"Hey Maddie, glad you called - no, you didn't wake me." The gleaming black of the cellphone is marred by smiley face stickers in neon green, yellow, pink, orange, blue and the sickly pale yellowish white of glow in the dark plastic. It doesn't mask the essential American-ness of its owner, but rather, announces it firmly and unapologetically, as does the well-bred but ultimately regionlessly American accent of its owner. "It's only gong on six, I think - yeah, six."
     Gillian leans in the corner of the elevator of the hotel, folding an arm over her stomach. It scrunches up the white cloth of her tailored linen shirt, the tidy thin black leather jacket worn over it the sort that inoffensively hangs in a thousand shop windows. The shirt has weathered three continents. The jacket is brand new. "I decided I couldn't stand being in the hotel room for another minute so I'm going to go find some dinner and maybe work on organizing my notes. What? Hotel room? No, I'm settled in down in Oxford - maybe it's up from here, who knows. But I needed some basic stuff, and the local stores seem to like to play hide the merchandise with the American and then act as if I'm talking Swahili instead of English - sorry, American." She rolls her eyes.
     The elevator doors open with a polite little ding, and Gillian steps out, boot-heels clicking on the tile as she heads in a beeline for the front doors. Her hair's worn in what might be laughably called an upswept do, held in place by a pair of green tortoiseshell combs. It resembles a rooster's cockerel-comb, except where one lock trails down the side of her neck to her left shoulder. "I know, I know, I'm boring and no fun at all. No, I'm not picking up some 'hot English stud' so you can live through me vicariously, little sister. Get through the semester and get into a good enough school and gran'll pay for you to go wherever you want, you know that."
     She wrinkles up her nose, readjusting her glasses. "It's freakin' cold." One hand clutches her jacket shut in front, and she hunches her shoulders to keep her bag in place; it's black, and as new as the jacket, a matching pair. "Tell you what. Pick Hawaii, and I might even come with you." She picks a direction at random, plunging into the midst of passersby, matching their pace until the crowd spits her out in front of a pub. "I'm going to hang up now, going into the bar, okay? - La la la, NOT listening to my little sister telling me to get laid, thaaaaanks. Love you too, Maddie. 'Kay. Bye." The phone is clicked shut, just in time for her to thrust herself in through the opened door. Her free hand comes up to irritably swipe the combs out, letting her hair tumble to her shoulders as she looks around. "Yeah, hi, table for one, if you wouldn't mind?"

     "You look like you could play croquet in that, Zar."
     "I do play croquet in it, Danny...."
     "And occasionally guitar..."
     "And guitar. Occasionally. Reggie's right. So sound check went well. It's all good, we're ready to go for ten." Balthazar Davies runs a hand through his hair. There's not much that could wreck it, tussled as it is this way and that in the bed-headed way of a lazy musician. He gives his scalp a scratch then places both hands on the bar. "Snakebite, Danny, would you?"
     He is dressed like a croquetter, or even a cricketer, in a tailored white blazer and tailored white pants. Paired with the jacket is a soft yellow cardigan over a white button down shirt with a blue striped tie tucked in just so.
     Reggie, who's already sitting at the bar, is dressed in a navy blue suit, same cut more or less, with similar layers but different colors. And Danny? Danny's got the bar, or rather this half of it.
     A snakebite -- part Guinness, part hard cider -- appears in front of Balthazar. "Not sure when we'll get this way again, Danny," Balthazar notes with a sip of the beer. "We're booked straight through to August, it looks like..." He takes a glance around, pausing a moment on the girl with the tumbling hair. Lovely, that.
     "Have you thought anymore about Reading?" Reggie wonders, his attention on his bandmate.
     "South by Southwest, in America too," Balthazar notes with a nod. "I think making a move to festivals makes sense..."

