This Is Hardcore

Chapter 3

It was 15 minutes to 3 o' clock. The whole restaurant is filled. Suddenly, the AP van is parked outside. Then out came Sara from the passenger seat. She walked to the back of the car and opened the door. Two guys walked out of the door. They seem to argue with Sara for a while, probably about why they locked them in the car for a few minutes like fugitives, where its hot and humid from the summer London sun.

     "Okay, umm, what's your name again?"

     "Lucy. Lucy Stormers."

     "Okay, Mrs. Stormers--"

     I cut her up, even if I didn't have to. "--it's not Mrs. Sorry."

     "Oh, I'm sorry, Ms. Stormers. This is Mark," she said, pointing to her cameraman. "He will make sure you look good on our footage." Mark elbows Sara.

     "Okay," I said.

     So Sara started to ask me these questions of all sorts; how my business is doing, how I feel about the economy, what was the economic downfall on me and my business--stuff that can be put on Bloomberg Television.

     Then, she went inside my bakery, my office, and Mark shot footage of Hannah, my cousin Greg on the ovens, and my other employees. I keep talking about the bakery with Sara, as Mark follows us from behind, camera on hand and recording.

Once we were done, Sara asked me something I did not expect to ask. It was 5 o' clock, and the city is slowly crawling into darkness. "So, do you want to hang out tonight?"

     "Umm, sure!"

     "Perfect! I'll see you at The Old Bell Tavern. They say it's great there."

     "Sure! I hang out there sometimes."

     "Really?"

     "Yeah. By myself."

     "Oh."

     This is getting fucking awkward.

     "Well, Lucy. Tonight, I think that is going to change."

     I laughed. "Let's see about that. Seven right?"

     "Seven!"

     I bid her goodbye as she walked back into the van, and back to AP--hopefully editing out the whiteheads in my nose.

It was 10 minutes before seven. (I have this attitude of being early before interviewers. It annoys me.) It was quiet, and I was tucked away in a corner table pressed against the wall. I was watching the cars stroll by Fleet Street in a state of idleness when suddenly a hand blocked my view. It was Sara.

     She came in the pub in a sleek leather dress. She waved at me again with a smile sure to light up an unlighted sound stage without fault. She took the seat in front of me, and we started talking.

     "Sorry, I was late. I was having trouble with the microphone they have at APTV. It was really noisy. It took my an hour to sort it out."

     "Technology nowadays," I concurred.

     "Right! Hey, lets get drinks, shall we?"

     We sat up and strided to the bar. We took our seats and waited. We kept on talking and talking about things. We laughed, we hushed and whispered, and shared dirty things. Yeah, I like it dirty, you son of a bitch.

     Suddenly, a guy came out from behing the lush Victorian cabinetry of beers, liquors, and other fluid vices. He had blue-eyes, a thick quiff, a relaxed face, a rocker body, and stylish clothing. What's weird is, he is familiar. And I know him. And I know his name.

     And his name is Danny.

"Hi! What brings you here?" he said in a happy tone. "May I process your request?"

     "Shut up." We laughed.

     "So," Sara started,"you guys met?"

     "Yeah," I replied.

     Sara was on the brink of laughing. But then, "Okay, okay. Cool," she said while smiling.

     "Umm, I would like to have a Greyhound."

     "I'm sorry, what?"

     "A GREYHOUND."

     "Sorry, we don't sell pets here."

     "Oh, come on. 1 Part Absolut, 3 Parts Grapefruit Juice, and a Grapefruit wedge. Come on, it's a beginner cocktail on absolutdrinks.com!" I explained.

     "Well that's one hell of a request." Sara laughed. I elbowed her.

     While Danny was mixing up, we talked with Sara once more. She was a regular contributor for the Financial Times before she moved into radio, newsreading for the Australian service of the BBC. Then she left the job and turned to television in the AP. "Cool life, being a writer."

     "It's hectic; one time I got to Afghanistan!"

     Once Danny served my drink, Sara ordered a Metropolitan. I gazed once again into his eyes; with his happiness comes a great sadness and sorrow in his heart. I hate being Shakespearean, but that's what I see.

     While Danny was shaking things up in the bar, Sara then thanked me for something. "Thank you, Lucy Stormers."

     I laughed, sipping my Greyhound, which lacked just one more ice cube. "Why?"

     "For this night."

     "Oh. Um, no problem!"

     "She's lying!" Danny suddenly cried out.

     "Oh, shut up you..." Sara told him. Danny faced her and said, "Yeah, true story." I laughed--what a 9Gagger.

     Having the gut feeling (yeah, Gibbs, gut feelings--hav'em?) for another drink, I ordered another Greyhound from Danny, reminding him to add more ice."This is becoming intermediate, lady." Once I reccieved the order, Sara, who has been texting the whole time, bid farewell. "Bye Danny, bye Lucy!"

     "BYE SARA!" Danny and I said in unison.

As I was spending 10-ish more minutes in the pub, I watched Danny work with the other customers. He did it with great flair, swagger, and I sense sexiness is also inthe mix. Then,once he's done, he walked to me.

     "So, you seem wasted," he said.

     "No, I'm not."

     "It's the end my shift. Should I walk you home?"

     "Don't bother. My house is at the H&F."

     "I will. Mine is there too."

     "Really?" Really?

"Where's your house?"

     "Over there in that apartment, number 1028."

     "That apartment, lady, is my apartment." What the? "Number 1456."

     "Really? Can I come?" Oh, shit Lucy, why? WHY?

     "Yeah, sure."

     And so started an unrelenting night.