Fenny crept into apartment with the hot chocolate she had bought when the first cabbie announced he had no idea where he was going. That had probably been a good move, actually, because she was still wallowing in misery and loneliness, sniffling with the tears shed in the movie theatre, and that was no way to return to her friends, especially considering the fact that her friends were probably still writhing around on the living room floor. Best to give them some time. So, she’d slipped into a café and doodled in the notepad she kept in her purse, reprimanding herself for scribbling out faces painfully reminiscent of Brad’s as she tried to cheer herself up with some good old fashioned hot cocoa. It didn’t help, but she managed to get a satisfactory grip on her emotions and gave Gina and Paul sufficient time to screw each other’s brains out.

And, as she stepped gingerly into the room, she saw that yes, they’d obviously screwed each other’s brains out, to the point where getting up off Fenny’s bed, which they’d so thoughtlessly defiled, was of little concern. She had to swallow the urge to scream obscenities at the saccharine couple curled up together on the futon. “For fuck’s sake,” she groaned, and marched into Gina’s bedroom. Well that wasn’t going to be much better, the bed was just as besmirched with unsavory bodily fluids that Fenny wanted nothing to do with. It was bad enough she wasn’t getting any, but to have it rubbed in her face like this was simply not cool.

She made short work of pulling the sheets off the bed and lumping them in a pile in the corner. Fenny was in no mood to deal with them and it was Gina’s fault anyway. She found a couple of clean blankets tucked away in the closet and made up the bed before slipping into a pair of comfy pajamas and cocooning herself in the warmth of the blankets. Fenny wished so badly that she could be wrapped in the warmth of Brad’s arms instead, and realized she had to call him, hear his voice, listen to him whisper that he loved her.

Cursing the complexity of international phone calls, she dialed that still familiar number, her heart rate doubling with every ring until the answering machine picked up, and her heart stopped.

Hey, you’ve reached Brad’s answering machine, I’m either out having the time of my life or, you know, doing something productive. Leave a message and I’ll think about calling you back.

Fenny hurriedly hung up the phone and wished her eyes didn’t have to prick with tears again. She suddenly felt very alone and very tired

“Ow,” Gina groaned as she was reluctantly dragged to consciousness by the slow, painful tingling down her right leg. “Paul,” she murmured, “Paul, get off.”

“Huh?” he managed, snuggling closer to her.

“My leg, it’s asleep,” she whined. “You gotta get off it.”

“Yeah,” Paul sighed, and straightened out with a stretch, releasing Gina’s knee from its death grip between his legs. “What time is it?”

Gina glanced blearily at her watch. “Time to get up if we’re gonna get to the train station in time.”

“Can’t we stay in bed a bit longer?”

“We’re not in bed, darling.”

“Huh?”

“Open your damn eyes.”

“Oh,” Paul breathed as he obeyed and found himself sprawled on Gina’s futon in the middle of the front room.

“Wonder what happened to Fen, hope she got home alright,” Gina mused and sat up, taking the blanket with her.

“Hey,” Paul shrieked, pulling it back. “I’m naked under here!”

“So am I,” Gina countered, leaning down to give him a gentle kiss. “I’m gonna go wake Fen. Get dressed before I start getting naughty thoughts about you again.”

“Party pooper,” Paul pouted, reaching for his discarded pants as Gina headed for the bedroom.

She opened the door quietly and couldn’t help but snicker at the sight of Fenny curled up in the center of the bed wrapped among two blankets, the sheets stripped off the mattress and piled in the corner. “Morning Fen,” Gina announced loudly from the doorway. “Wakey wakey.”

Fenny let out a loud moan in protest, rubbing her face irritably. “Go to hell.”

“No, I’m going to Scotland, but Pauly and I will gladly go without you,” Gina shrugged.

“You two defiled my bed,” Fenny groused as she opened her eyes, “and now you’re not wearing any clothes. Are you? That’s not the newest trend, I hope.”

“Put on your specs Fenella, and then get out, Paul and I need to get dressed.”

“I loathe you,” Fenny announced, and stomped out of the room in her pajamas. “And you’re evil,” she continued, pausing to glare at Paul who was searching behind and under various bits of furniture for his lost shirt.

“Back to your usual chipper self, I see,” he smiled, and was answered by an unintelligible grumble and the slamming of the bathroom door as he found his shirt behind the potted plant by the kitchen.

