Unexpected Days of Irish Coffee

Creativity involves letting your imagination run wild, right? Ingenuity on naturally occurring adrenaline.

“Well Karla, part and parcel of why the arts are considered therapeutic.”

Or some such drivel mentioned in over four months I’d been seeing him. Not my boo, bae, or booty-call but my therapist. Like it or not, Dr. James O’Reilly’s assigned task lay in the resolution of perceived litigation-worthy character deficits—not that it’s illegal to have character flaws—it’s just that mine, more than once landed me in...well...not so ideal places.

I don’t have to utter a word. Mama said even as a toddler, I had looks of pure stinkeye, sending her and Daddy into hysterics.

My ample boundaries for respect have non-negotiable perimeters is all.

Although I rang in the New Year alone again, I wasn’t thrilled about finishing it that way. Plus, with Brexit in full effect at month’s end, point advantage required the company Chief Executive Officer convinced that Karla Eve is a worthwhile financial investment while Karla Eve still has a mortgage. Job security meant managing even perceived character deficits. Fast.

My first appointment happened on a short workday. Not how I wanted to spend a Wednesday afternoon, but two mimosas at Willy’s Wine Bar helped to mitigate gargantuan sacrifice.

The elevator to the ninth floor of the Scalpel, a London architectural fixture, opened to a packed reception area more oasis than office. Soothing pine greens blend to natural rock cascading water fountains, Chinese evergreen, and Thatch Palm. Stirred memories of early years in Macon, Georgia when it was impossible to keep me in shoes. The frosted glass front desk bearing the name Advantage Consulting etched in silver filigree made a statement before he ever did.

I didn’t expect tall.

And he was all, “Good Afternoon! Well, should I call you Miss Eve, Mrs. Eve, or Karla?”

His first words to me contained a question seeking guidance.

Immediate deference.

Didn’t know he was Irish until he opened his mouth.

So respectful.

Which is saying something, cuz everybody and their grandma at AIG Life is “Karla, can you…"

"Karla, bring me," and…

"Karla, are the reports ready?” Like we hang out and are friends (we aren’t.) Like they really know me. And they really don’t.

I’ve been working there for like two minutes fighting every bodily instinct not to say, “Look lady!/Look man! I don’t know you like that, so don’t ‘Karla me’ anything. It’s Ms. Eve. Got it?!”

But not this yet unrecognized skilled high-level negotiator…

“Karla is fine if I can call you James, Dr. O’Reilly.”

“Easily done,” he said.

I literally pinched myself to interrupt a train of thought signal charge ramming through this Victoria Station chest of a man broader and firmer than your average newly recruited personal trainer, with a smile—ooooh—that could soothe a screaming banshee.

“Ana, call my three o’clock for preassessment documentation, please.”

An administrative assistant, spa attendant congenial in pale green scrubs and nametag, seemed at home behind the reception desk, eliciting an irregular tick-tap of keys at an Apple iMac.

Glancing at James, she nodded as the phone rang. “Thank you for calling Advantage Consulting. Good afternoon...”

As James shut the office door, I collapsed into a textured red velvet chair as my knees weakened and my pulse raced.

He called it “The hot seat,” but said, “You’re welcome to sit wherever you feel comfortable.”

Floor to ceiling windows, lounge chairs, settees. Entertainment system on the far wall with an ensuite tucked away. Recliners, and sofas in charcoals and greys sprawled out in spacious art moderne interior decor.

Behave, Karla.

On the periphery, I heard him offering something. Whatever it was, I said, “Yes,” and he returned with sparkling water on ice in a glass tumbler. I hate sparkling water. But I sipped it like I’d been waiting for it all day.

I couldn’t understand a word that man said, just smiled and nodded in what I thought were appropriate places. But sometime during our third session, he asked about my man.

At 30 yrs. old I’d hit a bit of a dry spell. The only male influence in my life, regrettably, was Russell the Ridiculous. His terms and conditions necessitated marathon neck massages, Dreamies chicken and liver flavor, and unrestricted access to my lap.

Deep down, no woman wants to be mean old, lonely cat lady.

“Oh no, I’m not seeing anyone right now.” Internal chemistry surged, a force raging for reactivity.

