It's the sort of sick feeling in the pit of one's stomach when one's realized that ALL of one's credit cards are now overdue - only infinitely worse. She's finally looked at a calendar; finally looked at her cell phone; and all of a sudden reality's come crashing back in on her with the weight of a brick wall, crumpling her brain and her emotions until she's sitting there staring blankly at the wall.
Wow. What do I do this time? Maybe if I tell him I've been drunk for the past three weeks - it's not even that far from the truth. Talk about a return to my punk roots. But that's sooo unladylike, isn't it? Only acceptable for men. Anyway, hyperbole isn't going to get this over with, Fee.
With a sigh, she rises to her feet, crossing the room to fetch the cellphone from where she'd left it, its illuminated display indicating missed calls stretching back entirely too far. Fiona flips it open, hitting the buttons in an order known all too well.
Please, pick up, Davy. I hope you aren't too mad at me...
There are three rings. Just enough for that sinking feeling to plummet straight to voice mail, the virtual no man's land. But on the tail end edge of the third ring and just a half breath before the beginning of the fourth, the line clicks and you catch the snippet of a conversation in progress:
"... if being an asshole is genetic, then that boy's doomed..."
Davydd's laughter is earthy and warm, you can hear other conversations, a cacophony of sounds like the reincarnation of the Temple of Babel. "...He can't help it, don't blame him. He's ...what... all of seventy-five? He barely has hair on his chin..." Does he even know you're on the other end? "I'll be back in a minute," he says it not to you but to the room at large and you hear the sound of the party, or gathering, or whatever it is, soften into nothing.
And then you hear the lighting of a cigarette. "So, how are you?" Davydd says, words slightly muffled by the bouncing of a balanced fag hanging precariously from his lips as he speaks. "Liking the new place?"
He knows about that. He knows about a lot of things. And you know, now, that he knows now. There is the sound of traffic noise. He is either on a balcony or a verandah or some such thing from what you can hear.
Her spirits could not sink further if there were some way to attach physical concrete blocks to the intangibility of emotion. Not just the lack of answer; but what happens when you do answer. It isn't even waiting for when you finally answer her; it's well before that.
Maybe she is too sensitive. She doesn't really now. She crosses the room again while she waits, sinks to the couch and curls up on it. "...I don't think I know a language in which I could give you an answer for what I'm feeling right now, Davy." Fiona's voice is low, her eyes on her hands, on the backs of them, on her fingernails and studying the minute speckles naturally occurring there and around them. "The new place is good. Better than the old place. Better view."
"If you think I'm going to punish you so you'll give me a long, drawn out apology, you're mad," his laughter is a cuff to the ear of the air around him, a puff of smoke going with it. "What good would it do anyway? What would it prove, Fiona? I've had some time, some quiet finally, to think and ... so... it is what it is, girl. So... now you're feeling guilty. It's not like I don't know where you've been."
Davydd exhales a puff of smoke, half-turning to the party in the hotel, waving at someone -- I need a few more minutes. "I was mad a few weeks ago," he quietly admits. "I'm not mad now," he says. "It's been... time I've needed, i think, to put a few things straight for myself. I've been back on my heels too long, let too much slide away from me."
He pauses, looking at his cigarette. "Can you meet me at The Bentley? Twenty-seven thirty-three Harrington Gardens, South Kensington. I'm on the seventh floor. Tell them at the desk you're there to see me and they will buzz you up. I don't want to talk about this on the phone."
She is still miserable. You can't see her nod; of course not, it's on the phone. Guilt isn't even the half of it - she is indeed too much like you, she is wallowing in it. "Guess I should've known," she murmurs to you quietly. Her fingers curl against her thigh, her head dropped lower.
Everything ends sooner or later, right? You're not angry anymore. And that can't be good. For me. I wish I could just disappear...
"'Kay," Fiona murmurs to you into the phone. Her voice is hushed, too low for almost anyone to hear her. "I'll ... meet you there." She feels as if she will be going to her doom. "See you soon, Davy."
