A/N: Hiya! First off, I would like to say that I am really, truly, very sorry for not updating in a long while. Like before, I had this chapter written up in February - only for writer's block to come and stop me from completing the chapter, and for that I apologize. Secondly, today is the third year anniversary of my story, so I would like to wish my story a happy birthday - yay! Anyway, enough babbling, on with the story!

(Jenny's POV)

There are many things in the world that scare people. For some, it's spiders. Others will say they're afraid of heights. Most will even be frightened of clowns. Luckily, I'm not scared of any of them. I'm a fearless, feisty and courageous person. I've gone up against villains, criminals and petty low-life scum. Anything they throw at me, I throw at them back tenfold, and I always come out a winner. Those guys don't scare me. Nothing scares me – not even death! That is until today.

I'm feeling timid and nervous as I'm sitting in an expensive restaurant with Frank while we wait for someone. This person is the reason why I'm feeling so anxious. I've only got one chance to impress them. This person could either make me… or break me.

I'm talking about Martha London – a former MI9 field agent turned secretary, now retired. She is also Frank's mother. This will be the first time I'll be meeting her, and there's a part of me that's worried I'm gonna do something that's gonna make her dislike me. Or maybe she'll act all kind and sweet to me when Frank is around but the minute his back is turned, she's gonna turn into a nasty, possessive jerk who's gonna pull out all the stops to ridicule, abuse and undermine me – until Frank comes back and she's all nicey nice again. But there's also another part of me that's hoping she's gonna be actually sweet and easy-going – like my mum was when Frank and I visited her and the rest of the family – Aunt Hermione and Uncle Richie included – over Christmas.

We had to come up with an excuse as to why I was in a sling and I had a cut on my forehead that's puckered up with black thread, and why Frank had stitches on his face as well. I didn't want my family thinking we had one big, almighty argument, but I couldn't exactly tell them that I stopped an ex-MI9 operative turned maniac from killing his former colleagues and stealing highly dangerous weaponry from the vault. So in the end, I told them I got a little too tipsy at the Christmas party I was at and fell down some stairs, while Frank told my family that he tried to break up a fight and he got smacked in the face with a woman using her diamond ring as a weapon. Anyway, after we spun that little tale, we enjoyed a nice little Christmas lunch. Frank, the gentleman that he is, helped my mum prepare the dinner. He was very chatty with her, while my mum was asking him all sorts of stuff, laughing and joking, almost flirting with him (which I found a bit weird considering that a, she's old enough to be his mum and b, she's married to my dad and he was in the next room!). And like any other parent, she shared embarrassing stories about me. She even showed him old baby photos of me after lunch. Frank was crooning and having a good laugh while my face was hot with embarrassment. Eventually, my dad came to the rescue and took the photo album away from Mum and told her to stop tormenting me. It all worked out in the end though – Mum was absolutely smitten with him and Frank said he liked my mum. And it was then that he suggested I should meet his mother – on the weekend after New Year's.

So here we are – sitting in a swanky restaurant in Park Lane, on a Friday night, offering breathtaking and stunning views over London from the twenty-eighth floor, including iconic sites such as Hyde Park and Buckingham Palace.

I spent more than an hour getting ready for this dinner. I went for a jeans and sparkly top combo, but decided that they looked like I'm going out clubbing. I put on a low-cut outfit, which looked far too sexy and showed off a lot of my cleavage. In the end, I opted for a yellow sheath dress with matching leather heels, and black and white beaded earrings and necklace. My hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, with the side parting covering up my stitches. Frank doesn't look shabby himself – he's sporting a brushed cotton blazer featuring black flocked trim on the lapels and pockets, button details at the sleeves and a silky black lining. Underneath, is a white tailored shirt, a narrow black satin tie and dark indigo jeans with turned up cuffs. Like me, he too has his hair tied back, but he's not wearing his glasses, which makes him look even more handsome.

God, I'm still a bit anxious. I've been fidgeting and squirming in my chair for the past ten minutes. I need to get myself together. I pour myself a glass of water. I gulp it, trying to calm down.

"Jenny?"

I splutter, spilling some of the water down my chin and onto my dress.

"Hey, hey, careful!" Frank is stroking my back until my coughing subsides. "Are you OK?"

