I head south from St Pancras Eurostar.
The sun is low in the sky.
Dawn shadows fall to my left.
Keep in the shadows.
Walk, don't run.
Walk fast, but not too fast.
Keep away from people.
Get your phone out of your bag, Olivia.
Do not turn it on.
Keep looking at the phone as you walk.
Keep your face to the floor.
Keep walking.
Keep heading south.
Side streets.
Face the buildings if someone comes close.
Keep walking.
Russell Square.
Big open garden space.
Almost a park.
Fewer people.
Keep away from people.
Side streets again.
Keep walking south.
Traffic building now.
Busy for this time of day, or is this London normal?
The part of London I used to fly over.
And I look up.
Drones and Lillicabs.
Cazzo!
Focus, bitch!
I look down.
My neck crawling.
My back crawling.
Waiting for the burr of a drone or the scream of a siren in the sky.
Fuck, but I need to rest.
Breathing hard now.
Not just the pace. Panic.
Heart-stopping, breath-stealing panic.
What are you going to do, Olivia?
Where are you going to go, Olivia?
Bedford Place.
Rich street.
Not good.
Cameras and drones and people on the street.
Keep your head down, Olivia.
Walk fast, but not too fast.
Then Bedford Square.
Another small park.
Fewer people.
And then, south of the square, a big road.
Across that, a tiny arcade with a white stone entrance and tiny shops and a sandwich bar and a Pizza Express, then a row of boarded-up shops, and then, between two fat Greek pillars, the entrance to an office.
An open door.
An office entrance, old and dirty, and there is no reception—just the beginning of steps leading up to the next floor, the iron banister, and the walls marked with scuffs. On the wall hangs a long, long list of companies. Far too many to fit into this small brick building shaped like a miniature Flat Iron, squeezed between Sicilian Arcade and the main street. So I enter the open door and begin to climb the stone steps. On the first floor stretches a corridor of office doors with company nameplates. Worn and dusty stone floor.
I climb the stairs.
And then one more flight on treacherous, trembling legs.
At the top there is little but dust.
A litter of flyers and the pages of a newspaper spread along the corridor, a random drift of years-old news. The dry smell of dust. The sound of distance from the world. The windows at the end of the corridor are opaque with dust. I try the handle to the nearest office. It's locked.
The fourth door I try opens.
The office inside has a wooden desk. Two office chairs pushed against the wall. An old coat rack and years of dust covering everything. A huge window, diamond-paned and grey. I close the door to the office.
Lay down on the floor.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
It's later. I have my Chanel tote. My Ciri I can't boot up. My phone I can't turn on. My makeup bag and my purse with cards I can't use. My decoy flights were all burned the moment the media flashed my face over millions of screens. There is no way past any border control now.
Cazzo!
I swear over and over.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, what are you going to DO, Olivia?
Calmer now.
I sit on the floor with the desk between me and the door. Counting panes of glass. It's crazy to become bored, but I do. Might be eight, maybe nine a.m. I have no way to tell. This floor is silent. A dead floor. There have been distant sounds. Footsteps on the stairs that had me holding my breath, scrambling to hide in the footwell of the old wooden desk. But they never get close. So I sit with my back to the desk and count panes of glass.
I chance checking out the other doors along the short corridor. Those that open are abandoned, the empty shells of companies that died, each office carrying the same fragility and poignancy as the empty shells of dead snails.
I check myself out in the tiny mirror in the toilet at the end of the corridor. And I have an idea. I empty my makeup bag onto the floor. I have my YSL mascara, my Tom Ford Quad Crème eyeshadow, L'Occitane hand cream, and TF Nude lipstick. There is also my mascara, but it's a tiny bottle.
Improvise, Olivia!
The remains of my Tom Ford Quad eyeshadow and my depleted L'Occitane hand cream stain the sink like an ink blot. My hair is a fucking mess, but it's no longer blonde. I could not get the staining from the eyeshadow-hand cream mélange off my right hand, so I stain my left hand and draw henna tattoo snakes and flames up my forearms, using my nails to fine-tune the lines. My hands look like they are covered in some weird Medusa gloves, but it looks deliberate, considered.
Turned inside out, my Hunger dress looks like a dress turned inside out until I rip out the label. Then it just looks odd. Getting the dress back on without touching it with my hands involves a wire coat hanger, wriggling, and three tries. Truth is, I look like some deranged mock-Goth with poor drafting skills, but I do not look like a blonde in a zinc dress. In compensation, I smell fucking gorgeous.
It's maybe midday.
Maybe later.
I walk to the ground floor and find the door to the entrance is shut, which starts a panic, but as I push, it cracks open.
Deep breath.
Out into Sicilian Arcade.
Busy as a cut-through but not crowded.
Double edge to that knife.
Can't hide in a crowd, but not so many people to notice me.
Some shade in the arcade, but the main street is a hot gully of sunlight.
And it's busy.
A sign high up on the building opposite tells me this is High Holborn.
High Holborn crosses another wide street a little further down.
Traffic lights and crowds waiting to cross.
I walk to the crossroads where the crowds are waiting.
Keep close to the buildings.
Make myself small.
Some prying eyes.
Disguise not working.
But then.
I pass by a shop window and catch sight of myself.
From this distance, in this particular window, I look like a Goth in a summer dress. I look like a statement. Not invisible, distinctive, but in an office girl playing at fashion mashups kind of way, and therefore in London, nothing special.
I begin to breathe a little.
At the junction the lights change, and I cross with the crowd.
I reach into my tote for my phone.
On the other side I wait with the crowd crossing the intersecting street. There is a woman in front of me.
Short blonde hair!
I turn on my phone.
Somewhere the trace race begins.
Key in the code.
Slip it into her jacket pocket.
The lights change and she crosses the road with the crowd as I step back, getting buffeted by the pedestrians.
I watch her walk toward the Tube station.
Then she walks into the station entrance.
Bellissima!
Perfetta!
Decoy launched.
Breathe in.
Breathe out, Olivia
Tight pace, I'm glad Olivia came up with a plan.