One year, it had all begun and in the most unusual of circumstances ever for the meeting of a man and a woman. The occasion was a bomb scare on the London tube, the Metropolitan Line, near the Wembly Park Station. Louise, well-accustomed to these supposed crises that took place nearly every day in this labyrinth of underground trains, had not a trace of panic in her well-formed, well-condition, well-educated life. But she did have a lingering sense of longing within her, nurtured by too many lonely night of late.
The frozen moment gave her time to actually take in that green-eyed gentleman who boarded the train every day at West Harrow. He believed his name was Dean, information gained in a weak of eavesdropping. She guessed he may have worked in one of the established financial institutions further down the line from where she exited each morning at Baker Street before transferring to her run down to Bond Street. He was always reading the financial pages of The Times every morning. He didn't look like an independently wealthy Oxford lad, nor even Cambridge. He had the look of a bright young commoner hustling his way up the social ladder of London.
She'd fall out of the Tube at Bond Street and take that half-running walk to where she spent far too much of her life. She would enter a wedge shaped slice of old London tradition. There she would don her apron and get to work pleasing customers at The Hog in the Pound. She had been pouring ale and lager for five years now, but it wouldn't be for much longer. Soon she'd be finishing her art studies at the Royal College of Art. Then more making ham sandwiches and answering calls for one more mug, Dearie.
But today, thanks to some rumor of terrorist activity, Louise and her mysterious new friend would start at the beginning. And the beginning went like this.