EPILOGUE

Sometime later, in a quaint little teashop along the Thames, Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward adjusted the earpiece she wore surreptitiously covered by her low-sweeping hairstyle. She took a sip from her tea cup, replaced it on the saucer at a steady pace and then typed the word 'Reject' into the pink laptop perched on the table in front of her. She paused for a few moments, only half listening to the conversation being broadcast into her right ear, despite being held only three tables away.

"So, what makes you think you're suitable for the role?"

"Darling, I've worked for them all: CIA, MI5, GCHQ, WSC… I've been everywhere Spain, France, Canada, Middle East. Every acronym you can think of, I am just what you're looking for; I've been there, done it all and got the contacts to match. I can tell you what King George had for his breakfast this morning…"

She continued to type: Overconfident. Liar (King George rarely eats before elevenses). Disclosure issues. Lack of commitment. Morally ambiguous. Dubious intent. REJECTED.

She reached for her tea again, paying no further attention to the conversation and instead turning her focus to other less stressful things. She'd be needing a manicure soon and with all the pressure of recent events, a relaxing facial wouldn't go amiss, either.

She tried to get Parker's attention but, sat to her right on a separate table, he had clearly taken her instruction to be inconspicuous to the extreme and had an old-style newspaper obscuring him from her view. Knowing Parker, it was also a strategic move to allow him a snooze without being detected.

Penelope moved on to skim-reading the next applicant's details and was reaching for a napkin to dap at her perfectly pink lips when, to her surprise, her fingers met nothing but the wooden table top. No sooner had she raised her hand to get Parker's attention, then a slim blonde haired woman slipped into the chair opposite her and slid a napkin across the table in her direction.

For a moment, they eyed each other, almost as if they could read each other's thoughts. The woman's finger still rested on one edge of the napkin and for a moment Penelope just stared; as if maybe it was a gauntlet and not a napkin at all.

Parker bent the corner of his newspaper over, poised to intervene given the slightest indication and proved that he wasn't asleep after all.

Any intervention was stopped by Penelope's single raised finger. It lingered in the air for a moment and then finally descended on the napkin, sliding it a little closer before picking it up and dabbing her lips. The tension broke like a wave over the shoreline and Parker visibly relaxed back behind his newspaper.

"I'm not sure I've had the pleasure," Penelope remained neutral, the spark of an idea in her head. The woman seemed familiar, eyes dark and warm, yet her blonde hair seemed so… wrong. A home-applied dye; good effort but to a trained eye conspicuous none-the-less.

The new arrival didn't respond.

Penelope leaned forward a little, lowering her voice. "But I'm quite sure I feel I know you."

Only a smirk and chortled laugh to give any indication the stranger had even heard.

"Perhaps I've heard a lot about you of late." Penelope pressed, a glint of admiration in her eye at her deductions. "I believe we may owe you a debt. How can I be of assistance?"

"Actually," the woman replied. "I was rather hoping I could be of assistance to you… on a more…" She paused. "… permanent basis perhaps?"

By speaking she confirmed all the aforementioned deductions.

Her accent was crisp. British. Just like Penelope's … … …

~THE END~