Her days begin at dawn, these days, instead of ending there. She does early day, she eats, checks her schedule, returns any calls she can, handles business as required and by ten in the morning, she's off for class.
     She couldn't bear the club life without Jules. It was meaningless, all that work. All that investment. She put it on the block -- that can't have been popular with The Powers That Be, but what is at the moment? She can't even drive by it, Ms. Samantha James.
     Her Mini Cooper is a custom ride, complete with DVD and a sound system straight from heaven (or from the devil, depending on your point of view). It's Hello Kitty pink with cream leather interior -- the symbols of her skin. She's returned to life as an auburn-haired girl from America's Heartland, living in the middle of the grandest, oddest city on earth. She's a headliner now. It's the only thing in her life, performing. For though Samantha James certainly never lacks for admirers or their offers, she lives alone and keeps her heart encased...
     Just in case he should ever return...
     The pink Mini Cooper (convertible too, to be sure) is sitting parked on a side street in the heart of Kensington, waiting for her to come out of Now and Zen, the trendy yoga studio frequented by American celebrity ex-patriots. It's a boutique studio with a Starbucks located conveniently next door. Nothing like hyperactivity after yoga.
     She comes out on her own, rosy Prada shades on her face, her auburn hair long and wavy, held back away from her face by a mod-patterned silk scarf (many shades of pink and cream and strawberry). Her long legs, made more shapely by the constant dancing, are covered by soft cotton yoga pants in Hello Kitty pink with a cream-colored tank top (bra built-in, naturally). Her feet have painted nails (gold) and her sandals are likewise gold leather with little fake gems, no heels for once.
     There she is in all her blushed glory: Samantha James, West End headliner and entrepreneur, current starlet of the future run of Sweet Charity. She's come a long way, baby. But as she tosses her pink Prada bag into her waiting Mini, there's no smile, no light-hearted chit-chat. It's all business, all the time now.

     Not so far away, up the street, a man stands near one of the street lights. Others pass him, left and right, but he does not move so far. Dark hair shades his head, long and scruffy, and his face is mostly covered over with a beard and mustache. He stands in worn army fatigues, a black undershirt, untucked black overshirt, and a baggy jacket of many pockets. On top of his head, a cap, its brim bent and frayed. A few people glance at him when they pass, startled by his striking violet eyes, but other than stares, he's left alone.
     He watches the car, occasionally looking left and right. But suddenly for some reason, he shoves from his standing position and walks steadily against the late morning shoppers towards the pink car. He makes no rush of it, but his pace is steady.

     Samantha doesn't even see him. She's busy with her own thoughts. In her hands, her keys. Crossing over to the other side of the car, she opens what she still considers the "opposite" side of the car (old American habits are hard to break -- as is her 'habit' of parking shite).
     It's when she turns to open the door, to begin to get in, that she notices a hint of movement. It's just enough to stop her...
     That, and his violet eyes...

     "'Allo, Miss," he says in his best local. He bobs his head, but does not presume to approach her. Easier for any onlookers to think that it is more random. His head bobs again and he closes the distance, as if he might pass the fashionable lady of station.

     Is she disgusted?
     Startled?
     Relieved?
     Shocked?
     "Hello," she returns in her Americanized London voice, Midwestern flavors still riding on it. She's searching. The face is unrecognizable, the body...who knows beneath all of that. But the eyes.
     For some reason, she stops. She must be an American, others think as they pass her. The give out money like it's growing on trees. But in the middle of Kensington, at half past eleven, her shock and your appearance creates an eddy between the two of you. Others pass, unseeing or uncaring.
     "Ah," Samantha blushes, her eyes going moist, "...is there... anything I can do for you? Do you... need... anything..." she whispers it, and immediately glances around, half expecting she's causing a scene.

     The man smiles faintly, tiny lines at the edges of his eyes. The hair covers much of it. "Ah, you're kind, but..." he thinks better of it, "...maybe if you could spare a little for a serviceman?" This allows him to step a little closer, into the aura of the society lady. "Thanks, Miss," he says in anticipation.
     He wonders...
     ...are you having a good day?
     ...are you doing well?
     ...I miss you. I need you.
     "Wish I had somethin' to give in exchange..."

     "Of course," she bubbles up, "...everyone has a need at some point..." She smiles. She turns, blinking away the moisture hidden behind the Prada glasses. She reaches for her bag. Her voice sounds nervous... excited... scared a little. For you.
     "Do you need anything else? Work? I work for a theater company... there may be something..." Samantha looks back to you. She doesn't let you see how much she takes from her wallet. She comes up to you, standing in your space. She presses the bills in your hand.
     Don't look...
     Don't question...
     Don't ask...
     "I... should be thanking you," the actress softly insists. "You ... gave yourself for your country... my adopted home now. I should thank you," she breathes. "So... it's no trouble to offer help. It's the least we should all do."
     You might catch the glimmer of a tear rolling past the rosy Prada lenses. Her mouth twitches with everything she wants to say, and her normally graceful body moves in more jerky motions with hugs she cannot give.
     "Are... you okay...?" she whispers. In your hand, several hundred pounds.

