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     Salma Varraich was looking down as she climbed the steps from St Paul’s Underground Station, and so collided with the businesswoman who came to a sudden halt in front of her as they exited onto the busy pavement. Being the frailer of the two, Salma bounced back, eyelids fluttering and arms flailing forwards to regain her balance as she blurted out a brusque "For fudge cake!"
     The woman glanced her way, but – after swiftly assessing that Salma was not going to fall – her gaze rose back over the glass-fronted office block on the other side of the bustling city junction.
     Salma protruded her brow up at the woman. "’Xcuse me, but maybe you didn’t realise that you’re not the only person who likes to walk in London at 9am on a Tuesday?"
     When the woman didn’t respond, Salma exhaled forcefully enough to graze her throat. She followed the woman’s line of sight to see what could have instilled such mid-rush obnoxiousness – and then her fingers went to her lips. "Oh, my..."
     Others brushed past them out of the Tube, some huffing pointedly – though all slowed when they noticed the thick, dark, bulbous cloud drifting lethargically into the crisp morning sky.
     Suddenly the businesswoman shivered a shrug. "Guess we’ll hear all about it soon enough, eh."
     With that, the businesswoman headed off in the direction of the BT building. Salma stood there for a moment more, finding it difficult to turn her head away from the sight – but, after the third or fourth jab at her back by an ignorant executive rushing to get by, she made a delayed grunt of agreement, and continued on her way.
     Salma’s short but practised legs moved her hurriedly around the stacks of city offices, through the slickly cultivated gardens of Paternoster Row, and across the paved space that stretched across the entrance to St Paul’s Cathedral. Then came her regular morning game of dodgems with the various suits striding purposefully towards Paternoster Square for the stock exchange – a challenge made all the more intense by the number of brokers who made the journey with their sight glued to a mobile phone held before them.
     Halfway across, Salma looked towards the restaurants lining the street ahead of her (mostly sushi bars) to pick out the narrow cobbled road of Dean’s Court – and rolled her eyes. The street was still infested by a small pack of paparazzi.
     Salma’s fingers tightened around her handbag. She bit her lower lip, narrowed her eyes, then picked up her pace.
     As her heels clicked upon Dean’s Court, a barrage of questions wafted towards her on waves of caffeinated breath.
     "Maybe you could give us a statement mam?"
     "Is the bishop home?"
     "Were you there the morning of..."
     "What’s it like working for..."
     Squeezing her way through the bodies, voice recorders and flash reflectors blockading the black iron gates, Salma barked "No comment!" every few seconds. Still the questions assaulted her on all sides as she shoved aside the reporter who stood in the way of the lock. "’Xcuse me, but don’t you need a basic command of English to be a journalist? So what part of ’No comment’ do you not understand?!"
     As she dug into her handbag for the key, the dark leather was briefly lit by a white flash. That was it. Salma straightened as tall as she could.
     "Look! The Bishop is not here, and you have no right to take photos of me, so I will be suing if that gets printed, and anyway don’t you know a bomb’s just gone off on the Underground? Why don’t you go get some real news for a change?!"
     But by the time her rant had left her body, all the reporters were looking over her shoulder.
     Frowning, Salma turned – just in time to see the black gate pull away from her so Theo could fling himself through. His body collided with hers, and she was again fluttering and flailing. "For fudge...!"
     Theo’s hands briefly grasped her arms, helping her regain her balance – but then he was away, thrusting through the dense crowd as questions, exclamations and gasps fired off around him.
     Salma just stood there, blinking. Then, from all around her, came the sound of a dozen insistent hums. Gradually, each and every reporter and photographer took out a mobile phone.

Next Chapter: Chloe