Brad got off the plane and, as he made his way to the baggage claim, pulled the slip of paper from his pocket, smiling at the address scribbled across it. It was simple. He’d just find Greg. Ryan had a copy of his agenda from when they’d been working out scheduling, and Brad had managed to weasel the information out of him. He’d drop by the hotel Greg was supposed to be booked at, ask where Gina was, go there, tear her away from Paul long enough to find out where Fenny was, go there and wrap her up in his arms and wait to see whether she’d shower him with kisses or threaten his life with the nearest blunt object.

He pondered the two outcomes as he watched the baggage scroll around and around the carousel. She’d kissed him back in LA, that had to be a positive sign. But then she’d fled the country, which couldn’t possibly be good. Not that her fleeing the country had really stopped them before, yet no good had ever come from it either. Also not good was the fact that his luggage was nowhere to be seen. What a way to start.

“Hey Speccy,” Gina chimed as they approached him on the platform.

“You’re late,” Greg said warningly.

“Yeah, three whole minutes,” Paul groaned.

“How’d last night’s show go, Proops?” Fenny asked tiredly.

“Oh, same as usual, not too bad. How was your movie?”

“French,” she answered with a sigh. “Artsy, emotional, and more depressing than a baby seal with its head smashed in, and yes, even as I said that,” Fenny said, noticing Greg’s smirk, “I realized you used killing baby seals in one of your acts so you don’t really mind the imagery so much.”

“So did Paul,” Gina chimed.

“And I hang out with you guys why?” Fenny sighed. “You people have problems.”

“And the winner for the forty-third annual Most Hypocritical Statement of the Year goes to, my god, what a shocker, Fenny Grey!”

“Shut up McDermott and get on the damn train.”

“Look, I need my bags,” Brad whined, gesturing with his hands as if he had his luggage, “there was a black suitcase with red trim—”

“How big?” the man behind the desk asked.

“How big? Um, average suitcase sized, I would think.”

“Is that it?”

“Is what it?”

“Is that all the baggage you had on the plane?” The man was obviously short of patience with American tourists.

“No, you interrupted me with asinine questions before I could finish.”

“Keep going then.”

“Ok, so the suitcase, and then a smaller grey overnight bag.”

“How big?”

“The size of an overnight bag,” Brad yelped, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know how big your luggage is?”

“Look, I packed in a hurry, I wasn’t planning on coming here, and you’re certainly not helping. I wasn’t paying attention to the metric volume of my stuff.”

“If you don’t know what your luggage looks like, how do you know it wasn’t at the baggage claim?”

“This is ridiculous,” Brad sighed.

“Here, fill this out and take it to that desk over there,” the man said, gesturing towards another desk across the terminal with the form.

“I just came from over there, they sent me here.”

“Well they were wrong.”

“That’s what they said about the people who sent me to them the first time.”

“I can’t help you, they will.”

“Fuck you too,” Brad murmured under his breath as he picked up the backpack he’d used as a carryon and snatched away the form.

“That attitude won’t help you any,” the man behind the desk called after him.

Fenny looked out the window, though there was little to be seen but the passing London terrain. She was glad the train had started moving with them still on it, what with Greg and Paul stealing the jelly beans she’d purchased at the coffee shop the night before and flinging them at the heels of the passengers as they wandered by, which had led to Fenny and Gina complaining about a waste of perfectly good sweets, which had in turn led to a ranting lecture on the eating habits of today’s youth from Greg and Paul and a contradictory lecture on the immaturity levels of today’s men from Fenny and Gina which had escalated into an all-out quite hysterical, to those involved anyway, screaming bout and a very theatric crying jag from Paul just before the train started to pull out of the station.

“I’ve never been on a train before,” Fenny announced when she noticed the quiet had lasted a bit too long, certain Paul and Greg would be finding more ways to “entertain” themselves if nothing was done about it soon.

“You’ve led a very sheltered life,” Paul gasped.

“I feel like I’m in some sort of old movie or something.”

“See what happens when Fenny’s left alone, she spends too much time watching Cary Grant flicks,” Greg nodded.

“No, probably Agatha Christie novels,” Gina countered.

“Leave me alone,” Fenny said, “I happen to enjoy murder mysteries on trains, it adds to the suspense, everyone trapped with the killer like that.”

