My father would insist that they were bad for me. And all said and done, I was inclined to agree with him. But still, that cheesy, powdery goodness, artificial all the way, was comforting. And in moments like this, when I was under stress and duress, that was what I needed.
With my double-fisted bags of shame and glory, I stepped outside the store and brought up my hood, hoping none of my neighbors saw me in my sad joggers and jumper.
This was breakup food. I already had pints of ice cream at home. This was only to tide me over until I could do real grocery shopping. But the idea of perusing Sainsbury's, even online, was too much to bear. I could make do with wine and Cheetos.
Okay, Maltesers too. Because one needed chocolate in moments like this.
How in the world was this my life? I had once been a badass with a great job and good friends.
But then I'd had the not-so-bright idea of leaving MI5 to come and work for my father at Interpol. Why had I done that? From the moment I made that painful decision three years earlier, I'd only been unhappy. Any effort to get my father to notice me was met with disdain. Because, as he said, I shouldn't be chasing approval.
But he was my bloody father.
Although, if I was being honest, I didn't so much chase his approval as want him to notice that I was fantastic at my job. All on my own. And I couldn't really give up a good fight, which, you know, was probably a detriment from his point of view.
With a sigh, I hefted my bags, wishing I'd brought my trolley along, but my townhouse was only a few short blocks, and I would survive.
I turned a corner and started to get that prickly heat sensation along my neck. The same kind of heat I’d listened to on more than one occasion. The same kind of instinct that said, ‘even though the man approaching you walking his dog is smiling and looks friendly, like somebody you might meet in a pub, doesn't mean you can trust him.’
That heat slithered along the back of my neck. I switched my bags to my left hand and reached inside my pocket for my set of keys.
We weren't even supposed to have Mace. It was illegal in Britain. But there was a little puffer tab that was created by MI5. It looked like a key fob. But one press in the direction of whoever was trying to attack you, and it would puff out a fine mist and powder. One that would act like Mace, stinging the attacker's eyes and giving them boils. It was temporary of course, nothing permanent. But it was enough to allow time to get away.
In the name of safety, every single MI5 agent had one. Sadly, it was a one-time use situation.
I'd never had to use mine, and didn’t turn it in when I left the organization. It was on my key chain. And unfortunately, it seemed like I might have to use it.
Up ahead, the guy was turning onto my street. Unfortunately, I had to pass a darkened alley to get to my home. I scowled. Why the hell wasn't the off-license on a better marked road?
Also, why did you have to stop at the off-license? That's pathetic.
It wasn't pathetic. I got dumped. I had a right to wine. At least it wasn't bourbon.
I’d had a bourbon stint once while in uni. That had ended poorly, and I'd never done it again. I tried to assess if there was a possibility of me making it around the alley, but that would involve having to turn around and go back.
No. I could do this. All I had to do was make sure my hands were free. I could make this happen.
When I passed the alley, it was a feat to ignore the screaming whine of my instincts beckoning me to do something. To fight. Or run. Do something other than walk steadily forward. My instincts begged me to pull out a bottle of wine and be ready to use it as a weapon. But I was rational and stayed calm. I knew that my puffer tab was the best defense I had. And home was close. Home was so close.
And then I had a wayward thought. Who are you going to call if this goes south?
I wasn't calling East. That was for damn sure. I wasn't calling Denning. I supposed I could call my father. That's if he would answer.
I settled on Amelia. But how had I gone from having a whole crew, a whole team of people behind me who would come at a moment’s notice if needed, to having only one person I could rely on? There was no one to call except Amelia. I would absolutely rely on her if I had to, but, God, my life had certainly gone tits-up in the last few weeks.
Once in the alleyway, I marched with purpose. Slapping forward, head up, eyes alert. Ready for anything. But sadly, nothing happened. All that anticipation, all that tension for nothing. What the hell was wrong with me?
Maybe this whole East thing had messed me up more than I thought.
I stepped one foot in front of the other, step after step, and managed it through the darkness, the broken streetlamp up ahead flickering dimly. Once I passed it, knowing that I was halfway through made me breathe slightly easier. It also made me even more aware of my surroundings, the rustling of footsteps behind me, the voices and laughs from a club or a bar up ahead.
All somewhat familiar.
At the end of the alley, just when I was breathing a sigh of relief, someone called my name. "Nyla."
I coughed and jumped. "Jesus fucking Christ."
It was Hazel, Denning's girlfriend, and I walked right into her.
"Hey. Are you okay?"
"Jesus Christ, what are you doing here?"
She held up two bottles of wine. "I have