He hears it but for the time being he does not soothe it. Okay, so maybe he's still a little angry. "I'll be there in a few minutes," Davydd says quietly. "I have to excuse myself from something at Claridge's." Isn't that where Sandrine lived? "Shouldn't take me long. If you get there ahead of me? They'll let you in. I'm in the royal suites." Of course he is.
And you have the whole ride to think about it. Maybe that's the point. Maybe you should think about things like he's had to for the past near-on month. And so you are afforded the luxury, although a dubious one, on the short ride from your central London loft to the marble grandeur that is The Bentley.
The Bentley is situated in South Kensington, not far from Kensington Palace and Hyde Park. It is a lavish building crammed with Turkish, Italian and African marble, with intricate mosaics throughout the complex. It is a hotel for royalty, and there is a king who puts his head on a pillow here tonight. The seventh floor contains but two royal suites, both of which have been leased out for the time being to one Davydd Llywelyn.
The hotel boasts the finest service - a boast about which Claridge's begs to differ. Attendants are there, not only to escort guests to their location, but for those in the royal suites, even their guests are treated regally.
Inside the first suite (the second booked simply for privacy and security), a scotch is being poured into a squat glass. No ice is there to pollute the distillation, to reduce it with something so bland as earthly water. The mosaics continue here, in lush blues and whites, and settees and sofas of corresponding shades. The double-doors to the bedroom are shut, likewise the door to the other set of suites.
It is a dubious luxury. A part of her wishes she could turn up looking the way she did when you and she first met - but what would be the point? She isn't that pointlessly manipulative. She is dressed appropriately for royalty when she arrives, in pale primrose gown and her long hair worn up, the fur coat you gave her (she has not as many furs as you might think). Not a hair out of place - expectation allowing her entry.
And she is miserable. More than you know. More even than she reveals in the quiet click of the phone being shut off and closed.
If only she could shut herself up so easily.
You are back with Sandrine, of course. I was never anything more than a flash in the pan, was I? All of the old insecurities, thought safely put back to bed, come roaring back to life with a wobble of her lower lip before it's tucked back between her teeth and held in place. She heads up the steps into the Bentley, a murmur given to explain who she is and who she is there to see. Despite the presence of attendants, she is alone with her self-doubts and her fears.
The attendant is nothing but courteous to you but does not trouble you with too much small talk. The floor within the elevator was pushed without question, and held once it opened to allow you to step into the grand royal hall. From out of the elevator and into the hallway, you are led to the double-door entrance to the first royal suite. The attendant pushes the doorbell beside the entrance and waits along with you.
He must be here...
There is the sound of footsteps, the quickstep of Mars with the wings of Mercury at his heels, and the door is opened. Davydd stands there, in a very posh suit out of which he has begun to unravel - there was once a tie, but it is now undone and likely lying across the arm of a chair, and the buttons that held it secure are likewise undone, giving a glimpse of skin at the hollow of his throat. Far too high for any of the tattoos to be witnessed.
"Thank you, James," he says to the attendant, shaking his hand, and passing along a sizable tip. James says nothing, but departs with a nod to you both. Of course is implied, along with Have a good evening.
Davydd holds the door open for you. "You look lovely," he says quietly, motioning for you to come in, "... even if you do look like you're about to be admonished by the prefect. Come in, come in." He closes the door behind you, leading you from foyer to main living room. "Let me take that, oes?" he reaches for your coat. "Would you like something to drink? Keep the throat moist?" Suddenly he smirks. "Stop looking like I'm about to kill y'. It's not the end of the world. You look like I've felt. Come on, stop it, give me your coat and take a plop on the sofa."
She actually wobbles slightly; a tremor running through her, eyes too wide and lower lip trembling before she regains her composure, chin dipping down as she moves in. Her coat is surrendered to you without a word; and you say it's not the end of the world. "Isn't it?"
Fiona murmurs it to you, even though she obeys, a hand coming up to press at either eye for a moment before she sits on the couch. It isn't an ice queen's sit; she curls up on it, shoes avoided being on the cushions, and she turns her head to watch you with large, tragic eyes.