“Who knows,” Greg shrugged, “maybe there’s a murderer on the train with us.”

“No, only Pauly,” Gina laughed.

“I wouldn’t put murder past him,” Fenny mumbled.

“I wouldn’t put it past me,” Paul smirked in agreement.

“What’s your modus operandi?” Greg asked, taking on an affected British accent straight out of a truly awful detective film. “Cyanide? Piano wire? Wrenches? Lead pipes?”

“In the billiards room?” Fenny murmured, adopting her crisp Londoner accent, last used in a grimy Australian hotel. She smiled a bit as Paul turned to her with one brow raised.

“No, what you do is,” Paul said in his own cockney accent, voice hushed conspiratorially but loud enough to catch the attention of everyone in their general vicinity, “is you sneak up on ‘em in the dark with your torch when they’re asleep and shove the thing right up their—”

“This isn’t a sleeper train,” Gina announced, and Greg let out a harsh cackle at her accent.

“Right,” Paul frowned. “Scratch that then. We could drag them into the baggage car, detach it from the rest of the train, drag them to the nearest zoo and drop them in the penguin exhibit, but that’s a bit of effort.”

“Penguins?” Fenny asked, the incredulity thick in her heavily applied accent.

“They can be nasty if you show up without your formalwear,” Greg assured her, and Gina groaned at the awfulness of the joke. “Oh, there’s always the good old-fashioned removing of the spleen with plastic picnic utensils,” he mused, “though it’s sorta messy.”

“We could let Paul try to cook for them,” Fenny giggled.

“You leave me alone,” Paul hissed playfully, “you’re no Julia Childs yourself.”

“How can she cook and be that wasted at the same time?” Greg mused.

“Oh, I know,” Gina perked. “Do you think we could get a burlap sack, some duct tape, a goose and a Polaroid camera?”

“Um, no,” Paul said.

“Never mind then.”

“You two prats could pelt them to death with my jelly babies,” Fenny pouted.

“And you could whine them to death,” Paul countered, poking his tongue out at her as she flipped him off.

“What do you mean he just checked out?” Brad gasped.

“I’m sorry sir, but you just missed Mr. Proops,” the hotel receptionist repeated calmly.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Do you know where he’s going?”

“No sir, I’m sorry, we don’t have that information.”

“Damn it. Ok, right.” Brad rubbed his forehead, trying to think. The Greg factor was out of his equation. He’d just have to find Gina himself. “Where’s the nearest newsstand?”

“Excuse me?” the receptionist asked.

“I need to find newspapers, magazines, something like that, something a journalist here in London would write for.”

“Excuse me?”

“Forget it,” Brad sighed and stomped out of the hotel lobby, muttering under his breath.

“So, who are we after then?” Fenny asked, looking over her shoulder like they do in the movies, and paying little attention to the eyes of the teenagers caddy-corner to them or the pair of geriatric women who had been whispering between themselves for the last hour.

“Did you see the conductor?” Paul asked with a wicked grin.

“Isn’t it a bad idea to kill the conductor, him being in charge of the train and all?” Gina asked.

“Did I say I was gonna kill him?”

“Were you just commenting on his cute ass?” Greg grinned.

“You would notice, wouldn’t you?” Paul countered.

“Who are we bumping off then?” Fenny demanded, her accent beginning to slip.

“Since when were there Brits in Brooklyn?” Greg asked, deliberately making his accent twice as thick.

“What has all this got to do with the conductor?” Gina was getting confused.

“Didn’t you know I went to school with him?” Paul asked.

“Why the hell would I know that?”

“Aren’t you my caring and compassionate wife?”

“Does that mean I can read your mind?”

“Are we knocking off the conductor or what?” Greg asked.

“Now who’s using mob terminology and a terrible English accent?” Gina sneered at him.

“Is it normal that we’re being stared at?” Fenny piped in.

“When are we not being stared at?” Greg asked.

“Why can’t we go anywhere without making a scene?” Fenny grumbled.

“Where would the fun be in that?” Gina demanded.

“Do you want me to turn this train around?” Paul asked menacingly.

“I’d like to see you try,” Fenny said.

“Aw, Fen,” Greg yelped, “you killed it!”

“Huh?”

“The questions, we were doing so well,” Paul moaned.

“We were doing questions?” Fenny asked, eyes wide with innocence until she started sniggering, the others soon collapsing into inexplicable giggles along with her.