     "Thanks." Gillian smiles - she's got the unbelievably perfect teeth of an American, even if nothing else was a tip-off - and with a nod of her head that only makes her hair more untidy, she sweeps to an empty table, setting her bag down and pulling off her jacket. The jacket's tossed onto the back of the chair; it reveals a glowing bronze tan that couldn't possibly have come from a booth, set off fetchingly by a necklace of white coral chips close against her throat.
     This is where things get awkward. She opens the bag, and takes out a notebook. Then she takes out a binder full of paper; full enough to be bristling with pages upon pages of ... stuff. She takes out her cellphone, a wallet, a comb, a mirror, a lip gloss, three different sets of keys, a plastic monkey the size of a nail brush, a bottle of white-out, a paperback novel with a mildly lurid cover of a naked woman's silhouette dripping with blood, a rubber eraser, three energy gels in different flavors, and finally, a fountain pen and a bottle of ink. The pen is blue, with silver trim, and the ink is green. Everything except the notebook, binder, pen and ink are put back into the bag again, which somehow fails to look as if it could even hold as much as it currently does.
     Shoving the binder to one corner of the table, Gillian flips open her notebook, then looks up as the harried waitress looms over her. "Oh, hi. Yeah, could I have a Coke? And ... um ... what's the special tonight? Whatever the special is, I'll have that. Thanks." Her gaze is already straying distractedly to her notebook before she's even finished talking. It has the seal of Oxford printed on its cover; Americans are so fascinated by Oxford, aren't they?

     What is she doing?
     Balthazar and Reggie share a look as the woman at the nearby table -- she's not British, Australian perhaps? -- proceeds to unpack her bag at the table. Cell phone, notebook. Who does work in a pub...?
     An American girl...
     Half-turned toward the spectacle, Balthazar rolls his head back to look at his friend. "I'll be back," he says as he starts to unwind from his chair at the bar.
     A snort in the beer he's nursing, Reggie glances over -- a look to the girl, a look to his friend. "Show's at ten."
     "Excuse me, miss..."
     The voice appears beside you, accompanied by a tall, red-blonde young man (if he's 20, he's lying) in a posh white suit. He could be from Connecticut with a suit like that, or belong to the Oxford Cricketers. The voice is a dead giveaway that he's not from New England but rather Very Old England. Balthazar smiles. "Are you having a meeting, or can I interrupt? Again," he notes, as technically this counts as an interruption.
     The waitress appears with the woman's coke. "It'll be just a few minutes for the special. Hey, Balthazar," she says to your new companion. "What can I do you for?"
     "Ah... how about another Guinness... nothing to eat for me."

     It is not unknown for Americans to have spontaneous business meetings in public places, but she isn't quite so rude as all that. The cell phone was shut the minute she walked into the pub, and is now safely back in her bag, which she's tucked between her ankles. She tugs the binder towards her, loose pages fluttering, then looks up sharply as you materialize at her elbow. "Hello," she answers, perfectly friendly in that carefully neutral way women (especially American women) have with strange men they haven't met before and might find themselves alone with. It leaves open the possibility that she just might be a black belt - but that she also might be a good dancer.
     It's not a very big table; she moves the binder to her lap for safekeeping, then offers the smile again. She has the magnificent teeth of someone who almost undoubtedly wore braces for at least four years. "No meeting, unless you count with my own thoughts," Gillian answers with reasonably good cheer. She pushes her hair back from her eyes - behave, damn you! - and gestures to the empty chair at her table. "Feel free to sit if you like. I'm not expecting anyone at the moment."
     The waitress returns, and gets a smile as well. "Thanks, I was dying for some caffeine and sugar. Bad of me, I know." She adjusts her glasses, then pulls the drink closer to herself, wrinkling her nose at you. "Guinness and no dinner. That's healthy."

     He just smiles. He smiles at your commentary. He smiles at the adjusting of the glasses, the wrinkle of your nose, and even at your Oxford notebook now on your lap. "It's the breakfast of champions."
     And so what does he do now that you have your hands full? He takes a seat at your table and offers his hand in introduction. "Balthazar Davies... Miss... Oxford, is it?" He grins, and his grin is as expensive-seeming as your own as he glances to the crest on the book.
     He is comfortable. At your table, in this bar, and by extension any place at any time it would seem. He does not pose or posture. It is as if he was always here and has known you for years.