     He doesn't look down, but his fingers close about the softer ones that give the money. Surprisingly, while dirty, the man's fingers remain soft.
     "You're kind," the man says, "...thank you again. I...get by," he murmurs, "...I am goin' to..." he looks away, "...the shelter near St. Paul's soon. They will...take care of me there, I 'ope," he explains. "You know how the clergy are," he says to you again. "Maybe..." he winces, "...they'll help..." Maybe. Maybe they won't turn him away. Or that he'll run into Legion - oh, no, Raphael took care of him - a legion of PFD, who have figured out what he's about to do.
     He pauses, then says to your feet, "You look beautiful," he whispers, unable to stare at the radiance of pink. "More than I remember..."

     "I really wish there were more that I could do," she replies. "Do you... want a ride to St. Paul's? I... it would be my honor to take you." Samantha looks at you, she reaches for her purse like she's going to give you something else. It's just for appearance sake.
     "Thank you," the actress whispers to you. "It has been... difficult but... it's my job. Same as it's always been." She looks to the ground and laughs a little. "I hope... they can help you. You seem like a nice man, just in need of a hand. If the clergy can't help... well, we're all in trouble then, aren't we?"
     Samantha James turns her head, letting the breeze blow her hair back out of her face. A manicured hand lifts and tucks her hair back. Her face is drawn in concern. You can tell she's peering behind her Prada's. "It's ... I've missed you," she mouths without voice. "I ... can't ... you'll never know how much... please... take care..."
     Samantha swallows and smiles. "I ... should probably be going... if you need a ride...? I'd be happy to take you... it's not far. And I have time to give as well as money."

     It's perhaps not a good idea. He knows it's not. But the man seems loathe to leave.
     "You're...a lady of quality. Maybe it's not such a good idea..." he confesses. Yet he wants to; unwishing to leave your side. "But I'll take a lift, thanks again. You're too kind," he nods gently. His violet eyes watch greedily, and only the smallest blushing smile comes from his lips as he hears the words he wanted to hear.
     "Once...if they can help me," the man explains, "...if..." he hopes, "...then...I'll be fine." Forever. "Free from...all this." Never to return.

     "Sure," She smiles. "Hop in," and she nods to the other side of the car. Her life? Well, she gave it to you once. You pulled her out of a cheap titty bar and gave her something fabulous. You changed her life, she'd say for the better. Look at her now -- a long way from Minnesota. A long way from the bars she used to work. Now she's on stage, driving custom automobiles, and able to help you when you need it.
     You know, maybe God does work in mysterious ways...
     She gets in the car, starts the ignition and reaches over to take her bag off the seat and toss it in the back. "I don't know about being too kind, but... I try..." To give back. To give to others who were like she was once. And right now, above all else, you look like you need a friend.
     "I've always depended upon the kindness of strangers," she sighs out in her best Blanche DuBois.
     "I hope they can help you, too," Samantha whispers after a moment more. Eyes in the mirror she keeps a guard on what's behind her. And what's ahead. "I really do... sir..."

     "God bless," the man says, finding the words slightly strange. He licks his bottom lip, his beard seeming to fold slightly into his mouth for the instant. He nods and moves around to open the passenger door, frowning before he dusts himself off to take a seat inside.
     It is luxury, this. More than he's seen in months. He seems reticent, worried that he'll mess up your lovely vehicle. He looks up at your comment and smiles weakly. How he wishes to touch you. But his lips purse and he looks around as well, nervously concerned.
     "A lady like you...you must be very popular?" he asks tentatively. "So pretty and...well to do." A question more than anything else.

     "I had people looking out for me," She looks at you as she pulls quickly away from the curb. Once you're in traffic, the acting can stop. She doesn't care that her hair is whipping around and will be tangled by the time she gets home. It's part of the pleasure and pain of owning a convertible.
     "I sold the club," she says, not looking at you as she says it. "I couldn't bear it. I can't even drive past it. The money's safe. If you... need anything..." Samantha says it again and she looks at you. "Anything, St. Jude," she says to you. "I'd give you anything..."
     She isn't messing around. She's taking the shortest possible route to St. Paul's. It's before midday and tea, so the traffic's not as bad as it will be. Providence? Perhaps. "I've been so worried... I'm so relieved... and still so scared for you...I love you...I miss you so much. But I'm so happy... you're alive. I ... wrote articles to the Times, prayers to St. Jude. Just... hoping you were in a place where you could read them..."
     She's crying, but there's no stopping now. Samantha looks at you as she drives fast, pink. So like her. Stylish and swift and surprisingly strong. "Tell me... is there anything... St. Jude... that I can give you... help you...please..."

