The Wheatsheaf, est. 1742, is a dockside institution in London. Not the largest of pubs, the main room retains more of the storefront feel that marked it last century. A large bar dominates the room, directly across from the door. Walk in, head straight ahead for refreshment. Made of a dark wood, it matches some of the original backwall and window frames. The front wall on either side of the door still peers out onto the street, albeit through colored panes, alternating between red, green, blue, and yellow.
With the strong walls and dank low ceiling, the Wheatsheaf is cozy and intimate, and in summer is even more so. Fans twirl above and central air was installed late, but can get rather overworked. Seats are covered in a dark green upholstery, and the walls hold paddles and other sailing memoirs. An archway leads to the Regatta Room, an addition from earlier this century, and the warm hearth and dartboard beyond.
It's a busy place, the Wheatsheaf. During the day, it's all rah-rah and tea. After dark, it's filled with blockers and darkmen, toughs and the occasional hooligan. In the middle of all this, unbeknownst to the hardest of them all, is one that even the worst should fear.
Over there. In leather jacket and laughing with a bunch of rowdies. One Edward Meurelle. They're yelling about the recent match of Scotland against Australia, and the dashed hopes of the English.
Someone's got money on the New Zealand All-Blacks, however.
"He's a fookin' loser, if I ever fucked one -- say, Meany, don't you think?" Edward says, sending the others into gales of laughter. "I'll barrack the Aussies," Edward's hand waves, "...and spot you all fifteen on the Jimmies..."
And into this, comes Rose. The fair. The lovely. The angelic. The ice princess. The drunk.
To her credit, she's not dressed in her finery. Though, compared to what most of the folks are wearing in here it's quite substantial. Black trousers, sweater, jacket, not particularly coiffed. But that probably has something to do with the drunk part. Hair simply pulled up into a braid. Finding the booth closest to the door, since that seems a safe plan for her dexterity, she sits down with a slight 'plunk'.
There are plenty of stares, to be sure. Raucous laughter dims as mostly male eyes stare at the arrival into the Wheatsheaf.
"Come on now," Edward yells, putting an empty whisky glass down and extending his hand. "You poncers, pay in." On the bet, presumably. Edward laughs and picks up a cigar, shoving it between his lips.
But friends are slow to pitch in. Hands that eagerly reached for wallets and clips slow down as each around the standing table turn to see what's got things going so quiet.
Even the darts stop plunking. It's like the world just tilted to a stop. The man behind the bar cocks up a blonde eyebrow and sets down his towel. "What can I do ya, miss?" he wonders. Amiable enough for a dockside tender. Are you lost, honey?
"Do you still serve drinks here?" Rose asks politely, though it's rather obviously directed at the bulk of the room. Am I not allowed to get a drink anywhere in this acursed town anymore?
"Whiskey sour, and a pack of lite cigs, please." She reaches into her pocket, no purse this time, and pulls out some money to hand over, enough for a couple of rounds obviously in case she forgets. "Two sours, now that I think about it."
"Do you still serve drinks here?" Rose asks politely, though it's rather obviously directed at the bulk of the room. Am I not allowed to get a drink anywhere in this acursed town anymore?
"Whiskey sour, and a pack of lite cigs, please." She reaches into her pocket, no purse this time, and pulls out some money to hand over, enough for a couple of rounds obviously in case she forgets. "Two sours, now that I think about it."
"That's the rumor," he rolls out, a glance around. Nothing to see here, lads. Get back to spending money. "Whiskey sour it is...but how about we do this one at a time..." He leaves the money lie and starts the pouring.
He's the last to look up, as his hand is out and open. Edward turns about finally, having been nudged hard in the ribs by Meany on his left.
"What th-- "
Edward's hand rolls closed, he taking the cash and turning about to head towards the bar. "Back in a mo, lads," he states, beginning the task of laying bills, correctly facing, so he can fold them to put into his own clip. As he walks, a billow of smoke floats with him, smelling sweetly of something Dominican.
"Rose?" Edward chews, cigar hanging, hands busy. The colored quid aren't quite sorted. "What's this?" he asks, knowing full well that this is not her scene. Not at all.
Waving a hand regally, Rose acquiesces, "Fine. You're the man with the liquor. One at a time." She doesn't, however, seem too happy about it. In fact, she seems pouty.
