Business as Usual

Chp Coffee for Two



The problem with living in California, Agnes Pringle thought with a sigh, was the rain. Or rather the lack of it. At home in England you could almost rely on it raining at some time during the week. Being a vampire in Winchester would have been quite easy. With a sky full of clouds, you could have gone out and done your shopping without any fears of not coming back.

Take this morning, for example. There had been quite thick cloud overhead and she’d thought she had plenty of time to hurry to the store for flour, sugar, fruit and vegetables. She’d put up her faithful yellow umbrella – and yes, it did look a little odd when it wasn’t actually raining, but people around here expected her to act in a weird manner.

Then, whoosh! The clouds had parted, the sun had burst out and suddenly the umbrella had seemed extremely small. She had felt a distinct singeing on the backs of her legs and there had just been time to scuttle inside this coffee house.

She sat now, gazing round with interest at the laughing, talking youngsters, the business men and women having a well earned break. This, she supposed, would be her competition if she ever got enough money together to open a little shop of her own here in Sunnydale.

The rubbish dump was so dirty and smelly and, apart from Spike and one or two other demons who had obviously been well brought up, the clientele could be difficult. Only last night she’d had quite a little argument with two small, ferrety faced demons, both dressed as monks of all things, who refused to pay for their Earl Grey and ginger biscuits.

As luck would have it, she’d earlier overheard them complaining about their employer, how she overworked them and how they got very little time off. It had, admittedly, been unkind of her to say she would report them to their boss if they didn’t pay their bill, but in the cut-throat world of business, it was every vampire for herself.

But that was the type of person who walked through the dump. Now, if she could find a cheap little place in town to rent and decorate – maybe in the same row of shops as that interesting Magic Box store, that would be wonderful.

Agnes sighed and stirred the cup of coffee she hadn’t wanted. Just dreams. That’s all they were. Where was she going to find the capital to fund such a venture.

“Excuse me, madam. Would you mind if I sat at your table. There seems very little room. It will only be until my colleagues arrive with the limousine.”

Agnes glanced up. An older gentleman wearing a lovely tweed suit – and if he hadn’t bought that in Jermyn Street, her name wasn’t Agnes Pringle! – was standing next to her, holding a cup of coffee and looking with irritation at a group of youngsters who were being a little too loud.

“Oh – yes – I mean – oh please do. There’s plenty of space. Let me just remove my umbrella and handbag and – oh, yes, that cardigan is mine, as well. And the bag of apples. And the tomatoes. Do be careful where you sit – that tomato seems to have squashed itself – let me just wipe the seat – there!”

Flustered, she pulled all her belongings towards her, rescuing the apples that were determined to escape from their neat brown grocery bag.

The man sat down and gave her piercing look from under busy eyebrows. “Why, I believe you are a fellow compatriot of mine.”

Agnes smiled. She had already heard and placed that upper class English accent. The Bishop had spoken in a similar fashion all those years ago. “Agnes Pringle – late of Winchester.” She didn’t think it necessary to tell him just how late.

“Quentin Travers. From London,” and he shook her hand. “Ah Winchester – I know the school so well. And the cathedral, of course.”

“Are you here on business, Mr Travers?”

“Yes, a flying visit. My colleagues have gone to collect the hire car. We need something a little larger than the one we were given at the airport. And you, er, Miss Pringle – ” he had noticed she wasn’t wearing a ring – “visiting family, perhaps?”

“No – sadly I have no family.” Well, that wasn’t strictly true, she thought. She had cousins, but she hadn’t spoken to them in years. “I came to America on holiday and – stayed.”

Quentin Travers smiled benignly and stopped listening as the fluffy haired woman in front of him began on a long involved story about winning a coach trip to see the stars’ homes in Hollywood, some sort of accident and eventually finding work in Sunnydale. This was such a waste of time. He had a lot to do today and, glancing at his watch, wished the team would arrive with the car. He wanted to confront Miss Summers and Rupert Giles before lunch. His expression hardened. He couldn’t wait to confront the two of them. He had had quite enough of treachery and insubordination.

“You seem a little concerned?” Agnes said.

“I do apologise, dear lady. I have a difficult business meeting ahead of me. A young – er – employee who has been, how shall I put it, stepping out of line lately and endangering our whole operation in Sunnydale.”

“How distressing for you! But I expect you are used to all these high-flying problems. I can imagine you are very adept at negotiation and compromise. Indeed, I recently had the same sort of problem myself when a friend’s young lady came to see me – oh, he’s English, too. What a coincidence. I’m sure you’d get on very well. His name is William and….”

Quentin Travers stroked his chin and stopped listening again. Compromise? Negotiation? He didn’t really recognise either word.

He sipped his coffee and stared over the rim of his cup at Agnes Pringle who seemed to be giving him the recipe for a happy relationship between men and women for some bizarre reason. Quentin sighed. Poor, ineffectual woman. What would she ever know in her comfortable, protected world about vampires, demons and hell gods? What would she say if he told her that he ran a Council that controlled an army of Watchers who coped with the whole world’s vampire problems?

He laughed quietly to himself, basking in his own power, wondering what this funny little woman would say if he told her that Sunnydale was built on a Hellmouth. Her could imagine how surprised and terrified she would be if he said that the Slayer worked not a half mile away, that vampires walked the streets of town at night?

He peered out of the window, but there was still no sign of the car. He had a nasty feeling that the left hand drive might have defeated Lydia.

Agnes’ voice trailed away. Oh dear, had she been boring her companion? She feared she had. That glazed look in his eyes, the impatient tapping of a finger on the table. She bit her lip, trying to stop it from trembling because when it did, her fangs had a bad habit of slipping out and she would have died rather than show herself up in front of such a gentleman as Mr Travers.

They sat in silence, sipping their coffee, both wishing heartily that it was tea. Just as they finished,

“Ah, my colleagues have arrived,” Mr Travers said as a car jerked to a violent halt against the kerb. He stood up, raised Agnes’ hand to his lips and kissed it. “Thank you for your time, dear lady, and for sharing your table. I do hope you continue to have an enjoyable time in Sunnydale. One small warning, please do not walk around after dark, even in the main roads. You never know whom you might meet. Good day!”

And he was gone.

Agnes sighed. What a lovely man! So distinguished. So charming. How wonderful it must to live and work in a world of money and influence such as his must be. She was quite certain Mr Quentin Travers had never even heard of vampires. And if he had, he would certainly not believe they existed!


tbc