His café au lait face framed by thick ebony curls registered confusion. Then, a glimmer. “No, not your man, your mam! As in your mother?”

My mortification couldn’t be hidden.

I came clean.

"Cursed American-born hearing," I wailed. Mama passed away eight years ago.

"We could work through communication issues for therapy..." Mama’s love for me felt like all-night-long hugs.

"The lifeline this support would be in job promotion..." (Retention, actually.) She shamed angels with her singing voice.

"Acclimation to various British accents still woefully inadequate..."

He crumpled a post-it and threw it at my head. It disappeared down cleavage.

Breath held. Eyes locked.

Then we both roared with laughter, tears streaming from eye corners for the remainder of the session.

Slower enunciated conversations it would be.

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Insurance paid for two therapy appointments weekly for five months. I extended coverage to three a week for ten. Hell, as an investment actuary, I could afford indulgences. In the discharge of personal—I mean professional development and all.

Talks never felt structured or forced. Short and long-term goals melded between toddler to teen childhood reminiscing, then social networks, education, employment history, major life events, ending in transition to UK living by default.

But John Legend after Mary J. Blige soothing sounds coming from the speakers?

It felt strange. Like I’d been profiled, covertly assessed for preferences. I couldn’t shake this angle and sit there hating music I unequivocally loved.

London was Karl Eve Jr.,’s final army posting, a last eight-month stint. Daddy and I both slow-motion grief frames barely functioning after Mama succumbed to esophageal cancer despite an optimistic clinical trial and weeks of chemo.

Where my obsession with predictions and probabilities all began. I detest losing odds. Mathematics is about the closest thing to fortune-telling, so I studied it.

I’d raise a few eyebrows at betting shops with consistent wins. Practical application translated three years later into a degree from the London School of Economics.

Daddy was so proud.

But I wish I could have given him more joy before he left this earth.

Secretly, I considered a sperm donor once but became career-driven. Later, I just chickened out.

James revealed the abuse growing up in care homes brought. During brief intense accounts, his eyes transported me too inside screams, curses, and tiny morsels for meals. An imperceptible switch would flip inside him and all evaporates. To be in deep emotional space, then yanked out, was jarring. Irritating even. But I guess in his role, boundaries were procedural.

I had mine.

Like last week lunching at Haz Plantation before our session.

In my imbalanced career-driven world, I hadn’t treated myself to lamb tangine since Teresa May was in office.

After downing a glass of Haz Rosé I made my way to James’s office on foot for 3 pm. Some guys on Mincing Lane slid from a doorway behind me. They must've been bored, drunk, and stupid. I heard grunting noises that came closer. The sound of a pig squealing. Morons, who obviously had no clue. I came to a dead halt just before dog poo on the sidewalk and someone rear-ended me.

In truth: The adage should read, “Hell hath no fury like a woman in Mamacita Italian leather ankle boots pushed in poo.”

No one expects the big lady to move so fast. I left them both slumped against an iron gate. One bloody nose and one swollen lip.

Justified.

Not worth mentioning.

James championed fate with a successful business. We both thrived on the right side of statistics, near-certain odds. The sessions really helped, so why nit-pick?

James favored home exercises, reflection with feedback, and intense follow-up. His due diligence with recordkeeping, strategic planning, and organization bordered on overkill.

Once, he asked me if employed by a company profiting from illegal activity, would I report it or quit. Obtuse or obscure scenarios were thrown out for analysis, emphasizing there was no right or wrong answer. He just wanted in my head a little. That’s how nearly nine months after our first session, the road forked into creative pursuits.

So, I penned poems and memoirs about growing up a self-confessed army brat and only child.

He wanted my right brain to deeply engage, as he put it, my “aggressive tendencies.”

I could agree in principle but my conscience wouldn’t capitulate to terms.

I was not aggressive.

Daddy taught me from young to stand up for myself and Mama backed him. Children can be cruel. Especially if you’re near Andrews Airforce Base one minute then Palawan, Cádiz, or Al Udeid the next, not blending in with anyone or anything.

I’ve always been a big girl. A fact my dad turned to tactical advantage before others could start teasing. To me, my weight was never a liability. I felt beautiful. Confident. But for some reason, here at 30yrs, a 5ft 5in., 176 lb articulate black professional intimidated people before she said a word.

