I’m not sure how many times the phone rang before I realized it wasn’t part of my dream.

After jumping out of bed, I stumbled across the room to answer. “Halo.”

“Stefan?” a woman’s voice asked.

“Tak, słucham.” I responded.

“This is Irena.” She responded in accented, though clear, English.

The name, the voice too, was familiar. My first thoughts returned to the party I left five or six hours earlier; its smoke was still in my hair, its booze percolating up through my skin. No, not there. The pub the night before? No, I couldn’t picture her in that gritty spot, even though I still couldn’t picture Irena.

Hi; good morning; how have you been … the requisite small talk should wake and sober up my brain. The throaty voice wasn’t Polish, though certainly Eastern European and probably Slavic. I felt my own throat – dry – and then my head – a light throb. She small talked me back, though I sensed a purpose beneath the banter. I held my own, though as a journalist I was usually better at asking than answering questions. As I sought questions that would identify her without giving away my forgetfulness, her same flirtatious banter allowed me to place her. We had met a couple weeks back at a chamber of commerce cocktail. Though I was among the few not in a business suit, to me she looked more out of place. Brunette low bangs amongst receding hairlines, high cheekbones versus drooping eyelids, full lips painted nearly the red shade of her below-the-knee dress in a sea of gray pinstripes. Russian.

Irena didn’t act out of place. She had at least five years on me. Confident, striking, she surveyed the room—even while we spoke. Her eyes, I noticed, wandered toward the better suited, the elder. A multitasking coquette, at least, I also suspected she might be semi-pro. Nevertheless we chatted, we flirted, and we exchanged phone numbers. And now she’s made the first move.

A booty call? Late Sunday morning’s an odd time. Before inviting her over, my mind raced through the requisite hygiene and hospitality: Shower, sure. Shampoo too – though I remembered she smoked plenty herself. Shave: optional on the weekend. I looked around my bedroom – I could stash most debris under the bed. Should I advise my flat mate—lest he scratch his balls on the way to the bathroom—or let him sleep? A note, I decided, would do. Coffee and tea – or should I dash down to the shop for something stronger? She interrupted my planning. Her last smoked-cured words were, “… So, do you want to speak with Malcolm?”

100-to-zero in 1.5 seconds. My mind braked. No, hit a wall. It realized it would have to turn 180 degrees and get up to speed. No time to wipe away the dust.

I spoke to Malcolm:

“Yeah, I met her rather recently … well, as they say, it’s a small Warsaw.”

“My sources in the music biz say you’ve got a project in Łódź and that…”

“Ah, huh … I could do that … seeing you’re leaving town today.”

“Yeah, I know the Bristol. Good choice. Great hotel.”

I knocked on the door of David, my flatmate, coworker and the paper’s staff photographer. “Hey, you wanna shoot Malcolm McLaren? Now.”

As we got ready and taxied to the hotel, I told David, that Malcolm got a hold of my home number through a mutual acquaintance, a woman I had met. I skipped that I contemplated waking him to warn that this acqaintence was coming, The same woman now sharing McLaren’s bed.

I didn’t have to update him much on my reporting. Aside from working and living together, I had to, in those effectively pre-internet days, consult David, already amassing a fashion photography portfolio, about Vivenne Westwood, Malcolm’s former marital and fashion business partner.

David knew I was pursuing some random stories as well as broader projects since My bosses noticed my motivation, and therefore performance, was lacking luster Even if I had a great week, with the cover story and an op-ed, I still thought I was starting over from zero with the next issue. I agreed with them to give up my full-time salary for a part-time one plus the free-lance rate for stories actually published.