"So she says, meet him at nine, and be sure to wear something nice, dear - not something you'd have worn when you were in your ah, rebellious stage. I nearly hung up on her then and there." Fiona's a bit irritated, standing to one side right outside the Starbucks, talking into her cell - a natty little Nokia jobby, probably cost too damn much. "But alright, it'll make mother happy, I go, I buy a new dress, new shoes, even a new jacket - hell, I even had my hair done." Pause. "It's now well after ten, and not so much as a call. And mother's out at the symphony tonight. I am never, ever letting mother set me up again."
How posh. How trendy. A sleek little black dress, quite snug on the curves, terribly sophisticated, matching stockings, matching heels, matching gloves - put her against a black backdrop and from the shoulders down, she'd disappear. Fiona's added a crimson scarf around her neck, her long oak-blonde hair braided and pinned to the top of her head. A matador jacket with edging in the same shade is currently draped over her arm, along with her pocketbook, and her expression is one of suppressed exasperation. She's also almost, but not quite, blocking the doorway to the coffeeshaop.
The white cotton suit. A suit tailored for warmer climes, its light colouring and weight making it almost entirely unsuitable for London. And yet this man seems comfortable in it, not noticing how out of place he seems. Perhaps if his skin was darker than alabaster. or polished marble, the white of the suit wouldn't seem so out of place.
If, in his meanderings, he was trying to be unnoticed, he has failed. Every street lamp, and store front, illuminates him in gleaming white. His path down the street punctuated by the bursts of brightness as he walks straight throught the streetlamp's sphere. His walk is a visual exercise in rhythm. He doesn't walk in long, even strides, as one might expect. No, some strides carry him forward, only to slow down and meander along for a space, then a turn so he might drift along a wall. This man would be a nightmare to walk behind, never knowing when next his course or speed will change.
And whereever he walks, his fingertips reach out to brush against nearby buildings, and objects. Touching lamp posts as if greeting old friends. Smiling as bricks skuff his fingers with soot.
Now nearing the Starbucks, it appears that this strange man has set his sights on exploring the world of overpriced, mass produced, caffeine-injected coffee. Or perhaps he just wishes to stand under the bright lights, and blind the other patrons. So far, Fiona seems not to have been noticed by him.
I used to have those conversations every night. Or ones equally banal. Upset about this. Drama about that. Youth. And then I smile at myself as I realize that I'm only 28 going on Eternal. Hardly the old man of the mountain...
Valan Montague is not officially in the Starbucks. He wouldn't dream of it. On a nice summer evening, why would anyone want to be inside a building? Particularly a Starbucks. He is outside, with a paper, a cigarette and the first of what may be several cappucino. It's not La Belle Dame of Tours, but it will do. The coffee here is not the best. It is not the champagne of blends. But it serves.
Golden. That is what he is. He is golden. From his hair, mussed in that 21st Century way, to the tone of his skin, as if he sees some amount of sunlight. It's a lie. He wears a light linen shirt, a saffron color. The pants are a wool and linen blend, tailored, black with gold flecks. Oxfords cap the look. Modern. Model. Man.
Gold-green eyes flick upward, overhearing the conversation. The smile is winsome enough, slanting. It is not the end of the world to be left standing alone. At least, mademoiselle, you are standing. But he doesn't interrupt her.
Eyes look over the edge of his paper, past the lifting of his cup, to see a man in white. White. A shock of something different. Perhaps even unusual. Golden eyebrows quirk upward and Valan sips at his cappucino.
The trendy south sees all sorts these nights...
With something like a snarl of impatience, Fiona shakes her head - the momentary lack of awareness that the person on the other end can't see her. "Of course I don't care about that! But frankly, I'd rather be at home in fuzzy slippers and a t-shirt or something, not - look, do you want to meet up or not? I went to all this trouble and expense on the behalf of some idiot my mother knows, I'm not going to waste it or what's left of my evening!" She scowls at the phone. "And if you don't, well, I'll make something happen."
Certain people would be worried, about now, to hear those words - not at the intent, but at the possible consequences which could come from this...