     "Just getting up on top of it? Let me guess - you don't see a sunrise unless you're on your way to bed." Her tone is friendly as she heckles you, and she leans her elbow on the notebook and binder, holding them together in her lap as she accepts your hand. "West, actually. Gillian West." She looks tempted to add something to it, but just smiles instead. "Balthazar, hmm? Shouldn't you have a few dozen hats? Wait, that's Bartholomew, isn't it. It's a camel you're supposed to have..."

     "I do have a camel, but I'm betting you're against smoking, Gillian" his voice is a roll of lilting tones, quite musical in its way -- Gillian doesn't lilt that way in New York -- and though his voice is lifted slightly due to the ambient noise, he's not shouting. His smile drifts sideways until it spreads equally at both ends.
     The bronze hair is kicked this way and that, thick, standing wherever he last moved it or wanted it. Not overly long, not much past his ears. His eyes are a kind of cinnamon brown. "My schedule is a bit non-traditional, you might say. Well, you might or might not say it," Balthazar laughs a bit at that. "As it's not yours..."
     And the food is here. He sits back for his Guinness and he gives you a moment with the special.
     It's a lot of food -- it's a London pub. There are the requisite chips -- or as the French say: pomme frites. Being that it is the special, there's bread and butter and a cut of lamb, not overly heavy on the sauce, and with a bit of chutney. "Anything else, miss?"

     "You're right, I am. Nasty stuff, tobacco. Ick." Gillian wrinkles her nose again, absolutely forthright with her opinion. After all, you must want it - you laid yourself open to it. She takes up her pen and tucks it into the spine of the notebook for safety's sake, then slides her books onto the remaining empty chair and sets the ink bottle on top. "But they're your lungs. I prefer to keep mine pristine; you never know when you might need them."
     Her own hair reaches her shoulder blades; shiny it may be, but it has something of the rambunctious texture of hard use and exposure to elements. She pushes at it again, then leans back from the table with a quick smile to the waitress. "Thanks, no, that's it. Unless..." She eyes the plate. "Could I get a small side salad? That's all. Thanks."
     Gillian picks up her Coke and gives you a look of mild friendly mockery. "I've been known to stay up late now and again, but mostly I'm up early and out the door. Classes - well, I guess here you just call them lectures. Anyway, define tradition. Tradition is largely a hallmark of culture, and does change. There was a man who was arrested, tried and convicted on suspicion of being a thief because his neighbors reported he was often up at night and they heard him moving around. That was as recently as the sixteen hundreds. Traditions aren't set in stone." She picks up her fork. "So what can I do for you, Balthazar Davies? Other than treat you to lectures on ancient history."

     Side salad. The waitress processes that for a moment: "Sure. I'll be right back." No question as to dressing choices. That usually means there's not much of a choice."
     Through your opining of traditions and all-nighters or not, his eyebrows began inching upwards. I know why you don't smoke -- you never pause for a breath. "I work nights," Balthazar answers it simply, plainly, and with dead-panned humor.
     The side salad arrives along with a couple of dressing samples in tiny glass bowls. With a half smile on his face, he leans in a bit: "Shall I leave you to it then? I didn't mean to disturb you..."

     "At least," Gillian smiles at you from over the wireless rims, "you work." She pops a bite of lamb into her mouth, and through that, she is blessedly silent as she chews, then swallows. "I don't do what most people consider work."
     She shifts her plate a few centimeters to the left to make room for the salad, smiling to the waitress and then to you. "You're not disturbing me. It isn't as if there's enough room for me to work while I eat, anyway. Something would have to end up on the floor."
     Strawberry blonde hair ripples and threatens to fall against her cheeks. She drops her fork, scooping up the combs and haphazardly pinning it up again on top of her head, giving her a topknot reminiscent of Victorian sketches of Hottentots. "Sorry if I'm putting you off. Mostly your timing was a little too good to be true. If I didn't know better, I'd think my sister sent you."