She is not being melodramatic for the sake of melodrama; you can tell that much, surely. Fiona folds her hands, absently twisting a ring around on her finger. "I'm sorry, Davy." The words are hushed, barely audible. She is barely keeping from crying.
"Okay," he says gently. He hangs your coat up in the outer closet for now, closing the door and turning. "Thank you." Without asking you what you want, he pours you a vodka straight to go with his neat scotch. He appears around the bend of the sofa, the drink offered to you. "I was upset, I'm not going to lie," he continues quietly, taking a seat beside you. "Well, for the first week, it was rough going. But then ... suddenly... I just decided to take advantage of the quiet. I spent my days with the twins, and my evenings in London. Without you around, without them around, without Will and Edward around, I was able to take the first long hard look at m'self in the mirror that I've had for a while, and I have to be honest. I hated what I saw. So, while I was angry with you at first, and jealous and filled with rot-gut, that's passed, Fiona. I don't have any interest in yelling or pitching a fit or crying in my scotch all woe is me."
He takes a swallow of the scotch and settles back, giving his legs a stretch, his left arm extending along the back of the sofa. "Things have been out of whack for a while, but before we get on to that, I should probably ease your mind, yeah? You look like you're about to faint. This isn't a meeting to talk about getting a divorce or anything. I'm not talking about divvying up property. But we do need to come to some sort of ... understanding. Understanding what each of us want and need right now, and then we can ... get on with it." His hand reaches down and brushes a touch to your hair, moving a lock from your face. "Does that sound fair, Fiona?"
Davydd waits for your answer, and while he does he takes the time to down the scotch and set the glass aside. His other hand fishes in his jacket for his cigarettes and lighter, setting them on the seat next to him for easy reaching later.
She shudders, taking a deep breath all of a sudden. You aren't leaving me. Never mind that she left first, in a way; you have suddenly eased the worst of the sickness from her mind and from the pit of her stomach. The vodka's taken with her hands trembling terribly, glass held in both hands and sipped, then swallowed and pushed aside. She blinks the unshed tears until they're gone, one hand coming up to wipe them entirely away.
"I can live with understanding," Fiona tells you quietly. He hand catches at yours for a moment, then slowly releases. "It's probably time for one of our talks anyway, isn't it? I just ... was ... never mind what I was thinking." Never mind her fears. She looks away again, a few tears dropping even though now she looks more ready to faint with relief.
"Yeah, I think we're a bit overdue. With all the babies and the weddings and the sons getting into trouble, we've had drama plenty. Still, that said, we can't go on like this forever. It's not fair to anyone, to not talk. Not to me, not to you, not to Rhodri." His fingers give you a squeeze. I don't hate him either. "Do you mind?" he wonders, his other hand lifting his cigarette pack and lighter in a gesture of downright chivalry.
"I haven't been happy for a while," Davydd says, "... I don't think that's been any secret. You know it, I know it. I have been on my heels for going on ten years, what with Sandrine, us, William and Edward, and then all the rest. I've not had a spare moment to gather myself until these past few weeks." Sitting forward, he taps a cigarette on the pack. "Sure, it was mostly all self-inflicted. But these few weeks, I started to get a little... equilibrium, I guess you could call it." He turns his head when he lights up, blowing the smoke away from you as he sets the back and the lighter on the marble and glass table in front of where you and he sit.
"I've tried to please everyone, you, the children, William, Edward." Not necessarily Rhodri here. "I even tried something as unconventional as sharing a woman with my other son, since we fancy the same one. It's come at a pretty large price, for us all. But," Davydd exhales smoke, "...all out of my own guilt. Guilt's a poor motivator for doing the right thing. I can't make you love me like you love Rhodri," his hand comes up, burning cigarette and all, to interrupt your possible interruption, "...and don't let's start in on who loves who the most around here. Or that you love us the same. The point is this, I can't go on pretending to be Saint Peter to make all of you love me, or forgive me, or need me. I'm collapsing under the strain of it. And when you were gone, it just came crashing down. And it's good that it did. I just ... wanted you to know where I was coming from, and what I've been feeling all this while."
