Alek Popov - Mission London

“I’m terribly sorry,” she started to excuse herself, “I’ve been very busy at the University these last few days. I thought that…”

“Does it suck well?” he interrupted unceremoniously.

“Oh yes, and then some!” she nodded, after overcoming her initial surprise. “We are very grateful indeed!”

He approached her, his gaze not leaving her for an instant, and asked her questioningly, “Red Devil, eh?!”

“Exactly, a real devil!” she agreed, her voice betraying some worry.

Her breasts stretched her t-shirt. She was not wearing a bra. Her breath smelled of fresh mint. Varadin reached out and touched the black hose of the hoover that hung across her shoulder. “I’d like you to clean the residence with that hoover,” he said in a seductive tone. “Any objections?”

“Of course not.” She smiled, although the idea seemed far from tempting to her, “You’ll just have to tell me when, exactly.”

“I’ll tell you,” he said cryptically, “Soon….”

THE VETERAN & THE PRINCESS

Scenario by Thomas Munroe

(Famous Connections)

Dramatis Personae:

Diana, Princess of Wales.

Sir Marston , Veteran of the Bosnia Peacekeeping Forces.

Military Field Hospital. Interior of a tent. Simple furnishings: canvas bed, battered metal locker, folding chair. Sir Marston is lying in bed, covered with a military blanket. His head is bandaged. There are some crutches leaning near the bed. Enter Lady Di, dressed in a short white uniform, basket in hand.

LADY DI:How are we today, my hero?

SIR M:Better, your Highness, thanks to your tender ministrations.

Lady Di sits on the chair and opens the basket.

LADY DI (serious) : They have reported to me that you refused to eat your desert. That surprised me a great deal.

SIR M:But they always give me the same thing here!

LADY DI:Yoghurt is good for your health.

She takes six small pots (100g) of Danone out of the basket, each one a different flavour, and arranges them on top of the locker.

SIR M (childish) : I don’t want any yoghurt!

Lady Di (strictly) : Come on, stop whingeing! Remember how you rescued those poor Bosnians from the surrounding partisans. You’re a hero!

She opens a pot of yoghurt, takes a full teaspoonful and puts it to his lips. Sir M pulls the blanket up to his nose.

SIR M:I beg you!

LADY DI:Eat!

SIR M (hiding beneath the blanket) : Nnnnnnnnnnoo!

LADY DI (persuasively) : Do you want to play a little game with me? (Pause. Sir M pokes his head out) For every little pot you eat, I’ll undo one button of my uniform.

She puts the spoon to his lips again. He bites it hungrily. The metal rattles against his teeth. He eats the entire pot.

LADY DI:Well done, my hero! (she undoes the top button of her uniform) Shall we continue?

He nods. She opens the next pot. Sir M swallows the lot without complaint. She undoes another button.

LADY DI:Two!

She is wearing a black bra with transparent cups. Sir M gapes hungrily. The remaining buttons are equal in number to the remaining pots.

“Hey!” shouted Dotty from her bed, “Do you play Diana?”

“What?!” Katya frowned.

Dotty waved the scenario at her. “Yoghurt’s good for your health. Do you want to play a little game?” she giggled.

“You’ve been going through my stuff again!” Katya got angry and snatched the pages out of Dotty’s hands.

“No I haven’t!” Dottie was emphatic. “They were on the table. Recently you’ve been really absent-minded!”

“Look, it’s an amateur production for the department,” Katya lied without thinking. “They offered me a part in this scene and I accepted. Now I’m learning my lines. Okay?”

Malicious sparks appeared in her roommate’s eyes. Recently she had become even more apathetic and depressed. She washed rarely and spent all day in bed wearing thick woollen socks. Not that she didn’t have an excuse. Her father, a dodgy businessman, had been arrested in Pazardzhik two weeks previously, and all his accounts had been blocked. Her allowance had suddenly been cut off. She already owed Katya fifty pounds, which did nothing other than to make her more embittered than ever.

“It’s so easy for you!” shouted Dotty.

Katya got undressed without paying her any attention, and went into the bathroom. Whilst the water drummed against her nose, she wondered whether it might not well be time to clear out of here altogether. Actually, that decision had been taken a long time ago. From the moment she had met Ziebling in the Embassy and realised that her double-life had been uncovered. She had no idea what kind of game they were playing; but she was sure of one thing: she wanted no part of it. Apparently, Ziebling was of the same opinion, “I don’t want any scandals!” he had told her. Katya was quick on the uptake.

Dotty was weeping in her corner. The fat tomes piled around her bed had not been touched for several days. A half-empty bottle of cheap Bulgarian wine completed the picture; three fruit flies flew around the bottle’s neck.

“What’s going to happen to me?” she said mostly to herself.

“You’ll have to find yourself some sort of work,” said Katya as she vigorously towelled her hair. She had cut her hair very short because of the wigs she had to wear and she liked her new self. The shorter haircut made her breasts stand out more.

“What kind of job?” wept Dotty.

“You can always clean at the Embassy. That way you save the rent on your room.”

“Really?” Dotty livened up a bit.

“Uh-huh, and you know what? You can take my place,” continued Katya with unexpected enthusiasm. “I need some time off. You’ll have to clean the Ambassador’s office. What d’you say?”

“Well, yeah, great!” nodded her roommate, unconvinced.

Katya could not suppress her smile. The whole idea seemed devilishly piquant. She threw on some baggy khaki combats, with vast pockets, and a clingy halter-top, which left her tanned midriff on display. She felt Dotty’s gaze roaming over her body, but didn’t give a damn! She would rent a small studio in the Portobello Road or thereabouts. As far as possible from this shit-hole.

She put the script in her bag and threw a glance at her roommate. “Head up!” she said and left.

The scenarios were written by some guy called Thomas Munroe. A tall, skinny wanker with lank greasy hair, and glasses like bottle-ends. They had met at the very start. He had come, so he claimed, to take the measure of her. His undertaker’s mannerisms included such phrases as, “We must make the orgasm more stylish, like the French petit-mort.” He resembled a coffin-maker.

The problem was that the agency’s clients — predominantly business busy-bodies — lacked any imagination. They had only the vaguest idea of their fantasies, or the direction in which their desires lay, and were incapable of giving them a concrete or complete form. They could not build a situation nor handle dialogue, nor did they have time for those things.

Take Rube Sparks for example. He was a jeweller, whose shop was situated near one end of Regent’s Street. Rube knew everything about rocks, but next to nothing about his own soul. For him, the soul differed but little from the ‘bow-tie effect’, which could be found only at the heart of some extremely rare, and equally extremely expensive, diamonds. He could admire it for hours but had no concept of how to reach it. The play of light in this king of gems made him feel its vibrations. It spoke to him. It whispered thoughts and secret desires that made him blush. And aroused him. But nothing more. It required someone, such as Thomas Munroe, to appear on the scene, to polish up these uncut urges and remove the slag. Munroe, who knew everything about desire, had tunnelled for a long time into Rube’s soul to bring its treasures out into the open. And then he had worked on them with all the precision and persistence of a true gem-smith to give them the form and lustre they deserved. Now Rube Sparks knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it.