"Oh, it's Edward." She turns as he arrives at her little part of the world, "Hello, Eddie." She leans forwards toward him a bit, though her balance isn't what it used to be a few hours ago and it's a little farther than she perhaps normally would, "He's pretty pissed at you too now. Sorry about that."
The whiskey sour is set before the Princess with a look. You've had a number of these already. He leaves the money be for now. A glance to Eddie and the tender steps away, heading more toward the wagering crowd. So, how much did he put on the Blacks?
Edward's brow arches, and he looks at the bartender. Pouring a drink.
"What are you doin' down here, Rose?" Edward asks again, hand sliding the now-organized clip into his back pocket. Smoke fills the ceiling. Whatever she's said, it's not too important at the moment.
Rose sighs, "No cigarettes. Really. I can understand that he is denying me oblivion but cigarettes don't seem too terribly much to ask." This, it seems, is said mostly to herself. Or someone who isn't there. Namely the tender who brought the drink in the first place.
"He's probably in league with him. He never wanted me to have cigarettes either. I expected it over there, but really. Here too? He doesn't even live here anymore." This, is in turn, said to Edward. "Getting drunk, my darling, everyone else seems to have noticed it."
"Go home, Rose," Edward drawls, already done with this. "You shouldn't be here and you know it. I don't care how knackered you are."
The cigar has to go. Edward takes it from his lips and crushes the tip of it out on an upturned boot sole. One the cinder dies, he puts it into his jacket pocket.
"Do you want me to call one of the boys?" One of Mortimer's.
"Right. Of course I'm not. He gets to go wherever he damn well pleases, with whoever he damn well pleases. But not so for Rose." She picks up her glass, tilting it towards Edward in a mock toast, "Well, I'm a paying customer. I think I should be able to drink where I want to drink."
"He's hacked at you too now, you know. I'd wager," she pulls out a quid from her pocket, "He called you on the way to his car from the dock. Before he went to beat something to a pulp, meet his Lady Llewellyn for a polite dinner at Juliete's, go do his set and..." She looks at the clock on the wall with a squint, "Should be finishing up now or about now and going to get knackered himself." She could, if you like, probably time each of those endevours.
"Sorry, Miss," there's a rumble of the tender's voice, putting down a pack of Lite's. "Had to dig for 'em. It's like asking for a Lite beer in Germany." And with that, the tender's off again. He doesn't want to know.
There's a sigh from Edward as his brown eyes return to the woman there. Boot hits the floor again, but it's not as if it'd be heard in this din.
But did he hear that right? Llewelyn? Huh. In the interruption -- and not that Rose would notice -- Edward reaches inside his leather jacket and pulls out a celphone. "Fuck," Edward murmurs, shaking his head as he puts the phone back into its dark hidey spot.
But then, he thinks better of it.
"I'm calling someone." To come and fetch. He'll not want this stink left at his door.
Rose takes the arrival of the fags as a -personal- victory, it seems. Proof from the universe itself that she is in the right. Despite the fact that not more than a minute ago she said that she wasn't going to get them. Tapping the pack on the table with one hand as she holds her glass for a drink with the other, she polishes off half the sour.
"You going to light it for me, or do I need to go ask for assistance from one of the fine gentlemen here?" When he pulls out the phone she rolls her eyes, "Jesus Fucking Christ. I can take care of myself, Edward, I've been doing it nigh on three years now. Or hadn't you noticed?"
"I hadn't," Edward says matter-of-factly, stating the truth of it. "I've seen you now twice in a few weeks. You get the best ice cubes in Hell now," Edward murmurs under his breath.
Phone in one hand, Edward leans and reaches inside his jacket again, eventually pulling out a lighter, which he offers with a flick of his thumb.
Rose pulls out a cigarette from the package and draws in as the lighter is held up to it. "I say. So that's how that's done." Blowing out a breath of smoke she watches it mix in with all the rest. No wonder she always just took someone else's after it was done with.
"No, I know you hadn't. Not that I can blame you really." She sighs and settles back in her seat, picking up her glass again and taking another quarter off the drink, "He's getting rusty, you know, I actually won this time around. Though I had to do a little of it at your expense, sorry for that. He would've been knocked at you anyway, though, honestly."
If a series of buttons was pushed on the phone, it happened blindingly fast. Already, Edward's talking.
