Author's note: Might not be very, exceptionally good, but do drop a review, won't you? Who knows, I might just improve. Thanks!

Chapter 1: Bloody First Impressions

Never mind the fact that London is internationally renown as a 'city of the world'; 'one of the truly great touring spots in the world', or its claim to being diverse and unique and charming. I certainly found none of it in my first two hours in this can-do city. What charm I discovered consists of a cacophony of 'bloody', 'arses' and 'stinking' strung together in a space of three sentences. Perhaps I should not be too harsh. The taxi driver and I are, of course, stuck in a spectacular traffic jam, and by spectacular I mean that it is not possible for a vehicle to move more than an inch in, say, 30 minutes.

Now if we were in Edinburgh, we wouldn't have this sort of problem. The taxi drivers would all pay more mind to their language, and I would be able to put an excellent first impression to the landlord of my apartment, whom I've only had the chance to communicate through the phone. To be late for a second first, live meeting, is perfectly atrocious, especially for me, a courteous and sensible Edinburgh girl. And of course it is generally well-known that it is not good to leave a bad impression on your landlord by being late for at least 45 minutes already.

"I'm sorry, sir," I began, fanning myself with my 'Guide to London: Understand the Metropolis in Under a Week'. So far it was pretty unhelpful. It had not, for instance, prepared me for the taxi driver's bad choice of words; nor the sudden influx of cars as we turned into Oxford Street. Actually the condition had begun quite badly ever since I left Paddington Station, worse when I asked the taxi man to put my luggages into the boot, and now could-not-possibly-get-any-worse. "But I was wondering, if you, I mean, if you can, you know, go any faster?"

"Bleeding Edinburghians!" roared the taxi driver. "If you can't bloody wait, why don't you take your bleeding lump of luggage and just bleeding WALK?"

My jaw dropped. "Walk, you say?"

"Aye, you bloody heard me!"

"Then - then I shan't pay!"

"Fine! Just get the bleeding hell out of here!"

I bludgeoned my way out of the unpleasant taxi, making sure I left sandy footprints on the back of the leather seats. I know that this is a most regrettable behaviour and there is no way that I can obtain forgiveness from the higher powers, but you can just imagine the level of rage that I had been driven to. "You'll regret this!" I snarled back at him. If he thought that he can be rude, I bloody well can as well!

He grinned back manically at me. "Oh no, I won't."

"Yes you will! Because I'll lodge a complaint! Oh yes, I will!"

If anything, his grin grew, revealing teeth yellow from alcohol (most probably stout) and cigarettes. "Oh really? And who the bleeding hell to?"

"The authorities!"

"Name them."

At that point, I reckoned I must have looked like a fool, standing in the middle of a congested road, my cheeks red from fury, mouth opening and closing with disbelief and longing to think of something smart to retort to the devil's advocate. And the most wonderful part is that the taxi driver seemed to have decided to humiliate me even further by lodging his car firmly on the road, thus provoking impatient honks and beeps from the cars directly behind us.

"Come on, clever Miss Edinburgh, name them."

At last, I blurted out, "Well good day to you, sir!"

The taxi driver burst out laughing in a most disgusting and crude way, slapping the dashboard and just about any surface he could lay his hands on as I, with face redder than a chilli, marched to the boot, yelled at him to open it (coupled with banging fists) and, fuming, dragged my two suitcases (they belonged to Mum, actually) to the side of the road and shouted some more, just to spite him.

"What are you waiting for, sir? Get the bleeding hell out of here, won't you? Hah! Look - I am outside the stinkin' taxi, and free as a bee on the pavement. Yes! I don't have to be stuck in the bleedin' jam, and - this is the best part - if it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have gotten in the jam in the first place! Hah! Hahah!" People were staring at me as if I'd just escaped from an asylum, and my curly brown hair heaped into a hasty, messy bun must have encouraged the image. Mum and Dad would have disowned me in a heartbeat.

But you know what? For the first time in my life, I didn't care.

And that knowledge brought a sense of elation that had been visiting me in tiny tinges ever since I'd stepped on the train this morning from Edinburgh, accompanied by loving relatives who vowed that they would be missing me. I have achieved independence. Ah, how sweet the word sounds! I should feel ashamed, because I can only know and fully absorb its weight now at the ancient age of 26. I have let go of my mother's apron strings. I have achieved 'Mark-ism', which almost equals nirvana, which is really (in my own words) the ultimate level of bliss and happiness that has been achieved by my younger brother, Mark, who is also in London and had been taunting me endlessly of the consequences of not leaving the nest and miss such adult earthly delights as clubbing till four in the morning, drinking Bloody Marys and eating Indian food to senselessness. Is it any wonder that he's been duly banished from the family?

And lo! Who should be passing by on a motorcycle but him!

"Bloody hell!" I heard first as the said motorcycle whizzed past me, and I was so surprised that I could only turn my head and blink. Then the motorcycle slowly reversed behind and its driver nocked his visor, revealing a wide grin that was quite familiar.

"Fran! Frances Charlotte Henrietta Crescone!"

And then it hit me. Who else could have known my full name other than -

"Mark!"

"Right-ie-o!" He removed his helmet and I had to widen my eyes.

"Yes, yes, horrible ain't it? But only to the gentle folk." He had bleached his shock of short dark hair (same shade as mine) to a colour that trod the fine line between platinum and snowy-whiteness. What's more, he had apparently decided to splatter his hair with garish shades of red and blue.

