar Square just then.

My client is having the time of his life, whooping and laughing as we zoom around. I am having to work at acting like I am having a good time, but he is too excited to notice, I think. I do like knowing that I am going to be part of this guy's once-in-a-lifetime memories, though. I even let him take a few selfies with his phone, although the Agency frowns on photos. All in all, it's okay. But then, at the third stop, I notice something that makes my gut clench up: The security cameras are moving.

All the tourist spots that we visit have CCTV cameras, and I realize that they are swiveling around to focus on us every time we stop. I mean, when was the last time you saw one move? They never move. They are just there, right? But tonight, the cameras move, following us. It's not like what we are doing is blackmail-worthy or even very graphic; we're not even exposing ourselves, technically. But the cameras are definitely following us.

I point it out to "Bobby" and he is skeptical, maintaining that those CCTV cameras are mostly dummies anyway, and only meant to scare people into behaving. Maybe in Toronto, I tell him, but not here; he still laughs it off, so I decide to let it go and not get my knickers in a knot over it. After all, it's got to be him they are watching, not me. I'm a nobody, whilst he is obviously stinking rich.

We hit all the places on "Bobby's" list over the course of a few hours, but we don't see one single cop after the one we flushed out in Trafalgar Square. However, we are followed by security cameras the whole time; I'm sure that even the ones in the lobby of his posh hotel are following us as we finally head back at the end of the night, but that could be paranoia talking. Up in his room, we put on a movie and I pull some massage oil out of my overnight bag, and give him a little back-rub. He is passed out, snoring, in minutes.

I tap out a quick text to my manager then, although on a GFE it's technically not required. I'm still trying to make up for last night, I know. Then I snuggle down with "Bobby" the Mad Canuck, and wonder why he doesn't have a real girlfriend to share nights like tonight with, why the bloody cameras were so interested in us, who it was that got shot last night, and if anybody is going to get killed tonight. And I'm grateful that I am here with this snoring lump, who is going to tip me outrageously tomorrow.

# # #

My mad Canadian is disappointed in the morning that I won't extend the GFE for the rest of the weekend. The money he offers is tempting, and I'm flattered that he wants to spend more time with me, but frankly, I'm tired of him, and I have other plans for the day.

I do let him drop me off at the flat, though, because I want one more ride in that cute little Mercedes. He kisses me goodbye, just as if I were really a girlfriend, and he tells me he'll see me later. Right. But he comes through on the tip he promised me, and then some, so the happy hug I give him in return is definitely genuine.

Sara is home doing her Saturday chores, fighting with the washer-dryer in our tiny laundry room, and giving me the I'm-not-really-talking-to-you-yet treatment; she'll acknowledge my presence, but not give me any eye contact or respond in anything other than monosyllables. It's so stupid, but we do it all the time. She gets mad at me for being selfish or too demanding or whatever, and she'll stay snippy forever until I win her over again. I don't know why we have to do it this way, but we do.

Since I've had two clients give me unexpectedly generous tips, I decide to start out by stroking her in the wallet. Nice and direct, guaranteed to help change anybody's mind about you.

"Hey, I came into some extra cash, and I haven't forgotten that I owe you. Here." I peel off some bills and hold them out to her. Sara looks suspiciously at them, and at me, and goes back to fiddling with the door on the washer-dryer, trying to get it latched just right so the thing will work.

"You don't owe me any money," she says stubbornly. The door finally clicks locked, and water begins to run. She pours in the laundry suds.

"Yes, I do. For groceries, and my half of the electric, and the cab fare I had to borrow two months ago. It adds up. Seriously, I've been keeping track."

Sara gives me a look only an older sister can deliver, and takes the money. "You never keep track," she says, but she folds up the peace offering and puts it in her jeans pocket. Now she'll let me apologize.

I subtly slip into the posture of juvenile contrition, hands in pockets, head down and slightly tilted, eyes glancing tentatively between my toes and her face. I don't know why it works, but it does. Well, it works with Sara, anyway. "Sairs, I'm sorry I was so snarky to you the other morning. I didn't mean it to come out so sarcastic. I'm lucky that you care."