"Look, don't say anything. She's where she shouldn't. Wheatsheaf. Send a lackey, eh?"
"He who?" Edward asks, shoving the phone back into his jacket. Hand rustling within.
Rose rolls her eyes at the phone call, "Bloody hell. Thanks, suppose we're even now on that. Sod it all." She finishes off her glass, clunking it heavily on the table, "Why didn't you just kick me in the arse yourself Edward."
Apparently someone doesn't think Mortimer's going to be pleased to have his mortal enemy calling him about finding his girl trashed in a local pub.
"Never fucking mind." She pulls the money for the bar's trouble out of her pocket and tosses it on the table, apparently getting ready to go on her own now, "Who the hell do you think? Davy. Davy, Davy, Davy. It's always bloody well Davy."
"I don't get you, Rose," Edward says evenly. "I'm not going to kick you anywhere, and he sure as fuck better not either." Whatever that's about. His gaze narrows and Edward groans before asking, "What about Davy?"
Looking at Edward as though he's gone completely daft, she lets out a humorless laugh, "Right... sure."
Rose, it seems, is still planning on getting up on her own power, "Where -have- you been?" Obviously not in the same conversation as her. Though Edward would probabably agree, "What about Davy what? He's here, he's still an arse, he's meeting his lady, they're going to sing."
"I've figured that much out," Edward replies. "And no, he hasn't changed. Why would he?" Edward shrugs, hands in his jacket pockets now. There's a brown-eyed glance at the drinks and smokes, then a return to Rose.
"Is this shite about him?"
"That, my dear, is the point. Why should he?" Rose says declaratively, pointing her cigarette at Edward in indication, "That is it exactly."
She slides on the seat again, "I'm going to go find somewhere else to get baked before Guido number one or two gets here. Or five. He wouldn't send three or four."
Edward makes no attempts to stop the departure.
"Maybe," Edward suggests, "...you find another bloke, eh, Rose? Frankly, between you and me...you can do better."
Behind the comment, another shrug of very large shoulders.
Standing up, Rose takes another drag off her cigarette before stamping it out in the ash dish. "You always were sweet, Edward." Simple, apparently, she thinks, but the sweet is genuine.
"You might want to finish up before they get here too. They get distracted pretty easily."
A smile grows. Eyes narrow and Edward's grin shades a strange innocence.
"I'm not going anywhere. My local, fuck them. I did him a favor. His lackey's better see it that way."
"If you're goin', you better go," Edward notes, pulling his cigar and then his lighter from his pocket. With a slow comfort, he flicks the lighter and bends his head to send his cigar glowing again.
Click.
"I'll see you later, Rose. I'll tell them that you've just gone...and that they were too fuckin' slow..."
"Feel free to beat the shite out of them if you want." Rose says easily, getting her balance enough to walk out. Tilting her head to the side she considers, "Maybe I should try beating the shite out of them."
Seems to make you lot feel better.
She sighs, apparently deciding against that and going back towards the door listing slightly to the left, though still walking as though she had books on the top of her lovely blonde head.
It's not pretty really. The walk of shame. He's done it plenty of times, Edward has, but there must be an element of dignity -- or at least insane humor -- about it all.
This still looks too painful.
"Here, lemme get you a taxi, eh?" Edward says, pushing through to catch up.
"And maybe you should beat the shite out of him, Rose. It only hurts for a while," Edward explains, pushing the door open into the alley and into the deepest part of the night.
"Yes, but it doesn't go with my image." Rose explains with dignity. Most likely she means her normal image, rather than the current one that has her looking as though she could topple over fairly easily but still have a streight spine while it happened.
"And you've already called me one ride, seems like that should do for one evening's entertainment."
"No, no," Edward snickers, stepping into the alley. "See," he points at the end of the alley where a few taxis sit, "...it's the least I can do."
"Go ahead," Edward says, glancing at his watch. The lackies can't be too far away.
Rose blinks, looking down the alley with a squint, "My, that was fast."
She turns back and leans in to give her gallant knight a kiss on the cheek, only having to use one shoulder for support under her hand as she does for balance. With that, she turns back and takes a breath to streighten up, managing to nearly look normal as she walks the rest of the way to the waiting taxi, getting in, and hopefully for everyones' sakes going back to Kensington.
Posted by rowan at November 16, 2003 12:45 PM
