“But I came all this way,” Jane said. Tears formed in her eyes. “I am stuck.”
The woman touched her arm. “I came to this country, too. I don’t know anybody. I am so lonely.” She spoke in a sad, deep accent Jane did not recognize. The woman scratched her brow. With her long face and high cheekbones, she resembled Catherine the Great. “But then I made friends. Okay?”
Jane smiled at the kind, futile words and thanked the woman. She told the woman she had lost her appetite and walked back outside. She stood on the corner and exhaled, all hope faded.
“Can you take our picture?” a voice asked.
Jane turned her head to the voice’s source. A man of about twenty-five addressed her; he was pointing to himself and a woman standing beside him. “Yes,” Jane answered, unsure of what he meant but relieved to be distracted from her despair by a smiling face. The man held out a shiny, thin rectangle of steel. “Everyone has these things,” Jane remarked. “I am unversed in their operation, with regret.”
“Here,” he said, standing next to her and holding the object in front of his body. It contained a frame like a painting. The man’s companion stood by the wall of 8 Russia Row. She appeared in the frame. The man pressed a white button and a painting appeared by magic in the frame. It was a picture of the woman who stood by the wall in front of them.
“It captures the moment,” Jane exclaimed. The man laughed at her, kind and unmalicious. “It’s a memory,” she added. “You capture it and stow it in your pocket.”
“Hold it up like this,” the man said, handing the object to Jane and moving her arms into position so the box pointed at his female companion once more. Jane stiffened at the feeling of the man’s hands on her and hoped he did not notice. He positioned Jane’s shoulders so the woman now appeared in the center of the frame. The man rushed over to join his friend and, once he was comfortable in his portrait pose, he nodded for Jane. “This building fell down last year,” he said.
“I heard,” Jane replied. She pressed the white button on the box, as he had, and the box made a clicking sound.
The man rushed back over to Jane. “Beautiful!” he said, as he examined the painting from all angles.
“A good attempt, perhaps,” Jane said. “That was my first try.” She puffed out her chest.
He laughed another generous laugh. “Well done,” he said, and smiled at Jane. “Have a great day.”
“And to the both of you,” Jane said as they turned to leave. “Pardon me, sir, but could you tell me the time?”
The man consulted the steel box. “Twelve thirty,” he answered.
“Thank you,” Jane said. It required fifteen minutes on the tube train to return to Paddington; she had earlier observed the time on the clock that hung in the train station. It was the best and only option now; with nothing left for her in Cheapside, she should return to Fred. She winced at the idea of seeing him again; she had never expected to do so. But it could not be helped. She proceeded toward St. Paul’s and steeled herself for another harrowing ride on the moving staircase of doom. She crossed the plaza of St. Paul’s Cathedral and descended once more into the earth. She reached the solid steel fence and fished in her pocket for the card she would place on the circle to open the magical gates, but the card did not appear in her hand. Jane spread her fingers wide in her pocket and sifted through the folds in the fabric. But the pouch of fabric stood empty. Jane scowled. She must have allowed it to fly open.
She proceeded to the glass booth to purchase another ticket, then stopped. Her pockets contained no money, either. She dug into both folds of fabric and turned them inside out. All their contents had departed: the card, the money. What a fool she was! She’d let everything fall from her person. She held only the bag with the sugar. Jane scowled at herself for her carelessness. She reached to her neck to run her fingers along her necklace, which she often did when thinking, but touched nothing.
Jane grabbed at her neck. She fell to her knees and swept the ground. Frank’s crucifix necklace had disappeared. How had she managed to misplace her jewelry? Perhaps it had fallen off somewhere along the way. Maybe if she dashed back there now, it would lie on the road to Russia Row. How long had it been missing? She recalled playing with it as she walked down Milk Road. Jane’s stomach fell. The man with the metal box who’d asked Jane to make the picture, his hands on her shoulders. She felt sick. He had robbed her!
Jane moved back up the stairs and onto St. Paul’s piazza in a horrified daze. The day in London, which had begun so well, now fell to pieces. She shook her head in a panic, unsure of what to do, then finally arrived at her only remaining option. She shrugged and slumped and began walking in a northwesterly direction.
SHE DID NOT allow the changes to distract her. Piccadilly Circus still stood, as did the Thames, though now it smelled a far sight better, and three new bridges straddled its waters. She reached Oxford Circus. Giant brick and glass structures now surrounded the chaotic square on all four sides. People streamed from every doorway and corner. A shop window contained her books. She gasped and ran over to it. The shop had put her books in a special display, with her portrait in the window. The busiest shopfront in London displayed her novels!
She glanced at a clock in the shop window. The hands read two fifteen. She sighed. Two fifteen! She was already late, more than one hour past the agreed