She clicks the phone shut with a decisive little snap, turning from the wall to glance around. "Well, fine," she mumbles, only half under her breath. "But no jumping off bridges." This time. "Coffee first." Her eyes are drawn first to one man, then the other, with a clinical, cinematic eye. They look laid out, to her - something a little too out of place, the one, the colours, the other, the beauty. They aren't 'normal' people; not for everyday wear. And so, she pauses, for a moment, by the door of the Starbucks.
Valan tips his head back, he is sitting near the door but not right by it, the table under the awning in case of rain, but it's not likely. He smiles. It is as golden as he is. Something very ... summer about him. The air is warm and he is in his element. "You could join me, if you want," he offers up in his English. The words are English, the accent is French.
Of course.
"I will even let you vent about how awful men are." A pause. "And we are." He grins. "I will even, perhaps, apologize for Us All." Valan folds up his paper and sets it aside.
The other man is still in his line of sight. A slight turn, and he may look at them both.
It is under the streetlamp in front of Starbucks that Sakir is first drawn. Here, pasted to the old black metal, is a poster. Some band or other. Its weather worn edges flutter torn in the slight breeze.
A finger comes up to touch those edges, smooth them back against the post. Fingertip trailing over the words. This amuses him, and he smiles. Childlike. But his eyes say something different. The paper isn't amusing him, something else is. The eyes speak of some deeper meaning.
Perhaps insanity.
Then away from the lamppost, and towards the Starbucks. His mahogany eyes settle on Fiona passingly. As if she was just a statue, furniture, they move on to regard a wall as a long lost acquaintance. Then they flick to the door of the starbucks. Someone yet to meet, perhaps.
It is Valan's words that bring Sakir's focus. Conversation between two people that brings them into dynamic life. Sakir now sees Fiona, and Valan, where before he saw only scenery.
"Men, women, it's all the same - just the avenues of use are different." Fiona's oddly pragmatic, taking this opening as something 'meant', in some odd way. "But thank you, it's that or going home or doing something stupid, and well, good luck runs out after a while, doesn't it?" She clicks on her heels over to the table, resting a hand on the back of an unoccupied chair, glancing over at Sakir with a momentary puzzlement.
It isn't that she thinks herself all that and a bag of chips; it's more the contrast - person as object, wall as person. However ...
"Fiona. How do you do?" A gloved hand is extended in Valan's direction, graciously enough, accent the proper Oxonian, bred as fine as her bone structure. The first name only, though, is a remnant of a certain London punk.
Valan rises, his own background showing in the sudden air of hospitality and impeccable manners. He takes your hand, a modern shake. Kissing of the hands is only for married women. He does not presume. "Valan," he says, a smile edging the words. "And you are right, it is all the same. But it was the only segue that sprang to mind. Please..." Your hand is released and Valan retakes his seat.
"Would you like something? Tea?" On busy weekend nights, this Starbucks has something of a waitress. Taking orders on a pad and turning tickets just like any cafe or pub. Only Americans like the queue.
There are many crazies in the world, and oftentimes it is best to ignore them. However sometimes it becomes hard to just shut someone out of your mind. When they stop in the middle of the sidewalk and watch. When they smile slightly to watch the interplay of someone else's conversation. Naturalist studying humanity.
Then, with jarring break to rhythm, Sakir's hand goes for his pocket watch. Glittering gold, engraved. Something out a previous century to match his suit from a different clime.
He blinks at it exactly twice, then finds a table under the awning, and takes a seat. Waiting, as patient as a mountain, for the overly busy server to make her way to him.
A firm, but polite handshake, Fiona has, smiling faintly and settling into a seat of her own. "Cappuccino, please." She smooths her dress down, jacket and purse folded onto her lap, one hand resting lightly on the table's surface.
"It's kind of you," she adds, not quite demurely, but relatively factually, "to offer me an alternative to television. Though as you likely can tell, I'm not exactly broken up about it all." Fiona finds herself sneaking glances over at Sakir - the moreso, once the pocket watch comes into view. How odd...
