Wild Fiction

‘It’s going to be quicker and easier,’ the author said. ‘I know it’s a bit cramped but the roads will be worse and parking impossible. Even in the parking garages. Trust me.’
She gave him a surly look. A large man was standing over her holding onto the handrail running along the ceiling of the cabin. The armpits of his white shirt stained yellow from sweat. Public transport, Rebecca decided, was not for her.
Cannon Street proved that finding a cab in London was a skill still the author had not yet mastered. A sheepish looking author and an even surlier looking Rebecca boarded the circle line to High Street Kensington. There they disembarked and fought their way to street level with ambitious yuppies, freshly painted secretaries and a Marks & Spencers' shop assistant named Deborah. At least, the nametag attached at an angle to her green blouse read Deborah. She may have borrowed it from a colleague. We will never know.
At street level, the author and Rebecca paused and looked at each other. He looked smart, debonair, and younger than she remembered him. She looked chic and sharp in a freshly pressed dress suit. They were soon in the reception area of Meta Publishing, sipping at instant coffee and waiting for their nine o’clock appointment. The receptionist apologised twice between nine and nine thirty when the author and Rebecca were finally shown to Martin Kent’s office. Martin Kent was in his fifties. His thinning grey hair lay like a threadbare carpet over his dome in an attempt to hide his baldness. Instead, it just drew attention to it.
‘You’ve had coffee have you?’ he asked peering over his half moon spectacles at them. It was the first time he had spoken. His squeaky voice took Rebecca by surprise and she let out a little giggle before quickly covering her mouth.
‘Yes we have,’ the author thanked him and glared at Rebecca.
‘Miss...Miss...I’m sorry but I don’t know your surname,’ the editor was looking at Rebecca.
‘Just call me Rebecca,’ she beamed a huge smile at him.
‘Rebecca,’ he said and then he paused. ‘Rebecca, I believe you’re a literary agent. I’m not sure how you convinced my secretary to get you an appointment with me, as I don’t usually see new agents. I already have more agents than I can deal with. What do you want to see me about?’