“Gina Coleman please,” Brad chimed into the phone as the receptionist at The Sun answered, a copy of their publication clutched in his hand as he fiddled with the cord of the phone and paced through his hotel room.

“I’m sorry sir, she’s on assignment.”

“Of course she is. When will she be back.”

“After the Fringe.”

“What?!” Brad shrieked.

“She left this morning for Edinburgh to report on the festival,” the receptionist explained, the exasperation growing apparent in her voice.

“Shit,” Brad cursed under his breath. Gina was in Edinburgh. Greg probably was too. It wouldn’t surprise him if Paul was as well. And, in all likelihood, Fenny would have followed. It looked like he’d be making a trip to Scotland. “Do you happen to know where she’s staying in Edinburgh?” he asked hopefully.

“I’m sorry sir, that’s not the sort of information I’m entitled to disclose.”

“Look, I’m her brother, I’ve got to find her,” Brad lied pleadingly.

“She’s Australian.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“How come you’re an American?”

“What does being her brother-in-law have to do with being an American?”

“You said brother.”

“We’re a close knit family. Look, her sister just had a baby.”

“Congratulations,” the receptionist perked.

“Thanks,” Brad grumbled. “So can you tell me how to get hold of her?”

“Afraid not.”

“Is there any way of getting you to tell me?”

“Sorry sir.”

“I never did like London,” Brad sighed and hung up the phone.

“I’m bored,” Fenny whined.

“You’ve been a bundle of sunshine since you got here, haven’t you?” Greg asked, more curious than upset.

“You should’ve spent the last couple days with her,” Gina growled. “It’s like babysitting for a bratty thirteen year old.”

Fenny frowned at herself as she peered out the window, watching the scenery whiz past. She really had been atrocious through her whole trip. Not that she’d wanted to, but she was having a rough time and it was already well established that she was more selfish than she wanted to be. “Sorry,” she sighed.

“Let’s play cards,” Paul perked.

“You have a deck handy?” Greg asked.

“Well yeah,” Paul shrugged, pulling a well-worn pack of cards from his pocket. “What do we play?”

“Go Fish?” Fenny suggested with a smile.

“No good, Paul cheats,” Gina announced.

“I do not,” Paul insisted as he began shuffling.

“Do you have any eights?” she asked.

“No.”

“See, he’s got the whole deck but won’t admit to having an eight. He cheats.”

“We could play poker,” Fenny shrugged. “Just about the only thing I know…”

“Ooh, strip poker!” Greg yelped, and once again, half the eyes in the car turned to the quartet.

“No good, Gina loses,” Paul said, “on purpose.”

“I don’t mind,” Greg grinned, copping a glare from Paul.

“And Paul gets the giggles once he gets his shoes off,” Gina announced.

“I’m quite a pro at the game,” Greg declared proudly.

“Thank god for that,” Fenny laughed. “I’m through seeing you naked.”

“Oh, and you’re the model specimen of female beauty,” Greg countered playfully, and Paul’s eyebrow jumped even further.

“How good are you at this game, Fen?” he asked.

Fenny shrugged. “I dunno, never played.”

“Never played?” Greg demanded. “You are sheltered.”

“She played strip pool though,” Gina laughed, then wished she hadn’t.

“How do you know that?” Greg asked, more amused than he should have been.

“No, you sick little man,” Fenny chastised with a kick to his shin.

“Ow, you stupid bitch, I’ve still got bruises from you and Tony!”

“Oh really?” Gina perked.

“They ganged up on me,” Greg whined, kicking Fenny in the thigh as he lifted his foot up on her seat to investigate his leg.

“You deserved it.”

“Now children,” Paul warned, “play nicely or there’ll be no dessert.” Fenny and Greg reluctantly turned to the table where Paul was beginning to deal out cards. “So, you any good at strip pool?”

“I beat Brad,” Fenny sighed.

“He must have been letting you win,” Greg murmured.

“Was not,” Fenny argued, glancing at the hand she’d been dealt, “I could beat you any day of the week.”

“Let’s not start this again,” Paul said menacingly.

“Should’ve left her in the Tower,” Gina sighed.

“I’ll take two cards,” Fenny growled, “but I’m not taking off any of my clothes.”

“Probably a good thing,” Greg chuckled. “Stop kicking me!”