London was grey. Crowds milled outside theatres for the matinées and children, excited from visiting department stores in the pre-Christmas rush, dragged their tired parents around. Allen strode up Charing Cross Road. He dodged between the cars queuing at the lights on Cranbourn St, ran the gauntlet of a black cab on Great Newport St, almost daring it to hit him, and ducked into the alley next to Henry Portes Books. He was buzzed into Sandringham Flats and, not bothering to wait for the lift, took the stairs two at a time. The door was open. Anna was waiting in darkened hallway, sideways on, with one hand on the door, dark hair hiding half her face. She breathed in.
'What the fuck is so important?' Allen took of his hat and stomped passed her into the lounge. He dropped the hat on the sideboard and slipped the top two buttons on his coat; just enough space to pull out a lighter and a packet of Gitanes. He jammed one between his lips and lit it.
'So?' Anna went to take his coat but he shrugged her off.
'I'm not staying.'
'Well,' she said,'Two things.' Allen waited.
'First, I've got somewhere with the text, the first part at least. There's a change in the second part, it still doesn't make sense.'
'And,' said Allen.
'And, said a voice from the kitchen, 'there are complications.'
Allen blew out a cloud of blue smoke and turned.