"No, go ahead," Fiona murmurs. She is curled up, listening to you in mostly silence. She is still worried; she still is half-expecting this to end up with you saying you can't go on, and she's out of the picture. She is next to you, but not interrupting; even when you expect her to. Does this surprise you?
"I love you differently," Fiona agrees, voice a low murmur. "It's not amounts. I don't want you to be a saint, Davy. If you became a saint, you wouldn't be that man I loved in the first place, would you? But ... what do you want?"
And now the blue eyes meet yours, melancholy still in them. "I ... don't want a divorce. I don't, Davy. I do not want to lose you. What do you need? I ... want you to have what you need in life, you know that."
No argument. Just discussion. The hint of tears, but without restraint placed upon you...
Differently. You see him take that in and consider it. "I don't want to leave you, so... I think we're agreed on that. Though, how we see one another, and how often, what the balance will be going forward, we'll have to talk about. I need to know what you want as much as you need that from me." Smoke trails upward from his nostrils before being exhaled. Leaning forward, he snags a lead crystal ashtray - nothing but the best, right? - and pulls it toward him.
He is hesitating. He knows you're not going to like it - or perhaps he's trying to think of the best way to say it. "I need the freedom to be myself, Fiona. To be the man I am." Dark green eyes look to you. "With you, I tried to be ... something different. I ended up being a little too different at times," he smirks slightly. "And I know you didn't ask it of me, not in total. But even the monogamy... given your other marriage... is just no longer tenable. You're in love with someone else," Davydd murmurs. "And I gave you up. If I were to be truly big about it, I should just bow out and let you and he have a relationship uncluttered with a third set of emotions. And believe me, I've wrestled with that this past couple of weeks. Especially after I heard about your new living arrangements. But I'm not ready to do that. I'm not ready for that yet. I'm not ready for a break, either. The three weeks have been hard enough."
He takes another puff of the cigarette and then stamps it out. "I'm not a monogamous man, Fiona. I never have been. For you... for you I tried." Dark green eyes settle on you. "I'm not involved with anyone, nor will be. Not to the extent you're involved with Rhodri. But when I need companionship, and you're in the arms of another man, I need to have that without guilt. And I need you to understand that. If you can't, then... I'm afraid we are going to be at a difficult impasse."
She is watching you from under half-lowered eyelashes, still more than half-afraid. "I never wanted you to be someone you weren't," Fiona whispers, words barely audible. "The only thing I wanted you to be was happy." With me, preferably. The tag is not verbally added, not spoken aloud, but is there all the same. Her eyes glitter with it.
And you state what it is you want, and you can see the mixed emotions. They are remarkably clear. Does this mean you don't want me? and Is there something else? and all the rest before she slowly, hesitantly nods once. "All right."
It is not all right. Not entirely. She feels for her vodka, not looking at you as she takes a deep breath, closing her eyes to collect herself, try to regain some semblance of equilibrium. She is still upset - but why? That isn't entirely clear...
"I'm guessing it's impasse then," he exhales as you go nearly monosyllabic -- as close to that as you ever come. A half shake of his head and he's fishing for a new cigarette. "You say you don't want me to leave, but you have nothing to say about leveling the playing field? About making it balanced?" he wonders. "Do you want a break for a while, then? To give you the time you need with your other husband?"
He doesn't want it, particularly. But there is a kind of understanding in the timbre of his voice; the sound of realization. Another exhale of smoke follows and Davydd sits back, hand going briefly to your leg. "What is it you want, What do you want this to be, Fiona? You and me." His hand withdraws, and then so does his gaze. He stares at the fire burning at the end of the stick, watching the smoke lift like a serpent from the flame.
