There is a Hagen Daas store just under Tower Bridge. Going in for a mid-day snack I hold the door open for a man coming in behind me—this is the beginning of the end.
I wish I had faked a French or Russian accent but I have already ordered a double scoop with Pecan Praline and Cookies ‘n’ Cream in perfect English. Besides, persistence like his is not a to be discouraged by such a trifling thing as language. His name is Kennedy (yes, that’s his actual name), and he is from Brazil. He has been on vacation for the last six months and London is his latest stop.
He asks if I am married. No, do I have a boyfriend? I tell him it’s none of his business and hope the hard edge in my voice will give him the encouragement he needs to move on. He does not move on, he sits down next to me and leans close, telling me what beautiful eyes I have specifying the various hues and tones, blah, blah, blah. I look around the room for help. The other patrons are focused on their cup or cone and I can’t get anyone’s attention.
I tell him I’m seventeen but this has no effect. He accuses me of being a terrible liar and puts his arm across the back of the plastic seat back. I thank God that it is not a bench seat. I need an escape or at the very least a plausible excuse. I am quickly working my way to the bottom of my cup and have yet to taste anything it contains.
Where are the agents? Have they taken his photo and sent it to MI6 for identification already? I am hoping this will be my salvation but as I think it through I realize that he is indeed a man on vacation and therefore of no immediate threat. I hope he has a record so they will come pull me out of the situation. But with an ever-increasing sense of dread I know that I am on my own for this one. Why did I hold that door for him?
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