She wrinkles her nose at me. "Don't lay it on too thick, it taints the sincerity. And I'm sorry, too."

And just like that, it's all just fine. In a few minutes, we are sitting in the kitchen and gossiping over tea and biscuits. Sara is amused and aghast by turns at my escapades last night; she squeals over and over, "Oh, my god, you didn't! Ack!" I don't mention the security cameras, but then Sara doesn't bring up the third murder, either. It's nice to feel connected to her again; we don't have a lot of other family left.

We get around to plans for the weekend, and I mention that I've taken today off to go to Buckinghamshire.

"Oh? What's there?"

I give her a wicked grin. "I'm crashing a wedding at Stoke Park."

"Oh, my god, Angelica Elizabeth Talbot! You can't just go and show up at a wedding! That's rude!"

"They'll hardly notice me, I'll be quiet as a mouse."

"You're spying on someone, aren't you?" Sara presses her lips together and makes that big-sister face again. "You aren't going obsessive again, are you? You remember what happened-"

"It's not like that, not at all. And that was ages ago, I was just a teenager!" Well, nineteen; that still counts, doesn't it?

"Just don't be a stalker, okay? People don't like it. You don't want to get threatened with a restraining order again, do you?"

"Nobody's going to have to threaten me with anything, Sara." Because I'm a lot more sly about it these days, I silently add.

# # #

Later, on the train, I finally make myself take out the newspaper that I stowed in my big shoulder-bag and read the write-up on what they're now calling "The Call-Girl Killer." I'm glad that they've dropped the whole Jack-the-Ripper thing, because there's no resemblance outside of the victims being sex workers. The media can be so moronic.

The latest victim is still not being identified by name, but I'm relieved to see that I don't recognize her from the photo. It's another glamor shot from an escort agency gallery, she's in black leather and biting a riding crop; apparently she was a specialist. The article has several photos of the other two victims as well, and sure as anything they printed the sleaziest ones they could find. They even managed to find photos that make classy Calypso look like a slut-the subliminal message being, "See, these are fallen women, they are bad girls, but good girls are safe. You're safe, because you're not like Them." Bastards. But what do you expect? They want to sell more papers, and will do whatever it takes. The media don't set the tastes and standards of society; they just pander to it.

Lost in my ruminations, I'm at Stoke Park before I know it. Now, let's talk about pandering. The resort is an elegant, elite, 300-acre world unto itself. It's a beautiful, bright summer day, and the flower gardens around the grounds are spectacular; the air is heavy with the smell of roses as I walk toward the wide steps of the main entry. Gorgeous place. I really enjoyed my long weekend foursome here last autumn - although I was technically working, it was more like a vacation punctuated by long bouts of very creative sex. I learned a lot. Among other things, I learned my way around the place.

I've timed my arrival perfectly, because there is a flood of guests arriving for the three o'clock wedding, the only event here today. I'm dressed very simply and elegantly, in black slacks, high-heeled sandals, and a bright blue silk shirt, with lots of big curls in my hair so I look "done up" enough to blend in with the high-class clientele despite my low-key makeup.

I merge in with the crowd, and effortlessly flow with them into the main building, the Mansion, and the whole group is funneled toward the west wing. This is a big crowd, so the nuptials will probably take place outdoors on the Fountain Terrace, with the wedding breakfast in the Fountain Room itself. I was counting on this being a big, noisy crowd, and it is; all the better to hide in. No sign of Holmes yet, but he likely is already here. I think somebody who doesn't like to be touched would rather be early and wait than arrive with the crowd.

Once I'm in the west wing, I flit down a hallway toward the kitchen and duck into the staff toilet. Securing the door, I open my big shoulder bag and pull out a plain black button-front shirt and black sneakers. Into the bag goes the silk shirt and high heels, and in minutes I am wearing the uniform that the serving staff at Stoke Park wear - trim, solid black from head to toe. Off comes the jewelry, and my hair goes back into a severe coiled bun. Standing on the toilet seat, I can reach the plain panels of the hung ceiling, and I push one aside a bit, shoving my bag up there for safe keeping.