"Nothing's on," Valan dryly admits. "I already looked. And...sure," a wave of his hand, don't worry about it. "But look on the bright side, amie," he says, calling you 'friend', "...at least you're not out on a date with a total prat, who'd probably make you split the bill, and then still want to try to kiss you, at the very least, at the end of the night, only to never call again. What is the phrase I am looking for," Valan's gold-green eyes, an interesting shade, some play of amber and pale green, drift upward as he grins. They downcast to you and he smiles grandly, "Fuck him."
He lifts his cup of cappucino and then turns in his seat, raising a hand, letting the barista's assistant know that they have an order over here. She's already on her way to Sakir and nods.
Her name is Rebeka, she is of arabic-indian extraction. The man in the white suit looks like Hemingway's Ghost. She stops by Sakir's table and takes out her pad. "Evening ... what would you like?"
The alacrity of server here surprises him. He was willing to wait days.
When he speaks, Sakir's voice carries hints and tones of other cultures in the accent. Definitly a foreigner, from somewhere. The breath of arabia seems in those words, somehow. "Chai Late. Biscotti, cinnamon, if you have them. White chocolate otherwise." Rebeka nods, her fingers quickly scratch down the order, and move off. A customer is just another object.
The pocketwatch is set on the table, spinning slowly from the motion of its placement. Sakir's eyes watch the other patrons. A zoo for his viewing pleasure.
"Actually," Fiona looks amused, "I think the point is more not to fuck him, under the circumstances." Not that she would. She arches her eyebrows, canting her head faintly to the side. All without doing anything, all without anger, without frustration - but oh, it's so dull to be so passionless, so very, very English! Drancy would be snarling. Fiona's eyelids droop for a moment, and she turns her glance from gold to white.
Her own eyes are changable, though a different kind of changable than they used to be. Human changability - for the most part, with only occasional fragmentation in other randomised directions. Isabel is, after all, well and truly dead. For now, they are blue. Simple as cornflowers, and about as subtle.
"He could," Fiona continues, a bit dryly, "try, but it's very difficult to 'make' me do anything I don't want to." She submits to the inevitable like a cat - only barely. "So, Valan, where in France are you from? I apologise if I'm being rude, but I've been over there a time or two," or ten, or twenty, "and I admit to a bit of curiosity."
"Non, of course." It is no trouble answering questions. He likes information. "My family is in Bordeaux." Montagues. Of French Telcom, yes. But before that of winemaking. "I went to university in Paris and then lived in Tours. But now I am of London. I live here... now... hmm..." Golden eyebrows lift slightly and he smiles, stamping out his unused cigarette, "It is now three years in London, I think. Close to, if not."
He stops Rebeka for a moment. Two cappucino ordered. Rebeka nods, smiles and returns to the shop proper.
Valan sits back in the chair, head tilted, his smile tilted, too. "Where in France have you travelled? Now I am the curious one."
Valan glances to the man in white. Sitting alone.
From his breastpocket, Sakir produces a brilliant saffron coloured cloth. A handkerchief of the finest silks. Cross woven, its colours change as it wrinkles and folds. With this he wipes soot from his fingertips. Soot from the brick walls.
Then his watch is lifted, and he begins meticulously cleaning every crevice of the etching. All without looking at it. Never looking at it. His eyes never stray from the assembled customers.
Somehow though, the others have become used to him. None of the mundane, so locked in their banal worlds, even give him a second glance. To them, he is nothing more than a random stranger. Conspicuous only to those who have noted his strangness.
"Oh, a few places, really," Fiona is drawn by the motion of the bright yellow, blinking a moment, then tearing her attention back to Valan. It's rude to stare at Sakir while talking to someone else, after all. "Paris, Chinon, Drancy, Nice ..." In no particular order. "My aunt lived in Paris for years."
Slowly, her gaze strays back to Sakir. It's the colour, it's got to be - it's not what he's doing, is it? What is he doing? With only a faint hint of distraction, she adds, "I go over periodically, but most of my family is over here. Father and mother are mostly in the country these days, but they maintain a residence in London for when they're in town. Went to Oxford, of course, but presently, I'm working for Skyy Network." Which could be anything, really. Receptionist. Reporter. Accountant. Mistress.
