It is the middle of the day, nestled in between the two teas, and the cafe is full with the lunching, professional crowd, along with the early spring tourists. It is an odd mixture of business and leisure, lunch meetings, clandestine affairs, and going over tour guides and tasting a bit of the local flavors. It's also an odd assortment of accents, like an array of various chocolates in one small package. And like the man said, you never know what you're going to get...
     It is a beautiful spring day, of the kind that's hard to find in a March London. The wind, while brisk, is moving the clouds away today, there are pocks of white in an otherwise more-or-less sparkling blue, pollution notwithstanding. The sun is shining. Let me repeat that for those who didn't get it. The sun is shining.
     She was early. She is dressed in a powder blue coat over a ruffled silk blouse, silver with white embossed swirls. Very Stella McCartney 2011. She is wearing several lockets, some of polished stone, some of sparkling glass. She is wearing a beautiful purple and indigo velvet scarf. The pants are a powder blue suede. The shoes are Prada, pointed pumps. A fashion interview. This is not your banker's daughter. Her hair is black (naturally so), left long and board-straight. Her features are angular, Asian, and her make-up is light, for the midday meeting. When the sun hits her, there is glitter to be seen here and there, dusted on the cheeks, at the corners of her eyes.
     And Yisun is drinking green tea. With honey. Beside her is another portfolio briefcase, identical to the one sent to M.

     Around the cafe, the waitstaff is on full alert. Everyone's in, handling their tables with speed and efficiency -- Londoners expect no less. A girl comes by in her black pants and starched white shirt with a perfectly taut white waiter's apron wrapped around her waist. She glances at Yisun's table and the three around her, before moving off to remove a dish for customers at a booth.

     Public transportation is a bitch, but Fiona makes do with it still, out of a stubborn reluctance to give up another chunk of her soul to corporate excess. A set of headphones go a long way towards protecting oneself from the banalities and inconveniences - Amy Irving's 'Why Don't You Do Right' floating almost audible out from the speakers.
     "You had plenty money 1922,
     You let all the women make a fool of you,
     Why don't you do right, like some other men do?
      Get out of here, get me some money too..."
     It's probably just as well that the young woman doesn't try to match notes with the jazz singer. While Oxford prepared her well for certain kinds of singing, other kinds ... well. Maybe if Isabel were controlling her, and then again, maybe not. Fiona slides the headphones off as she hoves into sight of the cafe, not breaking stride while jamming them into her bag. Her own clothing is a pale blue silk blouse paired with heather-green/grey linen jacket and trousers, impeccably cut. The shoes, however, are a twenty pound pair of black sandals, comfortable without being gaudy.
     Coming to a halt, she glances around once, then makes her way to the table. "Good afternoon. I hope you haven't been waiting too long." One slim hand is held out, a deep breath taken. "Fiona Arundel. How d'you do?"

     She would be 5'6" without the heels. With them, she's a 5'9". Not model tall, by any means, but then again, she prefers the other side of the camera. Yisun stands and smiles, her hand coming out. "Yisun Inkhe," she says, natural and native Mongolian accent on Mongolian syllables and then: "Pleasure to meet you," English accent having a war with something almost ...American. Maybe it's more of a slight English accent on no accent at all that throws the ear. "And no, not at all. I was early. I never know about this traffic." Your hand is released and she takes her seat again.

     Time's of the essence. The waiter, her blonde hair pinned up and makeup fresh, walks over and keeps a short distance from the table. "Good afternoon," she offers to the latest arrival. "Might I bring you something to drink? Tea, coffee, cocktail?" Lunch in London? Why not. Nearby, a light lunch menu is available.

     The former punk slides into the seat opposite with a brief smile, her bag stuffed quickly between her ankles - habit from other, less savoury places where an unattended bag along the back of a chair is nothing so much as an open invitation to encourage larceny. "Yisun Inkhe," Fiona tries. "I apologize is I've mangled your name. How would you prefer I address you, then?"
     From such polite nonentityness was the British Empire solidified, though not founded. She picks up one of the menus, glancing at it quickly, and lifts a hand to brush pale blonde hair from her cheek. "Have you ordered, by the by?" Lady Fiona glances up, blinking at the waitress. "Tea for me, please. Darjeeling, if you've got it."

     "Certainly," the waitress says, glancing to see if Yisun needs anything further.

     Yisun turns to the waitress, smiles again. "I'm fine, thank you..."

     The young woman nods, moving along to see about other tables before heading to prepare tea.