I nod my head vigorously. "Yep, yep, I'm fine," I say, in this silly little squeak. I get a hankie out and wipe my chin, then give the water stain a quick rub. "Oh gosh, I'm such a clumsy idiot, aren't I? Spilling water all over myself. And I just recently bought this dress from Dorothy Perkins during the January sales for this occasion, and now I got water all over it because I'm such a klutz," I burble.

"Ssh," Frank says gently. "It's OK to be nervous – I know I was when I met your mother."

I scoff. "That's easy for you to say – you've met plenty of your ex-girlfriend's mothers, and they love you. I'm gonna be meeting your mother for the very first time and there's a chance I'm gonna do something stupid that's gonna make her hate me."

"Now that's enough of that. My mother is going to love you, just like I love you."

I raise my eyebrows at him.

"I mean, uh, not in that way. But uh, you know, like in a daughter-she-never-had kind of way," Frank stammers, looking a little pink. "You know what I mean. My point is that my mother is going to adore you. I've already told her about you and she was over the moon when I told her about our engagement, so you have nothing to worry about."

"But Frank –" I start.

He raises his finger to my lips and smiles. "No buts. Just trust me on this, OK?"

I nod. "OK."

"Good." He holds onto my hands, leans forward and kisses me on the corner of my mouth, so lightly I'm not totally sure it has actually happened. "You're gonna be fine – just be yourself, all right?"

I take a deep breath and nod.

Frank glances up. "Here she is now."

There's no turning back now.

I gaze at Frank's direction and standing at the entrance of the restaurant, is a tall woman, slender and graceful, with bright blue eyes and a beauty mark above her upper lip, wearing exquisite clothing and accessories. My eyes widen with apparent surprise. No. It can't be – can it? That's Martha London? No way – it can't possibly be her. But it is – she sees me and Frank and her face lights up, waving her fingers at us. Frank waves back while I waggle my fingers back foolishly. Then the waiter ushers the elegant woman to our table.

I can't take my eyes off of her. She's definitely not what I was expecting. Rather than looking like some little old spinster lady like Miss Marple, she exudes pure glamour and grace, like Elizabeth Taylor. She's supposed to be in her sixties, but doesn't look a day over forty. She has perfect posture – rare for a tall woman – and holds her head high, pronounced chin proudly forward, in a manner so natural it seems almost forced. Her rich, dark brown hair with fabulous white streaks is pulled back in a chic knot, deliberately loose enough to look casual but still supremely neat. And don't get me started on her outfit – it's simply divine! It starts with a camel-coloured coat and sheath skirt made of flannel. The coat features tiny brown buttons and fur plush trim. Underneath is an impeccable ivory knit sweater with pearl buttons that's piped in camel-coloured charmeuse. Upscale accessories include brown gloves, taupe tights, a leopard print bag with leather and snakeskin details, a brown fur scarf, brown heels, a golden charm bracelet and a sparkling rhinestone brooch. She does not appeal to look particularly intimidating. She seems rather gentle and somewhat fragile.

"Frankie, darling!" she cries when she reaches our table. Her voice is high and plummy.

Frank stands up and greets his mother with a kiss to the cheek. "Hello, Mummy. You're looking lovely as always."

"Oh, stop!" Martha playfully swats her son. "But thank you for that. You don't look to bad yourself. You look more like your father every day."

"Let me take your coat." He helps Martha out of her coat and drapes it over her chair. Then he pulls out her seat.

"Thank you, dear," she says, sitting down and taking off her gloves. She's trained him well.

As soon as she's comfortable, Martha turns her head to look me in the eye – and smiles! "Hello," she says. "I take it you are the very lucky lady who captured my sweet Frankie's heart."

"Yes, she is," Frank answers, taking his seat. "Mummy, may I introduce you to my beautiful fiancée, Jenny Brownstone? Jen, this is my equally beautiful mother, Martha London."

Martha extends her hand. "How do you do?" she says.

"How do you do?" I respond, shaking her hand. The hand she holds is feminine, soft, with long, graceful fingers of a concert pianist. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Mrs London."

"Oh please, dear. No need for formalities – just call me Martha."

"Martha," I repeat, nodding in affirmation.