"Chinon?" Valan actually laughs. Who goes to Chinon, except ... perhaps... to see William. "Did you go for ... the wine festival or to eat the goat cheese? There is nothing ... actually in Chinon. Except the castle, of course. Lovely, fully restored. Unbelievable that any would do it. And Drancy." What can you say about Drancy. "You... have an interesting notion of sight-seeing..."
As Fiona looks to Sakir, Valan takes another moment as well. In the interim, the girl with the notepad returns, this time with a tray, additional cappucino, a chai is also there, along with the cinnamon biscotti.
The hum of everyone else's evening is the white noise in the background. Lives in a pendulum swing of coming and going. Other places to see for some, they rise, their tables taken up by others. To them, the man in the white suit may not be visible at all. But then, most are moving in the haze of their own lives, unable to see past it. Not stopping to, as they say, smell the roses. Or to take notice of a man in a white suit cleaning a golden watch. Valan Montague, however, takes note of most everything. It is what one does at a cafe. Watch everyone else.
The gold watch rises free of the saffron handkerchief, gleaming and bright. How many times has it been cleaned, how old is it, and yet the etchings are bright and new. Uncorrupted by age.
The chai and biscotti arrive. Almost immeidately the biscotti is broken in half and arranged on the plate. Sakir doens't bother sampling it. Perhaps he only ordered it so that he could break it in half.
The drink is similarly toyed with. A spoon swirls through it exactly three times, and then is ignored.
"The first time, I don't remember too clearly," Fiona actually doesn't remember her first visit to Chinon at all, but she's been assured she was there, and like so much else in her life these days, she has no choice but to take people's word for it. "But the second time, I was working for a magazine at the time, and I got sent to the castle on assignment."
She offers a faint smile, not so much Mona Lisa as all but apologetic, and a shrug. "I used to be a little bit different. We change, don't we?" Some of us, more than others. She fiddles with a moment's nervous energy, as if anticipating a sea-change of epic proportions at any minute. Any minute now, and a fairy will pop out of the woodworks - or maybe an angel - or maybe, this time, it will be rabbits. Rabbits, with gigantic pocket watches... Sakir gets another glance.
"Don't order the biscotti," she mumbles, to herself. "Right." Fiona picks up this from the arrangement of biscotti to teacup. She looks back to Valan. "You know Chinon, then? I've only been there the two times, but it is an ... interesting ... sort of place. The owner is ... unusual."
"I've been there a couple of times. The castle is amazing. So big. It must cost the owner a fortune." A pause. William. Unusual. Valan's expression is open, curious for more. The smile is slight and he quirks up golden eyebrows, lifting his cup of coffee. "Yes? You have met the owner of that place? What is he..she? like?'
I have to hear this. It is not every day one meets someone out of the clear blue who has met someone one knows fairly well. It is like peeking behind the curtain.
"And... yes... change is everything. Freedom to change is also everything." He is big on freedom. Valan turns his attention to his tablemate, letting the man in white ... be himself. Whatever and whoever that is. Would that he had the power to ... see what sort of person he was. That, Valan does not have.
With one last break of the biscotti -- apparently to prevent symmetry -- Sakir stands. A handful of coins are piled neatly in a cylinder, as the saffron cloth is gathered into a pocket.
Strides carry him to the street, away from the still steaming chai. Out in those streets he resumes his walk, pole to pole, wall to wall. Seemingly random.
With the departure of the odd ... person ... Fiona's able to devote her attention to the man actually sitting opposite her. And, at least one good thing will come of this - she can describe Valan to her mother and say with perfect truth that she can meet attractive men on her own, thank you very bloody much.
"I'd have to describe him as more secure in his masculinity than the entire Italian rugby team on steroids, and exuding an atmosphere of being possibly willing to share. I didn't, mind you, test that - he's not my type," nor she, his, "and while we didn't along along badly, we didn't get on entirely well."