"You can't have your cake and eat it, too, love. I'm sorry. We can't have what's happened over the past few weeks happen. It has to be balanced or it will spin into disaster. I shouldn't have to spend weeks like I've spent this month, you with another man, and me stewing in my juices, waiting patiently for my turn. It can't be like that, whatever else it will be, it can't be that."
"No!" No, she doesn't want that. She looks up at you. "It has to be balanced. You're right about that. And I am sorry. So it either has to balance out or there has to be some way of making it balanced. I ... won't lie to you. I don't like the thought of you with other women." She looks away, then at you again - this time squarely. "But at the same time, Davydd, you're not who you were when we married. Well - you are. But I know you're committed to me, now."
There's a faint, slightly wobbly smile, and she looks away again, standing, setting the vodka glass aside and running her fingers through her hair. "If you weren't, you'd be gone already. We wouldn't be talking this out. The old Davydd would've tossed furniture out through windows and gone and gotten drunk. And you wouldn't do that here. The damage deposit must be tremendous."
Fiona turns to you again, moving to you, lightly putting her hands on one of your shoulders, expression going quieter. "...I don't want a break, though. I ... want to be your wife. You were here first, and - that means a surprising amount to me."
Copper eyebrows shoot up at your sudden exclamation. Holding his cigarette to the side, he pauses for a moment of astonished silence, then takes another pull of smoke and fire. "I know you don't like it. I wouldn't expect you to. I just needed you to see the need for it." He nods to what you say about This Davydd versus That One. "I'm not completely stunted, no. And if you meant nothing to me, you're right, I'd be gone by now. That three week, whatever it was, stint would have been the nail in the coffin." His mouth cuts a quick slanting smile. "Pun intended."
He snorts at mention of a deposit. "You'd not believe it if I told you. But I sold my flat," he looks at you again. You're not the only one who moved over the past several weeks. "I needed to get out of there. It was a bit stifling. Too much drama. So... I moved here. The closets in this room are as big as my kitchen in the flat. Suits me better. And I couldn't move to Claridge's and fucking run into Sandrine in the elevator. Or any one else for that matter," he rolls his eyes and doesn't bother explaining. "It's bad enough I have to go there on occasion as it is. No command performances. What's done with those women is done, and in the past. I'm not dredging up old history. The only wife I have is you."
He was first. It is an acknowledgment that means as much for him to hear it as you to speak it. "Diolch. But... I don't want us hanging on either, out of a sense of nostalgia. If it ever gets to that point, we need to put it out of its misery." Dark green eyes fix on you again. "Whether I was with you first or not is neither here nor there. It's about who you are now, who you love now, and what you want now, Fiona. But," he exhales smoke and sits back, giving his body heavily to the multi-thousand dollar sofa, "... I understand you won't like it. No more than I like you being with him. So... we're even, yeah? It's a weird sort of balance, but," he shrugs, "... I guess we take it where we can find it."
He rakes a hand through his short hair, giving his scalp a rub as he sits forward again and stamps the cigarette out, snuffing the fire to a fizzle of smoke.
"As long as I'm the one you're married to, Davy." Fiona's eyes are a little brighter than they ordinarily would be, her fingers creeping up your chest to over your heart. "I will try not to think about it. And I won't show up here with a gun and blood in my eye to kill your inamorata. I just - I don't care who you fuck," a hint of the punk returns to her eyes, chin tipping up, "as long as I'm the one that matters."
And she is moving down to sink onto your lap as you are on the couch, leaning up against you. "I'm not holding onto you out of nostalgia. There are corners of me you have that he doesn't, and I need both of you to feel complete. I know if I let you go I'd regret it the minute the words left my lips, and so I'm just - not letting you go. Maybe we'd both survive it - but would we really be happier for it? I don't think so, Davy. I still want your lap, I still want your kiss, I still want your words, I still want your children. Hell - children... usually I find myself wanting yours more than his. It's a strange thing to realize."
A small hand comes up, grabbing your hair as best she can. "So how do we balance this, Davy," Fiona whispers. "How do we do this without giving up too much?"
