1 a loaf of bad fortune I had come to London with hopes of finally settling a profit dispute between my dead uncle and his business partner. The topic? Some debt that my uncle had never paid off, which (I suppose) was my problem now. I’d inherited everything he owned, from his property (Meadowbrook Estates) to the moldy bratwurst in his fridge. I’d also evidently gained a whole bunch of stupid financial problems. I was supposed to be preparing for my meeting with the trust and estate attorney, filing taxes, acquiring insurance claims, and cleaning the creepy old Victorian mansion that I apparently owned now, but instead found myself wandering down High Street, and peering through the windows of shops, from chain restaurants to niche handbag stores. It was then that I saw one that caught my eye. Crown Jewels: Patisserie and sandwich shop! The sign proudly proclaimed. I’d been craving some chocolate mousse (and perhaps an espresso martini or two), so I entered. A bell welcomed my arrival as I stepped into what must’ve been (and most certainly smelled like) heaven. A quaint little bakery, with gleaming gilded stools and display cases covering half the walls, filled with confectionery wonders. I breezed through the menu (alas, I’d have to settle for a mocha), ordered, then walked over to a corner with some books and fluffy chairs. I pulled out an old favorite, Watership Down, and opened the cover, basking in the smell that only a book passed between dozens of hands for generations could possess, musty yet inviting. I could’ve stayed there for hours, engrossed in the familiar story, but after only the second chapter, a waiter somewhere near the front announced my order. As I walked towards the counter and reached out to grab my drink, he dropped it. Coffee splattered my blouse, handbag, and – much to my dismay – the book I’d been reading. “Oh, dear! That’s the third this week.” He muttered under his breath as I struggled to catch mine. “I’ll just go get you some napkins.”. As he disappeared into the kitchen, I pondered. There was something off about him, but I couldn’t place it. I’d spent years at a community college, and met– and dated–plenty of men, but he seemed… different, somehow. Before I could give it too much thought, he arrived, boasting a tower of napkins. “Again, I’m terribly sorry-” “It’s alright,” I glanced at his name tag. “Andrew.” “Well, the least I can do is offer you a new drink…” He looked down sheepishly. I figured I’d try my luck. “You don’t happen to have an espresso martini, do you?” (I knew the answer, but gosh darn it, I really wanted my drink!) “Uh.. no, I don't believe we do,” He said. “But there’s a lovely bar and grill on Peterson.” Not wanting to walk the half-mile to Peterson Ave, I grabbed my mousse and sat down with my book. I did notice, however, that the waiter (Andrew, I reminded myself) stayed within a few feet of me and quickly returned to shelving his books each time I looked up. As hours passed, I regaled myself with the tales of Bigwig and Fiver. Once I turned the last page, I looked at my watch and almost gave myself a stroke. My meeting with the attorney had been all but forgotten, and he was arriving in less than an hour. It was expected that I dress up and provide refreshments (although I had left my formal dress back in Manhattan, and had no clue where the hell the nearest grocery store was) for the “guest”. On my way out the door, I grabbed a tourist guide, hoping to find a shop within walking distance. I settled for a gas station and grabbed an assortment of what could be considered (or at least looked like) artisanal fruit and nuts, then found a charcuterie board along with a decent-looking (and albeit rather… revealing) red dress at the TK Maxx next door. I stepped out into the storm, only to realize I had left my umbrella at the bakery. Oh, well. There was no time to go back, not with the attorney arriving in under half an hour. I ran back to Meadowbrook, cursing the rain. Upon my arrival, I raced to the kitchen and prepared the charcuterie board (although, upon opening the fridge for some cheese, my eyes fell upon the moldy sausage in the fridge. I’d have to clean that tomorrow.). 15 minutes, I noted, glancing at the clock. I raced upstairs, put on my dress, put my soaking-wet hair into a braid, and applied some light lipstick. I grabbed a towel and dried the entrance, then set the living room for the meeting. I ran through my mental checklist. Food, manners, formalwear, documents. The doorbell rang.