If she were a little more pretentious, she'd add something to the extent of yes, that was my punk phase, when I was still deconstructing societal boundaries, but that's not Fiona. "We got along better the next few times we met, though. I ended up interviewing him, once, but haven't really seen him since then." She shrugs, smiling faintly. "I work for a living. He owns a castle." There's more to it than that, but ... well. She's only just met Valan, after all.
Valan laughs. It is a quiet laugh, but it is a laugh, and a smile that follows it, that knows something. He looks into the distance, thinks about your description and then he nods. "I think," he says, "...that is the best, succinct description of Guillaume d'Angevin that I have heard. And I read that interview in the magazine. That was you?" He studies you with more interest now. "You have gone on to television. It is just as well, I have written for magazines and know, magazines seldom pay out in the long run. Television is always better, if you can get it."
He sets his cappucino down and reaches for his pack of cigarettes. Moroccan. A gift from William. "That is funny," Valan shakes his head. "London is a huge city. How did I end up sitting at a table with a woman who's work I have read, who interviewed someone that I know?" He smiles, pausing to light the cigarette, his face going for a moment of fire.... golden. "It is almost as strange as that man who was just here. I wonder what his story was..."
Valan breathes smoke, but not in your direction. He's polite. "Life is a funny thing, I am learning. Tonight, just another lesson. So, you work for Channel 4. Writing?"
"C'est moi, oui." A crooked, almost Drancy smile, though a far too mellow Drancy, if so, and Fiona leans back a notch. "Yes, well, I got offered a job, and it's an opportunity. I like seeing where things will take me, though I have to keep to schedules more than I used to. I'm not an 'on air' personality, thank whoever. I don't think I could do that - one act's enough." Pretending to be 'normal'... or pretending to be Fiona again... suppressing urges, excesses, a ladylike demeanor like icing on a cake - or glazing on a wall.
Fiona's smile turns almost mischievous. "As for the odds - well, if you know him, aren't you more likely to've read an article about him, rather than less? I'm not a mathematician - I suck at math about half the time, so I can't tell you what the odds would be." Inadvertently, she glances back to the table where Sakir had been sitting. "That was odd, yes. And yes, I ... write. Helping in production."
And she has no idea how that's going to work out, for all her confident demeanor. Smoothly, she hopes. If she can keep unreality at bay for a little longer, or figure out a way to make it work for her...
Well, magic is as magic does...
Valan grins again. "Something he did not write himself? Hmmm, I'm not certain what the odds would be of that. But... even so... it is a pleasure to meet you. The job sounds like a good opportunity. It is a good network. It should lead to other opportunities. I thought about writing for a time, particularly at university. But... too much of a schedule for me at the time. I was too busy being a ... party boy," a smirk, a turn of his head for another breath of smoke.
And what about now...
"I did some freelance. I still do, on occasion. Vino Veritas. Wine industry work. But nothing as glamorous as television." A slight wink. Valan inclines his head. "Production work... must be interesting. I, too, would prefer behind the scenes. It has an... architectural feel to it. What programs are you working on, might I have seen them?"
"I've never read anything he's written," Fiona admits cheerfully. "Though he did paint me. I don't believe they've named the show yet - all I know is that it's interior decorating with an 'edge', to be provided in part by yours truly, and put out by JeweledTemplar Productions."
If that means anything to anyone other than herself, she'd probably be surprised... "They're keeping me on just that project, for now - I imagine it'll change in due course." A light shrug, a shake of her head.
"My last job had ... a bit more glamour to it, I suppose, though in a different sense." Especially if you count warring faeries. "I used to write for a few punk rags, actually." Fiona smiles demurely. Isn't she just the epitome of punk?
You can see, quite easily, that he is surprised. Not horrified. Not shocked. But simply and merely surprised. At what part, it is not clear. Is it that you seem so un-punk? is it because you have gone from punk zines to a television gig? It could be all of the above.
Valan stamps out his cigarette and takes a sip of the cappucino. It's almost out of heat. Blah. He smiles. You missed the joke on William, but that's alright. There it is, surprise again. "He painted you?" A pause. "What did you think of it?" He seems to be honestly engaged, truly interested in your opinions, your experience. Perhaps he has been a model for the artist, too.