A waiter comes to our table and hands us three large menus. I open mine up and hold it up in front of me so I can't see Martha. I close my eyes and let out a mental sigh.

"Psst. Jen."

I open my eyes and turn to Frank, leaning towards me. He too is holding is menu up so his mother can't see him.

"Are you OK?"

"Yeah – I think. I mean, I was OK, wasn't I?" I ask.

"You were great. Mother seems to have taken an instant liking to you. What do you think of her?"

"She seems kind. Pleasant. And very elegant. She wasn't what I was expecting. She looks like a glamorous Hollywood actress. She's the kind of woman who wouldn't be seen dead in the usual granny gear. I bet she has men hitting on her left, right and centre."

"You've got that right. I often wonder why she never remarried. It certainly wasn't from the lack of offers."

"What are you two lovebirds twittering about?" we hear Martha ask. Frank and I put down our menus. "Were you two talking about me? Good things, I hope."

"Er, yes, we were, actually," I say. "I was just saying how graceful and stylish you look."

"Thank you, dear. And I must say you are looking stunning tonight yourself."

I feel a wave of colour flush my cheeks at the compliment. "Thank you," I mumble.

Martha smiles in response. "So are you ready to order?"

She calls for the waiter while I quickly look through the menu at the list of pricey dishes – the cheapest being twenty-four pounds. In the end, I go for a deep-fried courgette flower, bocconcini, caponata and braised coco beans; Frank orders ballotine of foie gras, marinated prunes, orange and pain d'épice; and Martha goes for scallops ceviche, Aquitaine caviar, pickled kohlrabi and sweet soy, along with a fairly expensive bottle of red wine. The waiter takes his leave after writing down our orders.

"So let's see it, then," says Martha. I stare, confused. "The ring!"

Ah-ing, I show my future mother-in-law the ring that Frank slipped on my finger.

"It's beautiful – it truly is," she says. She lets out a small excited squeal. "Ooh, you have no idea how thrilled I am. I can't believe my little boy is getting married." Martha pinches Frank's cheek.

"Mummy, please! There are people here."

"I'm sorry, sweetie. It's just… I'm so happy for you. And I know that your father would be, too. If only he was here."

Frank takes hold of his mother's hand. "I know. I miss him, too. And I'm sure that he would have loved Jenny like a daughter."

"We would have got on like a house on fire," I say. "Frank told me James was one of MI9's finest agents."

Martha nods. "He was indeed. As well as the finest agent, he was the most dashing. He gave you a look that would make you weak at the knees. I have a picture of him if you'd like to see it."

She goes into her bag and fishes out her purse. From the purse she brings out a photograph and hands it to me.

"Wow," I murmur as I stare at the headshot. Martha was right – James London was certainly good-looking, especially with those incredible blue-grey eyes. His hair is short and black hair, with a comma of which falls on his forehead, over the right eyebrow. His jawline is the stuff that leading men in Hollywood would paid megabucks to achieve at the cosmetic surgeon's office – but I know immediately that his is completely natural – and there is a three-inch long, thin vertical scar on his right cheek.

"He's so handsome," I say, handing the photo back to Martha.

"Yes, he was," she says. She looks down at the picture and sighs. "I remember the day I first met him. I just graduated from MI9's training facility after spending three years there. I was approached by them when I left university. As well as being the daughter of an MI6 agent, I'm also multilingual and can carry out fast and accurate calculations having studied Modern and Medieval Languages, and Mathematics at Cambridge. Anyway, I remember entering Thames House for my first day as translator and data analyst. I was ready to make a brilliant first impression – only for me to run into a gentleman when I rounded the corner to get into the office, spilling my latte all over his suit. When I recovered from the collision, I realized how attractive he was. I retrieved my silk handkerchief from my bag and nervously wiped at the coffee satin, apologizing as I did so, but he told me not to worry about it. I was grinning like a teenage girl with a crush on the teacher. His features was so powerful, I could barely maintain direct eye contact. I apologized again for ruining his suit, explaining to him that it was my first day and I was excited and nervous at the same time that I wasn't paying attention, and how I offered to have the suit dry-cleaned. He told me it wasn't necessary as he never liked that suit – he even thanked me for crashing into him like that. Then he introduced himself to me as James London. I was going to tell him my name when my superior told James to stop flirting with the girls and told me to get my behind in the office at once. James said that he would see me around and with a wink he walked off. I felt so giddy I could barely concentrate with my work. He was all I could think about. As he was a field agent, I didn't see much of him, but when he would leave or come back from his missions he would visit and we would exchange witty, flirtatious conversations. He was the dream – or at least I thought he was."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

