Zooey made her way behind Reid through the doors that glinted happily with the afternoon sunlight. It was dim inside, but the lobby was filled with ornate treasures and the distinct smell of Chanel No. 5.

Zooey thought to herself how this looked like one of those grand hotels you would see in old movies where women wore fluffy fur coats and satin evening gowns and men smoked cigars under funny moustaches.

This, she thought to herself, is the perfect hideaway.

They traipsed along the stretches of marble towards the elevator, where another elderly man waited indside to take them to their destination. A saggy woman wearing the remnants of an ancient fox fur followed them carrying a more than enthusiastic pomeranian that looked like it was too much for the frail arms to handle.

“Chutney, queit!” The old woman bellowed in a deep and overdrawn voice.

“Ah, Miss Bellafonte, so good to see you,” the man in the elevator chimed, “And Mr. Hastings!”

“God, I’m surrounded by geriatrics,” Reid moaned.