"I don't think I'd much like to have sex with him. Being painted was enough of an intimate experience without going any further." Fiona's faint smile reappears, and she shrugs, readjusting herself in her seat, a rearrangement of limbs. "But I've got it hanging on the wall in my flat - beats staring at a telly all night." At least, that's what her infrequent visitors say...
Absently, she tugs on the cuff of one sleeve. "I used to run around with my skin off, but I've gotten out of the habit. Being painted was vaguely reminiscent of it, only in a different sense. But I imagine I'm getting a little too ... poetically cute for my own good, now. I don't know. It's very good art. That doesn't mean it's comfortable. What do you think?" And she lifts her gaze, frank blue shading towards grey.
"It is not ... comfortable." That is very... observant of you. Very observant. You have a very keen sight, Fiona. "In fact," a small smile, even a little color in his face, "... he painted me. My lover did not ... exactly appreciate it. And ... to be honest... it is hard to look at. And I had my clothes on. If they had been off, I do not know what I would do. His work... is not ... as you say... very comfortable." You are right. A pause and he grins. "And I do not, most assuredly, want to have sex with him." A laugh. "Under any circumstances."
That may or may not answer any question you have as to whether his lover is a woman or a man. He does not offer it up. But he isn't denying anything either.
"I think that he has an enormous gift. But it is one that makes people very uncomfortable. I think Caravaggio had that same effect. Picasso. Now we look at that work and wonder how anyone could have found it alarming, frightening or... uncomfortable. Maybe in a hundred years, when you and I are gone, the works will no longer be uncomfortable."
Didn't William tell you that he painted a portrait once and that it almost ended in a fight?
Fiona laughs, but there's a slightly grim note to it. "I think if I had a lover, he'd probably object to the painting. It's not that it's a nude - I mean, it is, but you end up nude, in those pictures, rather." She pauses, forehead creasing for a moment. "Not nude. You end up naked. ...Exposed." On the plus side, it was in some ways uncomfortable for people other than her...
"I don't think he's very interested in making people comfortable. In fact," she looks almost amused, almost laughing, "he's a bit of a prima donna, isn't he? Though likable enough, once it's about art and not, well, anything else. But I think we'd all like to be that self-centred."
After a miniscule pause, Fiona adds, "In a hundred years, it'll only be uncomfortable to anyone around to remember us. And how likely is that?" She isn't going to answer her own question. She's met a few too many immortal spirit-beings...
Valan smiles, "Not likely." He lies, but it is an easy lie. And maybe there's more truth to it than not. Maybe no one here will remember him in a hundred years. Maybe he and Edward will be long gone. Maybe they will be in France. Or Fiji.
"I do not know if he is or he is not. He is a prima dona, or would that be a primo don?" He wonders on that, but smiles it away. "He has a good heart beneath all of that, despite being a... universe unto himself. But..." an exhale, "...that is what it is like to be that wealthy, I suppose. When you are so separated from everything that is... well... real. The primacy of the self takes over. And well... he is French." Gold-green eyes sparkle with the self-effacing, and self-knowing, wink. "But making people comfortable? Non, he does not consider this. One's comfort is up to the individual."
Valan nods to something you've said. He chews on it for a moment and then he smiles, a curving smile, playing at his mouth. "Naked and exposed. Shivering, even, from the sudden cold of having everything stripped away. Everything. Right down to the soul. He sees things he should not see and then colors them so fantastically that the whole world seems to be looking at you, staring at you, as you stand naked and exposed. That... is power," he finishes softly.
That is power. And only now do I think of it. Only now do I truly feel so bared by it all. How did he do that? How did he see me that way? Why would he do that...
There is a rise in the blood, a taste on the back of his tongue that Valan ignores. He ignores it for the pleasantness of your company. "I have had my picture taken many a time. One of my dear friends in Paris is a photographer. She works for Vogue now. Astrid." He smiles. "I do not mind posing for photographs."