Martha exhales deeply. "Well… after about eight months of flirting and dreaming hopelessly about him, I decided to ask James out for a drink. I spent a whole week getting myself spruced up – hair, nails, clothes, you know. Anyway, after work on Friday and spending half an hour calming my nerves, I went over to James' office. But when I got there, I saw a large group of women surrounding him. They were flirting with him, teasing him, caressing him sensually – and he didn't seem to mind at all. I shot off and sat in the toilets, crying. When I came out fifteen minutes later, I bumped into one of my colleagues, Christian Winfield. Apparently he noticed how upset I was when I saw those women around James. It was then Christian told me that James was a well-known womanizer. He was always flirting with women, dating them, seducing them, sleeping with them, and then abandoning them, leaving them heartbroken – whether he was on an assignment or not. After that I started to avoid James. Whenever he walked by, I didn't smile at him. Whenever he spoke me, I didn't meet his eyes or I would reply with a curt, "fine" if he asked me how I was. Whenever I entered the office, I would find small gifts or flowers from him – but I always threw them in the bin. He was always going out of his way to try to impress me to get a smile out of me, only to end up making a fool out of himself most of the time, and I still regarded him as an arrogant and obnoxious toerag, treating him with absolute disdain – despite the fact I still had romantic feelings for him. This went on for two years."

"Whoa," I murmur. I always thought that Martha and James fell head over heels in love with each other when they first met; instead James was a smooth-talking Casanova who seduced women into the bedroom – on and off missions – and Martha avoided him for two years because she didn't want to fall for his charms and be left broken-hearted.

I'm so engrossed with the story I don't realize our food on the table until Martha takes a bite out of her scallop ceviche and takes a sip of wine. Frank is already munching into his starter. I want to dig into mine but there's one thing I've just got to know.

"Wait a minute. You two got together in the end. What happened?"

Martha takes another sip of wine. "SKUL happened," she says. "They had a mole inside MI9, and he had leaked a hallucinogenic drug which caused people to suffer bad dreams, giving SKUL the opportunity to wreak havoc and commit crimes without getting caught. The only people who weren't caught up in the commotion were the agents assigned on their missions – including James, who was in Washington. When he came back and saw the chaos that was happening in MI9, he went after the person responsible and… well, let's just say that the mole is spending the rest of his life in prison drinking his food through a straw. But before James beat the mole into a bloody, semi-paralyzed pulp, he made the mole create an antidote. As soon as the antidote was discharged, everyone went back to normal, dazed and confused about what happened. Some of us were injured during the frenzy, including me. Apparently, one of my colleagues thought I was an evil clown trying to kill him so he gave me a crack across the head, knocking me out cold."

"Ouch," I mutter.

"I was unconscious for five weeks," Martha continues. "When I woke up, I found myself in a hospital room with James slumped over my bed. When he woke up and saw me, he burst into tears, saying how I was going to be all right. He never left my side in the five weeks I was in a coma. He talked non-stop, read Jane Austen novels to me because she's my favourite author, and brought pink roses as they are my favourite flowers. He neglected his duties to MI9 to be with me. I didn't understand why he was doing this as I have been avoiding him. It turns out that he developed feelings for me just weeks after he first saw me. At first I was suspicious – I thought he was saying all that because I was lying in hospital, but he told me that loved my smile. He found it rather arresting. He said he enjoyed coming into MI9 and see me greet him with a bright smile. He said that some nights he'd wake up in the middle of the night, body drenched with sweat after dreaming about running his hands over my body. There were days when he couldn't even concrete on his work because all he could think about was stripping my clothes off, one article at a time – tasting every delectable inch of me…"

"Mother!" Frank cries out – earning some odd looks from the diners and earning himself a very pink face.

"Sorry, darling. Anyway, it seems that, by that time, James had matured somewhat and stopped flirting and sleeping with women. This led to me agreeing to go out with him; and my attractions to him grew into genuine affection and eventually love.

