I sit looking out the window, my arm braced against the glass as we near London Waterloo Station. Beside me is the newspaper with the article of Barbara Bush's comments at a shelter that so pissed me off I nearly registered an emotion, and next to that is my briefcase. My briefcase is uncharacteristically light, as I'm equipped with just my iPod, mobile phone, Blackberry, wallet, and a few bits and pieces of critically important female beauty items that you wouldn't be caught dead without (the 3 types of lip gloss in there are important. Very important. Life or death here.)

As we reach the train station, a man comes racing up to me. Dressed head to toe in black, and with a small cut on the side of his head, his piercing blue eyes look directly into mine. "I need your help, it's a matter of national security."

I grab my bag and as we jump off the trains silently swooshing doors, we land on the train platform. His long dark jacket flows behind him as we run down the concrete platform, one of his arms holding the top of my arm. I see on his waistband is a slick dark black gun. I hate guns, I really, really hate guns...but good lord does he look sexy with it. He sees me looking at his gun, and shaking his dark hair out of his eyes he takes his free hand and flashes an MI6 badge at me, the light glistening of the manly picture of him on it.

Oooooh. An authority figure. Authority figures make me wet.

As we run out of Waterloo Station (thank God I wore my cute strappy shoes that are also easy to run in), we head to a bridge bypass. Stepping out of the line of sight, he looks severely at me.

"I need your help. You'll just have to trust me." he rasps. He has a cut-glass English accent, and the bridge of his nose is slightly bent. "Rugby accident." he says.

"What?" I reply stupidly.

"My nose. I broke it in a rugby game." He says.

"How did you know I-"

"Women always ask." he replies gravely. "My God you have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. Are those hazel, or more of a forest-green color?"

"Depends on what I am wearing," I reply, shifting from foot to foot. "I'd go with forest-green."

He pulls his right arm out of his jacket, and I see a gaping wound sliced through the thick throbbing bicep. "I need your help. I need to get this wound closed, or else the fate of the Western World will be impacted."

"Impacted by your wound? Are you infected with some kind of fucked-up designer virus or someting?" I ask, staring at the crusty blood on his shoulder and cringing.

"No, I need to get word to the Prime Minister that Russia has poisoned the country's yogurt supply with nitrous oxide."

"Nitrous oxide?" I ask, removing a Radisson sewing kit I keep in my bag. I search my brain for the chemisty class info I nearly failed. "Isn't that laughing gas?"

He looks at me, probing me with his ice blue eyes. "This is England. Our humor is composed of irony and self-deprecation. Do you realize how it will bring our culture down if we try to impose any other kind of humor?"

Fair point. That'll be as catastrophic as a Steve Coogan-Courtney Love illegitimate child. Oops.

I sew up his arm. "The Russians. How passé . The Cold War is so over. Usually it's the English that are the Hollywood stereotypical bad guys."

He regards me coolly, and I decide to shut my gob.

"How long have you been a spy?" I ask.

"Too long." he says bitterly, looking away. "I used to be a fireman, but I felt protecting Queen and Country was of higher importance than rescuing kittens from fire-licked buildings."

I feel my knees go out from under me.

"My name is Helen," I say. I lick my lips and hope my BeneFit lipgloss is still in place.

"My name is James Taylor." he says, grimacing as the thread flies through his flesh. "And if you mention the singer, I'm going to have to pull my gun on you. I hate his fucking music."

Touchy. I finish up, and the sleeve of my flouncy dress slides down my shoulder. I lick my lips as James' fingers take hold of the sleeve and glides it over my shoulder. His eyes focus on my lips. "Thank you," he whispers, and moves in for a kiss.

"Wait!" I whisper urgently. "I have a boyfriend."

"You could die laughing tomorrow." James says urgently. "He'd want you to destroy your relationship by kissing a dodgy spy under a bridge. Besides...you love authority figures."

"Especially firemen!" I breathe, as he sweeps me in for a deep kiss that rocks my tonsils (or at least where my tonsils used to be, as I had them removed when I was 20).

A screaming motorcycle comes around the corner, and a leather-clad man whips off his helmet and points a gun at us. He has a thick, Slavic-looking face. He shouts something in hostile-Russian. James looks desperately at me.

I reach down into my schooling and shout something back at the man in Russian. The Russian looks shocked, and he shakes his head and starts to get off his bike. As he swings his leg over, his leather catches and he diverts his attention long enough to see why he's caught. In that instant, I throw a small object at him, and he combusts instantly in a fireball as his highly-polished leather explodes with high flammibility.

"You shouldn't wear leather!" I shout at the burning figure. "It's morally wrong and socially irresponsible, asshole!"

James looks at me. "What was that?"

"It was a bomb." I say, breathily. "I happened to have an extra tube of Juicy lip gloss, a rubber band, a spare mobile phone battery and a paper clip. I made a homemade bomb out of it."

"You're like McGuyver." he says with admiration.

"You should see my origami, baby." I reply, looking at him through lowered lashes.

"How did you know Russian?" he asks as we start to walk back to Waterloo.

"I took it in university." I say, hoisting my bag back over my shoulder and pleased I am wearing my best knickers.

"What did you say to him?"

"I said 'Hello, my name is Helen. I studied Russian in university. Someone has stolen my umbrella!'"

James stares at me.

"Hey, Russian is hard!" I say irritably. "That's all I remember! You're a fucking spy, you learn the language!"

We reach Waterloo, and a fleet of police cars come screaming up to us. "James!" shouts one figure, a Scot with thick red bushy hair. "Thank God ye're alive! We didna' know if ye would make it in time!"

"I always come just in time." James said, looking at me, and I feel my knickers gush. "Thank you, Helen. You've saved English humor for all time."

"Hmm...Is that a good thing?" I wonder out loud.

James shoots a look at me. I grin weakly. "You're a fantastic woman, Helen." he says, rubbing one finger on my lip. "If only I weren't in Her Majesty's Service, I would...."

"Oh sure. If only I had a nickel for every time I've heard that one!" I retort, and tucking my bag higher on my shoulder, I walk away, and I know that as I walk, I am leaving a romantic and exciting relationship that would have taken me all over the world and put me in dangerous situations that would always require urgent but quiet multi-orgasmic sex.

I also know he's watching my ass as I leave.

Sighing, I look out the window as we pull into Waterloo. I throw away my crumpled cardboard cup that had the first of many cups of coffee I would go through that day. I grab my heavy briefcase and my projector, and I try to ignore my mobile phone, which has been ringing since aout 730 am, as I head into a Dream Job office for a full day of meetings.

-H.

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