The only thing missing is the plastic name tag, but I might be able to nick one later. In the meantime, I will just take the dressing-down for "forgetting" it today. I check my look in the little mirror above the sink, and think that it will do nicely as a disguise. People simply do not notice servers at a function; there is too much else going on, too many distractions. Just in case, I shift my posture a little and slouch myself down like I never do in real life, to trim off a few inches of height.

I join the small army of servers setting things up in the Fountain Room, which commands a good view of the Terrace just outside through wide-open French doors. I am handed a basket of forks to place around, and as I do I crane my neck to look outside and see if I can locate Holmes amidst the milling guests as they are being seated.

It takes a few minutes, but I finally spot him. He is already seated on the groom's side, all the way to the back and on the outside row. He plainly doesn't want to be here; his legs and arms are crossed, and his face looks like he has just swallowed something vaguely unpleasant. He's wearing what looks to be a light grey suit with a subtle touch of rose, a pretty cerulean blue tie and a pale apricot pocket square. The effect is almost obnoxiously cheerful, and he kind of matches the blooming rose bush right beside him; deliberate? Hard to say. I don't get to watch too long; the head server comes and scolds me for staring at the guests, and for forgetting my name-tag, and for going too slowly. She puts me to folding extra serviettes, and I'm glad I don't work here for real.

By the time all the guests are seated for the ceremony, the Fountain Room set up is done and the staff withdraws to wait until it's over and they are needed to start serving reception drinks. I don't want to be hanging around and having to make chit-chat, so I duck out and find a window in the empty Ballroom that overlooks where Holmes is sitting. It's almost painful to watch him, he's hating it so much. During the ceremony, he takes out and checks his pocket watch about a dozen times, and shifts around so much he's nearly fidgeting. Finally, he just closes his eyes with a pained expression, and endures.

When the ceremony is over, the guests mill around again on the Terrace, and the servers trot around with trays of starters and drinks for the two hours until the wedding breakfast. This is the most ticklish time for me; I want to be near enough to Holmes to watch him, but I don't want to be near enough for him to see me.

It turns out to be easier than I thought, because he doesn't mingle around at all. Once he has a drink in his hand, Holmes is rooted in place, his back to a column on the shaded side of the Terrace. Although he has a haughty look, he greets everyone pleasantly who comes up to him - but with the kind of smile that shows his back teeth, if you know what I mean.

The shark with the grey mustache from Monday comes along, with a great deal of fuss and hearty greetings, and Holmes is icily civil in return; it looks to me that showing up at this event is a huge concession on Holmes' part, and he is not happy about it. Mustache-man is happy, though, almost gleeful. He keeps bringing people over and introducing them to Holmes, whose smile stretches tighter and tighter. If he had cat-ears, they would be pinned flat in annoyance, and there would be a constant low growl.

I lose track of my quarry for a while then, because the head server ties into me again for gawking, and I actually have to go hoist some trays around. When I have a chance to look for him again, he isn't by the column any longer, but I see a flash of light grey going up the outside steps into the still-empty Ballroom. What's he up to? The bathrooms are the other way. It would be too obvious for me to follow through the door, but the Ballroom has tall windows all along it's length. I can probably get a vantage point from the side garden to see inside without being too visible myself. My black clothes don't exactly blend in with green foliage in broad daylight, but the hedge is pretty thick there.

I hope none of the staff spot me, because I don't have a good cover story in mind at all for why I am creeping around in the garden. At least I can't be seen from the Terrace.

When I glimpse Holmes again, he is sitting in a straight chair in an alcove at the far side of the Ballroom, facing out the window, but his eyes are closed. He just sits there, motionless, with his hands pressed together palm-to-palm, long fingertips parked just under his nose. He looks like he's praying, but he hasn't struck me as the religious sort at all. Maybe he's meditating?

After a few minutes, he opens his eyes to gaze out over the gardens, his face expressionless. I don't dare move, because nothing draws the eye like sudden movement. I stay perfectly still, waiting for him to turn away from the window, or close his eyes again, so I can sneak away. It seems like forever, but he finally lowers his hands and turns away from the window, and I am off like a shot out of the hedges and back toward the Terrace. I almost get collared by the head server, but a story comes tumbling out of my mouth about a little dog lost on the grounds this morning, and how I thought I had seen it in the hedges. Incredibly, she buys it, and I trot back to "work."