"We went out for two years before James decided to propose to me. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a few days before Christmas – he took me out to dinner to Clos Maggiore, the most romantic restaurant in London. Then he took me on a horse drawn carriage ride and we snuggled up under a warm blanket together as we travelled at a leisurely pace through the Royal Parks, and viewing some of London's fascinating sights – Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square and Westminster Cathedral. Halfway through the ride, someone dressed up as Santa stopped the carriage and asked for my name and then told me that he had a little something for me. 'Santa' pulled box after box out and handed them to me, each one having a small toy. Finally, after several presents, he handed a small box to me, containing an engagement ring, and that's when James got down on one knee and asked me to marry him."

"Awww! That is so romantic," I croon.

"It was indeed – and of course I said yes. We got married on Christmas Day, 1980." Martha goes into her purse and hands me another photograph. "This is us on our wedding day."

"Aw – don't they look lovely?" I say, showing the photograph to Frank. And they do. James looks incredibly handsome in his morning suit, complete with top hat, kid leather gloves and a white carnation in the lapel. And Martha looks stunningly gorgeous in a beautiful brocade fabric that forms a gored A-line dress with empire waist, long sleeves and roll collar. Fur and gold/white braid accent the cuffs and hem. The headpiece features a Juliet cap of brocade trimmed in front with braid and a double layer of tulle for the veil. She's carrying a bouquet of seven white flowers with green net and white satin ribbon streamers. White gloves and white tee strap shoes complete the lovely ensemble.

"You were very beautiful, Martha," I say, handing back the photo to her. "And you still are now."

"Thank you, dear," she says. "The ceremony was a quiet affair – family and friends only, with a few of our MI9 colleagues present. Our honeymoon was in the Caribbean aboard a luxury cruise ship – which was hijacked by terrorists. They installed an atomic bomb, holding both the passengers and the bomb hostage, hoping to exchange them £70 million ransom in gold. We worked with the ship's first officer to stop the terrorists and disarmed the bomb."

"No way," I breathe. That is incredibly bad-ass.

"I was immediately promoted to field agent after that," Martha carries on. "James and I travelled all over the world, using our wits and muscle to stop the villains and save the world. After about nineteen months, we were assigned to rescue the wife of the UK Ambassador to the nation of Verrani. In exchange for her release, the revolutionaries wanted their imprisoned fellow revolutionaries freed. We rescued the ambassador's wife and defeated the kidnappers. After that mission, we discovered that I was pregnant."

I let out a gasp. "Please, please, please tell me you have pictures of Frank as a baby."

Martha brings a few photographs from her bag and hands them to me. I immediately start fawning over the pictures – this little baby in Martha's arms tugging at her long brown hair, another of Frank, probably aged three, taking a piggy-back ride on his father's back, another with him as a baby in a bathtub and a ridiculously cute photo of toddler Frank naked, butt-up on a rug.

"Oh my God, Frank. You looked so adorable!" I coo, as he's going beet red.

"Francis James London – born on the 27th of August, 1983, weighing seven pounds and eight ounces," says Martha. "Six months after the birth I returned to my old desk job, but James was frequently away from Frank on missions, meaning that I had to care for him myself – with some help from my father and sister as James had no family." She lets out a sigh. "Before he left for his final mission, I begged and pleaded with James to not go as I had a feeling that something bad would happen to him. But he swore his loyalty to his country, and he knew I couldn't go with him because of Frank, but he promised me that after the mission, he would leave MI9 and the three of us could be a family. I reluctantly agreed. We said our goodbyes and I love you's, he kissed goodbye Frank – who was five years old at the time… and that was the last time we ever saw him."

I feel the tears stinging in my eyes. I take Frank's hand and give a little squeeze. He squeezes back.

"Six weeks went past since James disappeared and I was informed that they called off the search as they couldn't find him. Two days after learning the news… I had a miscarriage."

"Oh, my God." I cover my mouth with my hand. "You were pregnant?"

Martha nods. "I was a month and a half along. I didn't even know I was pregnant until I started getting cramps and pains, and I felt very faint and light-headed. I was taken to hospital where I was told the news. The doctors said that it was due to psychological trauma of James' death. I was prescribed antidepressants and referred to a counsellor. After about a year, I had to start accepting that James was gone and I had to move on because he would have wanted me to do.