That would not be my whole story.

Last month, James remained silent, smoldering black coffee eyes I thirsted for, transfixed to the printout, I’d handed him.

“Karla, this is soul-shifting stuff!” His feet rested on the edge of a matching grey stool while my vulnerability hung in the balance.

“You’ve never written professionally? Been published?”

“Nope.” I held my tongue on how much I enjoyed it. Creativity flowing on a page so far from the statistics, data reviews, and probability calculations I finished on a daily. “You really think it’s good?”

He removed fire-engine red horn-rimmed reading glasses.

I now sported a tiny bruise where I kept pinching myself.

“Can I recommend publication submissions and taking this next level?”

As in you over for drinks in my Victoria Court apartment?

Whoa, Karla, stop thinking so loud!

“You’ve knocked this for a six. I’d like you to try scriptwriting? An adjunct to the overall objective management plan.”

“Sounds challenging,” I said, my mind already churning away, stimulating long quiet places.

With two weeks’ vacation at the end of October, I latched on to an idea for a mystery thriller. A female insurgent network united in grief after their children are tragically killed in airstrikes from Somalia and Sudan to Afghanistan and Azerbaijan. They specified in targeting personnel-free weapons depots and military equipment. Civilians revered them. Other victims cheering for what they secretly longed to do themselves.

This was unchartered territory.

Research began in earnest. Loglines. Scene headings. Parentheticals. Military targets. Guerrilla tactics. Strategic assessments. Explosive agents. Chemical storage and transport networks. Stealth technology.

I hijacked the left hemisphere of my brain, locked it in the trunk, and went joyriding. I wasn’t rational. I inhabited a zone that lay unexplored with limitless possibilities.

The more I delved, I envisioned the potential for a series, drawing plot points around individual backstories. By week two, after a third revision edit, I yearned the opinion of someone I trusted.

The waiting area had no one waiting when I arrived. The second time in a row. I set a mental reminder to grab business cards. I’d be happy to pass them around to trusted colleagues who were seeing me as more friend than powderkeg nowadays.

As James read in his usual position, Alicia Keys’ 'Fallin’ floated at low volume through the speakers.

When I concluded my therapy with James, maybe we could hang out sometime. No harm, no foul if I’m not a client.

Engrossed in reading my script meant it couldn’t be that boring. He raised his head as if he’d heard my thought and shot me a quizzical gaze.

“Karla, how did you research all of this?”

Well, that wasn’t the response I expected.

“On my PC and laptop through the usual service browsers. Where else?”

“Just wondering how well you thought this one through.” His facial expression hadn’t changed.

My “What do you mean?” intermingles with muffled sounds outside the office door.

“Meaning you searched keywords like weapons cache, explosive devices, detonators, blast radius?”

That’s definitely Ana’s voice I hear outside.

“Of course. I investigated for believability.” Slight irritation threatened but I pushed it down hard. “I’m going for production or film, James. That is the idea, yes?”

“ Yeah, sure. It’s those words…they’re all triggers bound to—”

—BLAAAAAAAAMM!!!

His sentence sliced open like the heavy wooden office door which now had multiple black flak jackets with helmets filtering through it towards me. I stood and rained down everything I could grab off the desk which boiled down to a crystal engraved paperweight, pen pot, and carved marble statue of Buddha.

There were high-pitched yelps.

Me yelling eternal fire and damnation.

I went down on one knee grabbing the chair I was sitting on, spinning it 180˚ around me at pairs of legs advancing. My targets tripped. An enveloping circle of covered black assault-rifle toting militia surrounded in seconds.

“Get down on the floor NOW!” The command reverberated, echoed by two or three squad members close by at varying decibels of loud.

My cheek smushed the ivory carpet as handcuffs clinked in place. My panic level soaring for record highs. The high-pitched sounds coming from James, a picture of absolute terror on the edge of his chair, with my script trembling in his hand.

“Karla Eve, you are under arrest on suspicion of terrorist activity intent and as a threat to national security. Anything you say can be…”

While the arresting officer rambled on, I felt foolish not seeing these predictions.

“James, tell them! Explain what’s happening here. Y’know, the exercise.”