The crowd on the Terrace is thinning out now, it's time for the receiving line in the Great Hall, and then people will be seated for the wedding breakfast in the Fountain Room. I feel like it's time for me to exit, stage right, because I don't think I can avoid Holmes spotting me serving during the meal. Besides, I'm really tired of that head server.

Back in the staff toilet, my bag is still secure up in the ceiling where I left it. It takes just a few moments to change, and to fluff my hair back into a mane of curls. A quick re-do on my makeup, and I'm away through the Oval Room and though the lobby and headed toward the front door. As I pass the reception desk, though, I nearly run bang into a pretty brunette going the other way - we do the Pardon Me dance and walk on, but as I'm going down the marble steps of the main entrance, it dawns on me that I've seen that woman before. It was Ms. Black Dress, the woman who questioned me when I was trying to cruise by Holmes's office.

I want to be paranoid, but I'm not going to indulge myself. She probably knows Mustache-Man, they obviously work in the same building, so that's why she's here. Of course.

It takes a while to get home to my flat, with several bus and train changes along the way, and I have plenty of time to think about my little excursion. I'm totally convinced now that Holmes isn't a multiple at all, any more than I am. He looked to me like a very introverted person trying to cope with an extrovert world. The way he needed to withdraw to center himself is a classic introvert thing. His reaction to the other people was interesting, though; could he be clinically misanthropic, too? That's interesting, I should look up more on narcissistic personality disorders, because I think misanthropy is related.

It's well past six o'clock when I finally get home, and since I refuse to eat the nastiness that they serve at the stations, I'm starving. I rummage around the kitchen to see what I can find for tea. Sara is obviously out with her boyfriend, because she didn't cook anything tonight and leave me a plate.

Eventually I realize that unless I want to open a tin of Pablo's horrid fish bits, I am going to have to make a trip to the shop, or order take-away, or something. I hate having to make decisions when I'm over-hungry, my brain just doesn't work without fuel.

I want a salad, a nice, big Salade Nicoise, the way I make it. Definitely means a run to the shop, but I don't mind waiting to eat now that I know exactly what I want. My clothes are wrinkled and smell like a bus, so I change into a snug, short leather skirt and a plain white t-shirt, and some comfortable shoes. I don't even take a bag, since my keys, wallet, and phone fit in the skirt pockets, and the nearest grocery is only a few blocks away.

It's a Saturday night, and there are quite a few people out and about, enjoying the rare summer evening. I'm striding along quickly, letting my long legs do their thing, when I notice a group of people standing in front of an electronic marquee sign at a bank. They are making what-is-it noises, and as I draw near, I can see why.

Instead of the time and temperature and messages about the bank services, the red dots are spelling out, Good evening, Angelica Talbot. The letters flash, and then crawl across the screen, then flash again, over and over.

My first thought is, who on earth would play a prank like this? Sara is my best friend, but I have a lot of other people that I hang out with when the mood strikes me-and none of them could do this. I don't know anybody who could do this. The bank's not even open right now. My phone rings, and I pull it out and see that it's an unidentified caller. I don't answer those, so I flip the "ignore" button and pocket it again.

I walk quickly on, very unsettled. This has got to be a prank, but I can't fathom who could pull it off, or would want to bother. I round the corner into the next block, and there is another electronic marquee, on another bank building. This one flashes orange, and the crawling letters spell out, You ought to answer your phone, Miss Talbot.

My phone starts ringing again, and my gut goes liquid with pure fear. This is - too much. Who the hell is playing games with me? Is it the killer? Did he do this to Calypso and the other girls before he stalked them down and shot them? I shut off the ringer on my phone, and start looking for possible escapes, my mind racing as my legs continue striding mechanically down the sidewalk. The orange dots on the marquee above me go black for a moment, then light up with, Get in the car, Angelica. A sleek black saloon glides up beside and just ahead of me, and a rear door opens out.