Byron’s fascination for the letter B comes to life.

Byron had more than an inkling of who she was, even before the introduction.

‘I’m Luella, your barber for today,’ she said, lowering the chair.

‘Luella?’ Briony! That was the name. He recalled her as a blonde. Ten years ago. But the mirror showed the same blue eyes, the zigzag scar under her chin.

‘That’s right. Luella.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I think I know my own name.’

The last thing he wanted to do was to make her defensive, especially in the enclosed space of a backroom barbershop. If this was the Briony he knew, her diamond-tipped fingernails were killer, let alone the blade they held. And, if this was the barbershop he had conceived, there would be no backdoor escape: the exit led to a brick wall and a gated alleyway.

‘Sorry. I felt like we’d met before.’

‘In another lifetime, perhaps.’ She sharpened the blade with an uncommon focus and dexterity.

In an alternate universe, he thought, and he answered her smile with an uneasy grin.

Luella suited her. So did the leather attire, the piercings down one ear. He marvelled at the changes in her, and he marvelled at the fact that she was here at all. This was no crazed fan. This had to be Briony — his Briony — here with him in Beaconsfield, as she’d been written.

Yes, Briony the blonde barber from Beaconsfield. With a badass boyfriend called Brigham, whom he’d styled after himself. And she owned a beagle. Named Bellamy. No wonder the novel had petered into oblivion.

‘You look good as a redhead,’ he said.

She stopped to regard his reflection. ‘What did you say?’

‘You— used to be blonde, didn’t you?’

‘In another lifetime.’

‘Perhaps,’ he said. In spite of the danger that came with her closeness, he wanted to see how far he could push. He was quick to find out.

‘What do you know?’ hissed into him, tickling his ear. But he didn’t dare flinch. The flat of the blade froze the skin above his left carotid artery. She was left-handed. Definitely Briony.

‘I know you’re good for information,’ he said, suddenly awake inside his own thriller. In the final scene, he had abandoned his heroine in an impossible situation — bobbing in the ocean, in a sealed shipping container. How had she escaped? And how was she physically before him in this moment? He searched his subconscious. Did he somehow think her free?

‘So tell me,’ he continued. ‘How is Bellamy?’

She flipped his chair upright, spun it around, and straddled him, her hips and mouth grinding into him. The cigarette ash and iced tea on his tongue turned to rust with the slap that followed.

He rubbed his cheek and sucked back blood. ‘You’re looking good, Briony.’

‘And you’ve let yourself go,’ she said, and he again felt the steel at his throat.

‘So how does this end?’ he whispered.

‘Brigham, you bastard.’ Her eyes pierced his. ‘You tell me.’

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[Written to the Plotto prompt: “{A}, a novelist, meets personally in real life a fictitious character from one of his/her stories” on Tin House’s Open Bar.]

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Addendum of 9 June 2018
Supplementary content added: feature image, and “The letter B comes to life” movie. I hope you enjoy it.