This could all go away. Heart rates could go back to normal. Three members of the unit helped me to my feet.

The unit leader addressed him, “What is your relationship to the accused, sir?”

“I’m her therapist.” Watered down coffee eyes appear stone cold. His voice is small, terror-filled. “I don’t know her outside of therapy sessions.”

“Explain to him what I was doing. Show him my script.” I fought to keep my tone steady, though stress forged a crack or two. This situation would be easy to diffuse.

“I don’t know anything else. As I said, I’m just her therapist. I can’t—”

“—Look, that’s my script in his hand. I’m telling you this whole thing’s a misunderstanding.” Terror started choking the common sense out of this surreal scenario. James resembled the after-effects of a road traffic accident, broken splintered fragments, and twisted metal. An area to be cordoned off. And he was.

“Sir, I’m gonna have to take you in to determine levels of involvement.” The unit leader grabbed and skimmed the script James was holding, but it didn’t have the effect I thought it would.

My chest squeezed tight of its own accord.

His octave raised to a flesh-crawling squeal. ”But, I’ve only just started seeing this client. I barely know her well enough to—”

“—Save it for later, mate. We’ll discuss it then.” The man was an impenetrable wall with no walk around.

Disgust in James, as a yellow turncoat sewer rat coward emerged, ready to scurry off at first inklings of a potential threat.

My eyes shot razor blades at him as they escorted me through the door, but he just sat staring off into space.

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Sitting in a nondescript room after processing, every ounce of resolve ebbed.

I summoned images of Daddy’s hearty talks during rough times. He personified a rock boulder, massive and immovable, his support for me unwavering.

Karl Eve’s strategy was to feel everything. Hold back nothing…for 20 pulse beats scream blood fire demon defying murder. Then, be silent and plan and scheme like a muthafucka.

Daddy’s mantra.

Wearing handcuffs behind my back made it hard to take a pulse.

No problem, I’m an actuary.

I estimated 20 heartbeats of foul curses, bitch clawing evil rampages, and eternity-long torture interrogations. Then everything in me went quiet.

The small room held absolutely nothing but the chair I sat on and an oakwood table. A solitary light above must have held a 2000-watt bulb blinding bright and disorienting. Had I been there half an hour or hours? I counted two CCTV-style cameras fixed to opposite corner ceilings and just wall-to-wall walls. A room designed to drive one insane. My best mode of attack and defense was gonna be my mouth.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Eve. My name is Detective Sergeant Reginald Proctor. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Keep me waiting? What was this a grocery checkout line?

“I hope you won’t mind if we speak off the record. Can I get you anything? Water? A hot beverage? Haz Rosé?

My mind spun for an instant as the image of the two losers I beat up months earlier resurfaced. My stomach lurched. The things a girl can forget. Someone had to be following me to see that.

Proctor, the façade of professionalism and diplomacy with God knows what underneath it.

“I want my lawyer, not café service.” I remained cordial as he sat opposite me, less than ordinary in black trousers and pale blue shirt open at the collar. I would have broken my nail for a tie, but he probably knew that too.

A practiced smile emerged as his eyes attempted to soften mine. “I don’t think you’ll need one of those. You’re not under arrest.”

“Could have fooled me with the armed police unit busting in on my therapy session and stating that I was under arrest,” I spoke up right away to disguise the fact that his reply was completely unexpected. “And what about these handcuffs?”

“Apologies, Ms. Eve. As long as you agree to talk with me for a while?”

“Not a problem.”

I didn’t know how this was going to play out, but part of my scheming concluded with me soaking in my bathtub while every candle I owned was lit, Zinfandel Rosé in my hand, James’s ass on a platter, and Luther Vandross playing on repeat surround sound tonight.

“Can I tell you three things about myself Ms. Eve?” he said as the key clicked in my handcuffs. “Just random things.” Holding the black cuffs, he walked back around to his chair. “After that, I’d like you to tell me three things about you. An icebreaker since we’ve just met and all.”

I never involved myself in bizarre conversations. I didn’t know what angle this man was shooting for but I rubbed my wrists, let my shoulders relax, then stretched.

“Sure, why not. Shoot.”