It's a helpless, humorous look you're given as you grip what hair he has. "I don't know. Trial and error, and trial by fire. What else is there, Fiona-bach?" He knows it when he looks at you. Trial and error and trial by fire is the truth of it. "We are going to screw up, and then we're going to learn, same as everyone else. Well, we'll have a chance to learn sommat, and hopefully we will."
An arm comes up behind you, closing in around you as he leans forward slightly. "You're the one that matters," he whispers at your ear. "You're the only one I'm ever going to marry. You're the mother of my children, and my own little slip of a girl." It's a soft kiss you're given, the brush of his mouth at your ear. It isn't followed by another. Not yet.
Sitting back, his head tipped back to rest against the cushions of the sofa, Davydd looks at you. "I wouldn't be happy, no, not without you. I'd go on living - I'm good at that. But I'd miss you. I have missed you." His thighs give you a bit of a bounce. "Your son caught me crying in my Guinness one night." Obviously Gwilym, from the way he says that. "I was in terrible shape," his laughter is sudden, the light of it in his eyes. "Just terrible. I was pissin' and moanin', so drunk he had to help me upstairs to Llew's and put me to bed. I'm sure that won't be the last time. I'll have trials by error of my own, same as you. We'll do the best we can, that's all."
"I love you," Fiona murmurs. She curls up against you as you lean back, as she has so many times. One hand comes up to your cheek, rubbing it gently. "I'd never want to give you up, you know? No matter what... else might be going on. You're right that it hasn't been even and it hasn't been fair. But my position's always been where it is, and I think things would be worse if I - put down my hand and left the table, as it were. What we do affects other people, other things - and it might not be a reason to keep going if we're miserable, I don't think we are that."
Her hand trails down to your chest again, and she lets her head fall to your shoulder and she closes her eyes. "I'm not the same girl you first had in your bed, anyway. I understand better where you're coming from, too. You're a king. And it is different for kings; rare for them to even be allowed to love. I understand better the luxury of it, now."
Fiona leans in to lightly brush her lips to your cheek, then slides to sit next to you, one hand resting on top of yours. "Have your women, Davy. As long as they know their place and don't try to replace me, and as long as you don't let them ... I can turn the other cheek. But I need you more than you know. Without you, I don't know so much how to be a queen of anything. And I still - feel like there's things I need to do. It's very easy for me to drift, purposeless. I think you might know better than I do, somehow, what it is I should be doing. It's - one of my hunches."
As you come to lean against him, his arms come around you to cradle you there. "We're not miserable, no. When the balance is out of whack, the whole world seems to get a little dizzy. But maybe I should drink less," he teases lowly. His mouth brushes against your forehead, a touch of gentle warmth there. "I promise," Davydd whispers. "They will know their place as I know mine. No relationships, no entanglements, no complications. They will be dinner and dessert, and that's about it, love. I'll miss you regardless."
His hand comes up, fingers lightly massaging your scalp. "You'll know your calling when you hear it. It finds you, not the other way around. As maddening as that is. We'll see, hmm? But for now, let's leave it be. Are you and I alright? Is there anything else we need to talk about? Are you expected home tonight?"
You do have another husband waiting, after all. One that hasn't been separated from you in a while. One that is crafty as well as greedy.
"If you don't have to ...rush off... it would be nice to hold you here a while. You're ... welcome to stay the night if you want." He floats that out there, as if the two of you had never slept together before. "I'd like it if you did, Fiona."
"I am here." Fiona states it quietly, but there's a firmness. No, she isn't rushing home. You will have your time with her. She leans in towards you, eyes closing for the touch of your fingers against her scalp, and she halfway smiles. "I will spend the night with you, yes. In your arms, my Davy. King Davydd... does this make me your Bathsheba?"
No bathing naked on rooftops of late for you to see her such, but here she is. Her hands tickle lightly against your chest, stealing their way between the lapels of your jacket. "We're all right," Fiona whispers. "And ... we'll figure things out. Just no penny wise pound foolish choices."
Posted by rowan at October 21, 2007 09:46 PM
