Alexandra was being serious – she always was, even when she was making her odd – sometimes creepy – jokes. If this was the first time he’d met her – and if he was not an agent of MI6 – she would have succeeded in scaring him off.
She’s a misanthrope – she said that in both interviews and articles, and the characters of her books were mostly autistics, psychopaths, evil geniuses wearing masks and murdering people.
Monsters in human skin – and alternatively, humans in bodies of monsters.
“It’s a pity I’m no robot,” Richard complained almost in earnest, staring at the back of the seat ahead of him with loathing.
“You can still go back.”
The flight attendant’s voice began announcing that the plane was getting ready for take-off through the speakers. Richard clicked the safety belt.
“Not a chance,” he smirked.
Alexandra took off her headphones, switched the phone to airplane mode, leaned back and closed her eyes. He was glancing at her – nearly always voluntarily.
3. Habit
[Great Britain, London, Heathrow Airport]
The neighbor next to the porthole didn’t once get up during the flight, while Alexandra asked to be let out into the passage often – and Richard pretended that he was dozing off – so she would have to carefully touch his forearm.
She was the sort to opt to kick someone to wake them up, or smack them with the red notebook – and Richard knees were, seemingly, everywhere by now, appeared a shame to waste the opportunity.
For a part of the flight, Alexandra sat with her eyes closed – but wasn’t even napping, just enjoying the idleness – for a part of it, she listened to music, wrote something down in the notebook.
She wasn’t bored with just herself as company, she didn’t need an interlocutor to get through the four hours of the journey. Richard, too, was able to turn off the thought grinder, to value every opportunity of rest and recuperation, he didn’t rush the events – he simply observed.
After they safely landed, when they were leaving the plane cabin, he helped her get her things from the carry-on luggage compartment. She had a small mint suitcase – as heavy as Richard himself, who came in at around two hundred pounds.
He didn’t betray his surprise – but Alexandra smirked – a brief smirk that he’d already had time to get used to.
“Is anyone meeting you?”
Alexandra pulled out the handle of the suitcase, squeezed the red notebook under her arm and turned in the passage. Richard was a head taller than her, she had to tilt her chin up to look him in the eye.
“Yes.”
“I’d love to see you again. We could get coffee or take a walk or—”
“I won’t make any promises. I don’t even know how long I’ll stay here.”
She was smiling, but her eyes were serious.
“I understand,” Richard nodded and pretended to be interested in other passengers slowly making their way along the rows of seats to the exit. “It doesn’t have to be London. You’ll be back in Moscow eventually.”
He didn’t say who he was – and she didn’t ask. Alexandra raised an eyebrow.
“Text me on social media, we’ll figure something out,” she said finally.
“Of course.”
He didn’t pester her with questions anymore, he fell behind when they said a short goodbye in the airport building – and merely observed the silhouette from afar, black jumpsuit and white sneakers.
There were triangular fabric ears on the jumpsuit’s hood – like a cat’s. Alexandra’s gait was dancing, slightly nervous, she didn’t put her phone down and kept calling someone, the recipient kept not picking up.
They crossed paths again at the entrance to the building with glass panels that reflected the setting sun, Alexandra was squinting from the golden light, Richard approached her so that she would have time to notice his presence.
“We can take a cab together,” he said.
“Everything’s fine,” she shook her head. “I’ll call a taxi if anything goes wrong.”
“Alright.”
He wasn’t going to leave until a car came up. He was sure she would agree to go with him – if for some reason something didn’t go according to plan.
“No luggage?”
She gave him a short glance – and continued scrutinizing the cars fussing around in the parking lot.
“Yes,” Richard threw up his hands. “Habit. London is my hometown, no need to overpack.”
“I see. Good habit.”
His cab was already waiting afield, but he pretended not to notice. The key thing is to not overdo it – and to not inspire rejection with his intrusive presence, but at the same time catch the opportunity to learn who was to meet her.
In the meantime, a Rolls-Royce leisurely strolled along the vehicular accesses of terminals, its polished black sides shone in the rays of the setting sun, Alexandra patiently watched its movement. When the car drew up with them, the driver’s door on the right side opened. The man who exited was smiling guiltily, Alexandra was curving her lips into a smile, too.
“I’m sorry!”
“You dolt!”
“The old man held me up!”
“You could have at least picked up the phone!”
They were speaking English and immediately forgot about Richard. The man was her age, in a black suit with no tie and a white shirt – the appearance of a typical driver, with an appropriate amount of polish and servility.
He embraced her, squeezing her into a hug, lifting her off the ground, then let her go, leaned down and took the suitcase. It was only then he directed his gaze at Richard.
“Remy, Richard,” Alexandra remembered suddenly, pointing with the notebook that she clutched in her hand first at one man, then at another. “Richard, Remy.”
“Charmed,” Remy nodded, extending his free hand.
Richard responded with a handshake. Right after that, the driver deprived him of his attention and headed to the car, opened the trunk.
“Goodbye, Richard,” said Alexandra, in English.
“See you.”
He followed them with his gaze until the car disappeared from view. A bit later – in the taxi – he will find out that the Rolls-Royce is from the fleet of a famous historian and religious scholar, a knight of the Order of the British Empire, Sir Leigh McKellen, and the young man that was late to the airport is his personal driver, Remy Adan.
McKellen is certainly from the Poets’ society – considering his field of work, his specialization in cults of female deities. McKellen has a mansion in the London suburbs – and they certainly went there, not to the hotel, as Richard had initially assumed.
He didn’t have a habit of trying to fill the blanks in prematurely – but he had a habit of picking up on every detail.
She never let go of her red notebook – obviously there’s something important in it.
4. Rules of the Genre
[Great Britain, London, City of London]
“Of course not! What