"I think you mean 'genteel', Mark," I tried to say with as much dryness as possible.

"Whatever! This is artsy, man! Art-sie! Come on now, what are you doing on the pavement in Oxford Street with two gargantula suitcases? People would be thinking that you'd stolen something."

"I got kicked out of my taxi."

His eyes bulged and he tried earnestly to stifle a laugh. "Honestly?"

"Yes, well, believe it. Does it happen often in London?"

"No. You must have been really naughty! Naughty naughty Fran!"

"Can you give me a lift to my flat?" I interrupted his moment of blissful revelation, because he had always enjoyed hearing of my faults. I suppose that's what you get for being eldest and the 'hope' of the family.

"What?"

"I said, can you give me a lift to my flat in Bessborough Place?" I repeated, exasperated. Minutes were ticking by and I was looking more and more like an idiot.

He looked uncertain. "Well, no problem of course, Fran - you know I'm always happy to help, but..."

"But what?" I snapped.

He pointed at my suitcases. "I'm driving a motorcycle."

I sighed and stamped my foot. Yes, this is how frustrated I am! "Look here, Mark: I'm now almost an hour late for my appointment with my landlord, without whom I will never be able to enter and start living in my flat, and you do know that I hate being late and - and - I am generally very punctual!"

All of a sudden, Mark burst into laughter. It did not amuse me one bit.

"Oh God, I'd almost forgotten how pretentious you Edinburgh folks can get," he said at last, wiping laughter tears from his eyes with his sleeve. "You know what? I've got an idea."

---

"Franwhatareyoudoingtuckyourlegsinthere'saCliocoming!!!"

"AAAAIIIIIEEEEEE!!!!" I screamed and jammed my legs as inwards as possible as a yellow buggy-like car sped narrowly past my knees. I could just hear a faint but plainly agitated "Stinkin' bikers!"

"Well it's not my fault!" yelled Mark back. "My sister insisted me to take the main road!"

"It's not like he can hear you!" I shouted at him.

"I just like to do that," he shrugged apologetically.

I huffed and tried to tuck my rebellious hair behind my ears. Yes, I am not wearing a helmet. But it would have been to mean to expect him to have a spare helmet. Mark lived for the moment and I bet that he wouldn't care if he were destined to be shipwrecked on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. But the wind was whipping my hair awry. I wondered if things could get any better than this: stuck on a motorcycle driven neurotically by my younger, careless brother, while my suitcases were left under the care of a Marks and Spencer sales assistant, who promised to deliver them to my place at eight o'clock with a fee of 10 pounds. Not cheap, but no choice. Meanwhile, I can only imagine the kind of face that was being worn by my landlord now. Imagine waiting one hour for someone who is not related to you. Exactly.

But I dared not ask Mark to drive any faster. The way he swerved in and out of cars was enough to frighten even the toughest and most experienced of stunt drivers.

Finally, finally the ride from hell ended. My knees nearly buckled when I got off from the motorcycle. My legs and bottom seemed to have frozen. It took me an enormous effort to even stand up straight.

"Okay, Fran?" asked Mark with a wide grin as he removed his helmet.

I shook my head. "I feel like puking."

"Oh come on, it wasn't that bloody bad," he stifled a laugh.

"It was shite," I rolled the last word of my tongue deliberately.

"Well, at least dear Mum and dear Dad won't approve of it."

"Can you tell me why you enjoy ticking them off?" I asked him back.

"It's fun. Oh and er, Fran," he pointed at something behind me. I turned around and saw a rather young man, his fair hair as if windswept but articulately so, standing at the foot of a flat building, his hands jammed in his faded jeans and looking rather cross indeed.

"So?" I asked Mark.

"That can be your landlord," he said simply.

I laughed and pointed at the... boy. "This you say is my landlord? He's no more than an A-level student!"

"His name is Peter White, isn't he?"

"My landlord? Yes, that's his name."

"He's my friend. And that boy is him."

"WHAT? I don't - "

"What, you don't believe me? He told me last week that he would be meeting a nice Edinburgh girl named Frances Crescone at the flat his-parents-bought-for-him-but-now-nobody-uses to hand over the keys to her, and he also said that if she was pretty enough he would probably ask her out to dinner that very night and give her a short tour of the Tube." He paused for breath. "So there."

My jaw dropped, again. London seems never to be short of any surprises. "So...?" I asked uncertainly.

"So?" he repeated, then shook his head and, to my horror, he called out to him. "Oy! Oy, Peter White!"

I slapped my forehead and refused to look. This is all a nightmare. Soon, I will be waking up and find that I am still surrounded by the good, educated folk of Ediburgh and still have plenty of time before setting off on the train.

Unfortunately - "What's up Marky?"

Mark grinned in my direction and said, "This is Fran Crescone. She's my sister."

I dared myself to attempt a smile at said Peter White. For a moment I thought that he looked as if he would like to strangle Mark as he kept alternating disbelieving looks between his chum and his sister, who had turned up one hour late for an appointment. Most of all, I was surprised, and rightly so because I'd been expecting to find a wizened old pensioner who was more likely to waive my arriving late and offer me a cup of tea.

Then Peter White looked at me again. He had a pair of turbulent green eyes that seemed to be able to swallow me up. They were that big and penetrating. His lips were thin and grim. I waited for a word.

After a few seconds of intense soul searching, he said, "You've had plenty of bloody time to get here, didn't you?"