"Well, with photographs, there's something between you and the person capturing the image," Fiona observes lightly, oblivious as ever to any lurking background motifs. Someday, she might learn more - but so far, by and large - with rare exceptions - she walks in ignorance, oblivious to the nature of so many of those she encounters. "I could, of course, be wrong - but I find it less intimate."
Less something to worry about, or be worried about, depending upon which side of the lens one might be. "I'm not that wealthy," though she could retire tomorrow and not have to worry, between her father's heritage and her mother's assets (and vice versa), "or that powerful. He can act. I just ... am." Fiona smiles, blithe in her observation, a sparkle of amusement in her gaze now. "But I agree with you, apart from that tacked-on addendum of mine."
"Well, no more on Guillaume," Valan groans quietly and then smiles. "See? He can be self-centered even when he is not here! Incroyable." So, that's that then. "And with photographs... oui... yes, I mean. It is not as personal. As intimate. Even if one is nude. There is something about the interpretation of the Being. The camera does not steal the soul. The canvas does."
And so that thread of conversation is done...
"Your program... interior design? Will it be along the lines of the how-to or the haves-and-have-nots?"
"A bit of both, I think." Fiona smiles a little. "I only just got signed on about a week ago - we're still hammering out the details, but they want to appeal to the haves-and-have-nots, as you put it, as well as the crowd that'll run out and spend. It's a pity, but in the end ... Money, you know?"
Her cell phone rings, and she scowls at her lap, as though the ringing were coming from her stomach instead of her jacket. "Oh, bloody ... one moment." She rummages for the phone, clicking it open. "Hello? Arundel? Hello?" A sigh, and she closes the phone again. "Sorry. I've been ... getting pranked a bit, lately."
"They're a nuisance. But, regrettably, necessary ones." He pauses, he actually frowns. "I have had a lovely time," and then he smiles. "Good conversation is a rare thing in this town. But I am afraid I have to go for the night. I still have to go to work." He smiles and starts to rise, pound notes for the coffee placed under his cup. And the tip.
"I am sorry you were stood up?" Is that the correct phrase? "On your date, Fiona. But... I am pleased to have met you. I cannot meet for lunch, that's when I sleep," he works a swing shift evidently. "But it would be nice to meet again. Have coffee sometime." What do you think? It's not a date.
"Why not? We can form a club. Mutual former models for the most confident painter in France and England." Fiona's mouth puckers with amusement, as she, too, rises, sliding her jacket onto her shoulders. "Here ... have a business card." She rummages for a moment, procuring one, offering it over. "And I know all about that - when I worked the club scene, woe betide the man or woman who called me before six in the evening."
She slips the phone into her purse, purse strap over arm, and offers her hand out again. "Don't worry about me being stood up - only my mother still bothers even trying to set me up." To the best of her knowledge, that's correct. "I look forward to it, Valan - I'll bring the mirrored shades and the copy of the magazine, you can wear the purple turtleneck and be Monsieur X. Have a good evening at work, mm?" She's going to go home, and get into fuzzy slippers.
He takes the card with that self-same summer smile. A laugh and a grin to think of starting an 'I've Been Painted By William' club. He will have to talk to Edward about it. One day, he will even have to talk to William about it.
"I do not have one of my cards, or I would leave it with you. Next time, I will bring one. I will call you," he assures, "... unlike other men." Who shall remain nameless, mostly because I never caught his name. Valan reaches out with his own hand, taking yours, shaking it in an amicable manner, and this time more casual, though no less polite. "I know the feeling. Another one of the benefits to not living in Bordeaux. Have a lovely evening, Fiona. I will be seeing you..."
Of all the nights in London, this has to go down as one of the more odd. Intersecting lines and lives. Two people out of nowhere who meet on a random evening in a Starbucks patio, sharing knowledge and experience with an obscure man who rarely dabbles in the real world. All under the auspices of a man in a white suit cleaning a golden watch. Maybe he wasn't real. Maybe he was a metaphor.
Or maybe he was Hemingway's Ghost...
Posted by rowan at September 19, 2003 08:52 AM