A millisecond flicker in his eyes pre-empted the next words he spoke. “I’m a married man of 18 years. I have two young children Gerald and Elsa 7 and 3 yrs. old. Am almost positive your theatre script is the nail in Dr. O’Reilly’s practice license.” He paused. “Would you be willing to testify against him?”

Such an extreme case of 'unexpected day' can be detrimental to...well…everything.

My decision: Play this game on my own terms.

“I was raised on being able to smell bullshit a mile away so I know you ain’t married and don’t have a child to speak of. I’m good at what I do and am paid well for it. And I believe you either want something from me or you’re looking for a reason.” I leaned back in my chair and looked directly at him.

“A reason?”

“To accidentally shoot me with the gun in your ankle holster,”

His expression never changed.

A pause filled the empty space after the exchange, weaving its way around the insanity room.

“ And what makes you think that?” he stood and leaned across the table.

“It’s my job to know. Numbers, statistics, probabilities, and predictions are my domain. Yours don’t add up.” I stood as much to stretch my legs as to drive home my point.

“It’d make you between 43-45yrs to have been married 18 years which you’re not. Not to mention you lied about telling me three things.” My momentum couldn’t stop. “You asked a question about Dr. O’Reilly. You broke your own rule so I ain’t wanna know you cuz I don’t trust you.”

“So it’s Dr. O’Reilly. Not James anymore?” He glanced at the video cameras as he sat back down, his demeanor shed another layer.

“What do you WANT from me?” I’d had enough of this small stinking room. “What do you WANT?”

“You.” His speech sounded small and calm. “You, Ms. Eve.”

“And what exactly do you want me for?”

“An interview. You’re an unexpected barrel of surprises. The last person anyone would suspect.”

“What do you want me for, Proctor, I wanna go home and—”

“—We…it’s WE. We want to train you as an undercover agent operative for a classified division of MI-6.”

I stared at him.

My BS detector failed to alarm as expected.

I waited for a smirk, a punchline, or someone to come in yelling, “You’re on candid camera!”

Nothing.

“Mr. Proctor, I’ve changed my mind,” I said.

“Oh.”

“I will have that hot beverage. A chai latte.”

“Okay, no problem.” He pulled a phone from his trouser pocket.

“And I’ll have a grilled halloumi with fresh lime roasted seasoned squash, pepper, mushrooms, and zucchini tapas.”

“I’ll see what I—”

“—Served with a warmed spinach salad and sundried tomatoes, shredded carrots, raisins, walnuts plus a side of French vinaigrette dressing.”

“Ms. Eve, I’m—”

“—Pretty famished, so bring strawberry mousse with my entrée, chicken parmigiana.”

“Karla, this agency WANTS to recruit you—we’ve been following you for eight months!!!”

“THAT’S NOT POSSIBLE, I’VE BEEN IN ANGER MANAGEMENT THERAPY!!!” I was on my feet again, shaking with renewed rage.

“I know,” he swiped a finger across the phone keyboard. Seconds later, James sauntered through the door, relaxed as a cat sprawled out napping in the sun.

“Who,” Detective Sergeant Proctor said as he stood between us, “do you think provided us your profile and recommended you?”

The man who weakened my knees from beginning to Irish flaming nanny end.

No red textured chair, but my whole body was on fire as I fell back to my seat and Proctor slipped wordlessly out the door.

Apologies would be useless.

He never wanted me hurt.

My personality, the perfect fit.

His life would be in my hands. The trust element…immense.

He’d be my handler and the benefits…huge!

Hadn’t I mentioned wanting more to my story?

I was given time. Lots of time. After a whirlwind day, I embraced the cusp of a category five hurricane New Year.

Six months later, life is almost unrecognizable but vastly more exciting.

I field calls and attend briefings, with last-minute excursions to Rio, Milan, and Bangkok.

Behind the office doors of the Executive Vice President Global Head of Counsel and Affairs, I have influence spilling over in spades.

Benefits. Huge.

In my office suite, the administrative assistant only sends through calls from two people. The CEO of AIG and my handler, aka Irish Coffee. James isn’t even his real name. An actor extraordinaire who I entrust with my life, but is yet to agree with me on an alias and movie title for my script.

Thank you so much for reading! I truly appreciate it.

Get in touch @thedaniwriter