     Back to Fiona. She smiles, "You did not mangle it. But it is hard, yes? You can call me Sunny. That is that the boys at the lab call me." That, and Little Genghis. "I am having green tea and honey. I haven't ordered yet. I am eyeballing the salad." Her menu sits cocked to the side, a little lean and she can read it again.
     Yisun crosses one slender, sueded leg over the other and she takes up her tea again. There is a small kettle on the table wherein the green tea yet steeps. "I haven't been here before. I do not get to Covent often, strange as it sounds..."
     Personal Note, March 2011: Become better at small talk...

     Miss Social Grace, on the other hand, is calmly settling in - at least, on the surface. "Sunny, then, and thank you. Please call me Fiona - there's a move afoot at the office to try to get me to insist on being called by my title, and the more they push, the more I'm inclined to resist. If they keep it up, I might go back to being called by my old nickname." A quick, slight grin quirks the corners of her mouth, and she also looks down at the laminate.
     "Mmm... I have to admit, the lemon sole looks awfully tempting. Haven't had fish in a while. - Oh? What's your usual stomping grounds, then?" Fiona glances back up with those changable eyes, and adds apologetically, "I'm sorry if I'm wandering a bit far afield. I'm used to interviewing people, just ... not for jobs."

     The waitress returns with a quick gait, holding a small tray. Tea is not just a beverage...it is the whole preparation and presentation of the service: water, tea box for selection, any service additions for personal taste, and a nut cookie on the side. The waitress sets the tray down, then opens the tea box in Fiona's direction for choice. Darjeeling is at the front, but Ceylon, Breakfast, Oolong, and others waft aromatically from the wooden box.

     "Fiona it is then," she nods. "And there isn't much difference," Yisun states, features bright but with an even calm about them all at once. "Movie star, artists, fashion photographer, next door neighbor, so ask away. My usual stomping grounds? I would have to say it is an airplane or the Chunnel," she smiles again, "... I am barely in my apartment, nature of the job. I share a studio with an artist co-op and live in Soho. I'm on the road a lot. Or in the computer lab or dark room."
     She'd light up a cigarette if it weren't an interview for a gig...to Yisun that's the only difference...
     "I feel it is important to move, different locales, different angles. Still photography? I do not know what that is. It is why I like to go to places like Mongolia, my home, Cambodia," her hands gesture: and so on. "I feel it adds balance to my life, and from my life to my work. It puts Dolce & Gabana in their right place."
     Yisun lifts her small cup of green tea, it is almost tepid. She will have to pour again soon. In the meantime, manicured fingernails help to take an almond and honey cookie.

     A low chuckle, and Fiona nods slightly, intent on preparing her tea with neat, precise motions that almost border on jerky. "I used to do much the same before they chained me to a desk. I sometimes do miss it."
     Though, truth be told, she doesn't really miss the smell of liquor-filled vomit bouncing off the edge of a stage, and the multitude of other not so pleasant things that go with the life of a punk reporter. "Your work is interesting, I concur, though in a magazine such as M, there is always going to be an element of need for studio work. They mix the fashionable with the 'cutting edge' - I'm trying to work in some more realism, because entirely aside from the fact that it /is/ what's really out there ... it has more impact when it's not expected."
     And Fiona's all about the unexpected, isn't she? Just ask a certain angel who found himself in her living room ... She barely allows the leaves to stain the water, then lifts the cup delicately to her lips. "So what sort of assignments would you do?"

     "I am open. I do not like to set limitations. I can make something out of any assignment." Yisun pours a refill, both hands in concert upon the kettle, lift and pour. It is done with the precision of a lifetime's experience. "I bring with me an artist's view of color, of palatte, a love and passion for the real, which includes suffering and joy that is beyond a model's refusal to eat a carrot or wearing exclusive fabrics. I'm just as into shooting the pigeons on Wellington's head," speaking of London landmarks. "I infuse what is really happening, what is really out there with art and even with glamour. Between the two, there is humanity. Humanity is always part reality and part fantasy."
      Yisun pauses, setting down the kettle and she looks to you directly. "We live, we suffer, we love but we dream. We still dream, no matter where we are or what we are dealing with. Humanity is most critical to my work," you can say that again! "Where that takes me," her shoulders roll, "I do not limit that. It may take me to New York City, it may take me to this table in Covent Garden," she smiles. "I am looking to start a relationship with an editor or magazine who understands this. I think the vision of M has improved in the past six months. I think that it is showing that there is more to London Life than ecstacy raves in Soho. London needs a ...breath of fresh air," Yisun smiles and leans in. "I think that you and I can give it that."

     The waitress returns, her expression flat. She looks at each of you in turn, finally asking, "Would either of you ladies like to order lunch?"

     Yisun looks up, words on the edge of her lips and then she smiles. Again. "Yes, actually... the garden herb salad," it has edible flowers! Imagine! "...with the light herb dressing on the side...that would be super."