"With the money that James left to me when he passed, I could've left MI9, taken Frank away and we could have lived quietly for the rest of our lives. But I had a duty to do – and that was to serve and protect the public. So I continued to serve the agency – but not as a spy. I told my superiors I was not fit for field work, and should remain only in a desk job at MI9. It was then I was offered role of secretary to the Director General. It was a role I maintained for twenty-three years, until I retired in 2012. I'll admit it wasn't easy being personal assistant to the head of MI9 while bringing up a child but I somehow managed to raise Frank to be the man that he is today."

"And I must say you did an excellent job," I say. "He's smart, chivalrous, courteous, and honourable. He is a true gentleman indeed."

"Like father, like son," says Martha, while Frank flushes with pride at the compliments. Then she shakes her head as if she's breaking out of a daydream. "Anyway, listen to me going on about myself. I want to know everything about you, Jenny. First, let's finish off our starters and then order our main meals."

We do just that, along with taking in the peerless views of London. When we finish our plates, Frank calls over the waiter and we order the main course. After the waiter leaves the table, I begin to tell Martha all about myself – my family, education, hobbies and of course, juggling my work as a teacher and an agent.

"Fascinating – absolutely fascinating," says Martha. "And now that I know everything about you, I've just got to ask: how you and Frankie meet?"

"Actually, Mummy, there's something you should know," says Frank before I can answer. "When Jen and I first met, she thought I was just the caretaker and I thought she was just a teacher, not knowing that we were both concealing our true professions from one another."

"What Frank is saying is that when we met at St Hope's, I didn't know he was an MI9 agent and he didn't know that I was… the Cat," I explain, whispering the last two words to Martha.

She blinks a couple of times, not saying a word. Our meal arrives and she still doesn't say anything.

"Mother, say something," says Frank.

There's another moment of silence. Then, "Well," she starts, "this has certainly come as a surprise. Who would have thought that the person you were after was right under your nose?"

Frank and I cast each other brief glances before our eyes darted back to his mother.

"To think that my future daughter-in-law was the cat-costumed crime-fighter," Martha goes on. "And I have to say that I am most excited to finally meet the person who ran rings around MI9."

It's my turn to be silent – but only for a few seconds. "Oh," I say. "Ah… thank you."

"I should tell you now that I greatly admired the Cat. Director Fairchild and I would always talk about how we wanted to recruit you – and it seems it the director has won you over."

"In more ways than one." And as we eat, I progress in telling Martha my time as the Cat – from how I started, my missions, when I was with Frank – on and off and back on again – and to when I was recruited to MI9.

"My word – what an exciting tale," says Martha when I finish. "I'm so glad MI9 recruited you. Such an exciting and daring adventure you have had. My late husband would have definitely loved you – he was always a bit of a daredevil." She finishes off the rest of her plate and dabs her lips with a napkin. "You know, Jen, when I came in here and saw you, I knew you were perfect for my son – not only are you courageous, you're also beautiful and intelligent, but most of all… you make him happy."

I feel myself blush. "Thank you. And you'll be pleased to know that Frank makes me happy, too." I turn to him and smile. "And I love him."

Frank smiles back. "I love you, too."

"Then you have my blessing," I hear Martha say.

I turn my head back to her. "You really mean that?"

Martha nods. "I want wish you both a long and happy life together."

"Oh, Mummy." Frank leans over and pulls her into his embrace. "Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me."

"You're a good boy, Frankie, and I trust that you will treat this girl the same way you'll treat me."

"You can count on that. I'm gonna spoil Jen like the princess that she is." Frank pulls back and takes hold on my hand. "She's my special girl."

I feel myself blush at his comment.

"This calls for a celebration," says Martha, and refills our glasses. "I propose that we all drink to the health and happiness of Frankie and the woman that he, to my great joy, is adding permanently to our family: Jenny Brownstone." Martha raises her glass. "To Frank and Jenny."

"To us," Frank and I say, raising our glasses.

I bring the glass to my lips, ready to take a sip when the sound of cutlery, glasses and crockery smash to the floor from across the restaurant – and then there is a high-pitched scream: "Oh, my God! He's dead!"