     "No," he says softly, keeping himself from crying as well. "You sent messages?" he laughs softly and looks at the city slowly going by. "You're a good woman," he says softly, "...better than I ever deserved." His own Midwestern accent shows through now. The way it used to sound. "I'm glad you sold it. Just...do whatever you want, Sam," he looks over to you, "...take care of yourself and do whatever you want, with whomever you want. I want you to be happy," he smiles again.
     "If this...works..." he explains, "...I won't come back. Lifted on the wings of angels," he laughs again, still looking to you. "I'll be...better off. And no worries. Just," he reaches over on the seat, "...spend the money. I won't need it."
     "And I love you too," the now-Julian says, face turning ahead again, "...more than you'll understand."

     She looks at you and smiles in that aw-shucks Midwestern way of hers, before you refined her into Pussy Galore and then... to the darling of the cabaret set. "Yeah, I did." Samantha laughs and cries all at the same time. "I just hoped you'd see it. I guess... I'll have to keep doing it." Yeah, she nods to herself, I'll keep doing it.
     She inclines her head as you tell her you won't be back. She knew it, it seems. Nodding, Samantha sniffs. "I will, St. Jude... I will. I promise. You know... if this had happened a few years ago, I wouldn't have been strong enough," shaking her head, she turns the car toward St. Paul's. Look, it's there, you can see it. "I have you to thank for that. You were my angel when I needed one, Jules," Samantha whispers. "Please... always remember that. And ...that I always love you."
     Turning her head, she looks to you, tears streaking her face. "Baby," she says in her sudden American, "... part of me wishes we could drive straight to god damned Mexico." She smiles, biting her full bottom lip, and she shifts like a pro now, pulling the car up toward the cathedral.
     "Is that it?" she suddenly asks.

     An angel? A dark one, at best. But he'll not say that. Julian nods for your sentiment; he's touched. "You are the first person..." mortal, "...to love me." At least as he knows. "To say it...and I believed you." Maybe that's where it started.
     At mention of St. Paul's, Julian looks eagerly out of the window. "Salvation," he whispers in that direction, eyes lifting at the statue of Queen Anne in the front plaza. "That's it," he says, exhaling.
     Julian turns back to see you, his hand sliding again across the leather. "Thank you...Samantha...for everything. For everything," he says earnestly, violet eyes fixed upon you. A lasting memory. A woman so far from when he first met her. "You are...the best thing to happen to me. The only thing good that has happened..." he looks slightly sadder, "...to me. I am...at your debt, Samantha. Eternally."
     "I'll remember everything," his tears come easily now, "...that you taught me, showed me, every day that we were together..."

     A hand comes off the steering and clasps your own. It's a brief embrace, not because you're disheveled but because she has to pull in to the curb nearest the cathedral. She doesn't unbuckle. She won't be following you.
     Smiling, Samantha removes her sunglasses to show her emotion and her heart to you. "I told you we were good for one another. Baby, we were the best. I love you. Now and always. You just... you take care of yourself. You do... what you have to do to be free and happy, St. Jude," she whispers.
     I love you, she mouths to you again. She reaches for your hand to give it another clasp. Be well, lover. She draws her hand away, putting her sunglasses back on. Brushing lightly against her face, wiping away the evidence. She steels herself like you've seen her do a thousand times.
     "Good luck and god bless," she says to the disheveled man. "I ...hope your luck changes. You... take care now, alright?"

     How often has that been said to him. Julian finds strength and squeezes your hand. "God bless you, Samantha. Now and always...until we see each other again..."
     He hates to leave, but the time has arrived. Julian swallows and steels himself too, using his other hand to open the car door.
     Julian's hand loosens quickly and he rises from the car, looking around the plaza once more. Worry shows for an instant, but then Julian looks to you again. "I love you. Have fun," he grins, hoping that you will. We shall see each other again one day. I hope.

     Near the statue, a man rises. He quirks at the pink car and folds his newspaper recently read.

     The woman nods to the unfortunate man, turning to look back to the street. She doesn't look back, not so directly. She has mirrors, though, and her eyes are drawn to the glass as she pulls away.
     There he goes...
     The man I love...
     A hand goes to her mouth, then to the stick shift. Samantha bites her bottom lip and pulls away, tangled up in blues.

Posted by rowan at July 14, 2005 12:51 PM