     "Glamour has its own rules," Fiona comments, a trifle dryly, glance absent. "However, I concur. I prefer things which will not be expected - things which show what is really there, beneath the masks and facades. Truth is not always pretty, but it is often beautiful."
     She looks up to the waitress again. "The sole, please, broiled, with extra lemon and butter." Of the good things which the Lord hath made, let us not be stinting. "Thank you."
     She turns her attention back to Yisun, gaze intent. "I think it'd take more than fresh air," she comments, "but I'm interested in something a bit more than slick commercialism, yes. Not necessarily idealistic - I'm afraid I'm too much of a cynic to have the patience for optimism in my crusades. But yes, what you describe sounds closer to what I'm looking for than - a hair dryer."

     "Thank you," the waitress says softly, nodding as she turns away.

     "The beauty of freelance is its flexibility. That works for both of us, beneficiary and photographer. If we are in agreement," and it sounds like we are, "...how about we take it on a test run. What would you like to see one or two issues from now?"
     Order placed, Yisun's attention is direct. Whether she is lifting her tea for a sip or no. "How is the editorial calendar looking for the remainder of the year?"

     "Certainly." Fiona half-closes her eyes, envisioning not world peace, but her desk calendar and planner/organizer. "Ideally, I should like to see something regarding urban renewal and whether it enhances the growth of art, or destroys it. While it is true that rebuilding old structures - replacing them with newer ones - can sometimes bring economic wealth into an area, in my observation it often has the opposite expressed reaction than is desired."
     She picks up her teacup daintily, fingertips extended in half-gesture for a moment. "For the rest of the year? We have to give a token nod to our advertisers every month, of course, but by and large, it's fairly open. I'd like one issue focused on people - real people, not models pretending to be real people by letting their jeans ride down around their hips and leaving their hair looking unwashed. Then there's the urban renewal project, and the rest ... well."

     The waitress returns, two sets of flatware in her hand and two perfectly flat white napkins draped over her arm. It's not possible for her not to interrupt, and so she goes about placing utensils on the table.
     Fork left and knife right for Fiona.
     Fork left and knife right for Yisun.
     The starched cloth napkins are typical cafe mats: one set in front of each of you, between the utensils. The waitress brushes both napkin-mats out to perfection, lining silverware evenly.
     With that, she turns to depart, but an associate has come to her side. A nod and she takes from the young man two bread and butter plates, setting each in mirror opposite positions on the table. Taking a basket of bread and a circular butter dish from him, she sets those upon the table between you.

     First, to the waitress. "Thank you very much," politce and affable. Yisun's old friends wouldn't know what to do with her at the moment. Smiling? Polite? Smiling? She looks to the bread, the butter. The ... inner child... as it were is most curious about all of these things and sensations. She approaches everything with a kind of newness that underlies her experience.
     Yisun looks across the table and nods. "Urbanization. In America, they call it gentrification. You want to see the push of posh into the east side, the effects of what is 'trendy' overriding what is right for an area." Another nod. "I have it," and she taps her temple, smiling. "I will get started, I'll take a selection of five to ten and then you can review them, if it's the direction you envision, I'll take more if needed. So, do we have a deal, Fiona?"

     "That would be grand," Fiona agrees. "I'll pay you three hundred pounds if we use any of the initial shots, and you'll then go on standard contractual wages." She picks up her fork, fiddling with it slightly as she speaks.
     "If this is agreeable to you - you said you've a computer lab, yes? If you've an email address, I can send you a contract to review, for the initial shoot."

     The waitress is hardly invisible: she returns with a graceful saunter, angling to place plates before each of you without invading your personal space. Hand turns each plate a quarter spin, as if presenting a certain way was required.
      "Might I get you anything else? Something else to drink?"

     Again, Yisun looks first to the waitress. "I am fine, thank you. This looks amazing," she says, eyes to the herb salad, with its watercress, spinach, basil an edible flowers of violet and yellow and red.
     Looking then to Fiona, Yisun nods. "I do. It is here," Yisun notes and she bends, reaching down into her portfolio-briefcase. She brings out another card. This one slightly less formal than the other card. "It is there, on the bottom, as well as an e-portfolio URL. I will take a look at it, and once signed will forward it to your attention?"
     Yisun looks to the flowers. She can't resist. Smiling down at them, she plucks up a couple with her fork and tastes them.

     "Quite alright, thank you." Fiona regards the fish, and gives the waitress a quick smile. "Nothing more for me, the tea will do just fine."
     She turns to Yisun, separating some of the tender flesh of the fish from its edge, then leans forward to take the card. "Excellent, then. That sounds quite acceptable to me..."

     Answer given, the waitress leaves, allowing you to dine in peace.

     Yisun smiles and dark eyes sparkle. "Good!"
     Yes, very good.

Posted by rowan at September 06, 2003 10:41 PM