     "No, what did it was I saw a young woman," he gestures to you, "... unloading a caravan's worth of stuff from a single bag and I was curious, first of all, at what you were hoping to achieve by studying or working in one of the loudest pubs in London, which -- thanks to me -- will shortly become even louder, and secondly... how the hell did you pack all that stuff into one space. Is it a magical bag of tricks or are you that spatially talented." You have a mouthful and so he takes up your slack. At the end of all that is a simple smile.
     He chuckles, taking a swallow of the Guinness. While he is drinking rather than eating, he does so moderately. Well, he does work nights, as he said. Wouldn't do to get drunk. "Does she do that often, your sister? I really doubt that you need the assistance. You're studying history at Oxford? I would say that's work. History or social economics? Or both or neither?" He grins at that.

     "Trade secret," Gillian answers you promptly. "I could tell you how I do it, but then I'd have to kill you, and that'd be the end of such a promising friendship, wouldn't it?" She smiles sweetly, with a pucker to her mouth that suggests she's fighting back a laugh. Possibly even a giggle. "Anyway, it isn't that overpacked. You should see me with my bookbag."
     She eats a bite of salad by spearing a chunk of lettuce on the end of her fork and dipping it lightly into one of the samples of dressing before popping it into her mouth. White teeth crunch through it, and it's gone. "Not often. She's still in school - hasn't graduated yet. She has a lot of opinions about what I should do, she thinks I'm old and boring these days. She'll figure it out when she gets into college."
     Gillian washes it down with a sip of sweet but nowhere near icy enough Coca-Cola.. "History," she answers succinctly. "Not so much social economics except where they're relevant. I'm studying at Oxford on a scholarship, so of course I've got to try my best to keep it. But," she shrugs, "I had to be in London, anyway... you don't look like an electrician."

     "But I am actually," he smiles. There is open and warm delight at such a thought. "Plugs and wires and the whole lot." The smile becomes a grin as he takes a drink. "I'm a lead electrician." He doesn't elaborate, but there are canaries chirping at the corners of his mouth.
     Balthazar watches you eat. He listens to you. You are engaging, charming, your energy is through the roof. An American girl. He gets whiplash from your topic shifts. "You had to be in London anyway? Did your family move here or are they back in... well, the US? New York?" he wonders. "I'm not very good with American accents."
     "I like history well enough. I opted for a different path." He grins. "You know...the path of the electrician..."

     "My grandparents live in New Hampshire. Both sets." Her smile produces dimples. She is not trying to charm you; she has simply decided that while you are harmless. A liar - an electrician? In that outfit? And quite probably a rogue as well. But unlikely to do her any harm. She won't leave her drink unattended with you, times being what they are, but she won't flee without provocation, just yet. "My parents live wherever dad's work has him. Lately it's shuttling between the Keys and Jamaica. A hard life, right?"
     The food gradually diminishes, though from the look of it, it's a little more than she'll comfortably finish; about half the lamb's set aside, and a third of the salad. "I'd be amazed if you could tell where I'm from by my accent. I've lived all over the place. But as for London, I had some shopping to do, so I went to Harrod's. So, Balthazar Davies," Gillian's smile tells you she's teasing you, even if her voice didn't, "tell me." Her voice drops confidingly, and she leans forward, as if about to ask you something indiscreet. "Is it history you like, or just historians? Let's put it to the test..."
     There is mischief in those grey eyes, peering at you from over the rims of her glasses, and her gaze suddenly flashes to steel, even as she asks in as seductive a voice as this wholesome milk-fed American college girl can manage, "...In what month and year was the Domesday Book first commissioned, and by who?"

     Aren't you the cheeky girl?
     "Do you quiz all the men who barge in on your dinner and sit at your table after inviting themselves over? If I had known I was going to have to take exams, I'd have studied more," he notes. But he raises his hands in a Just a moment not I surrender fashion and sits back with his drink. He glances up as if having to retrieve it from heaven, or the last time he actually studied -- which might have been never given how he looks -- and then he works really hard. "William the Conqueror?" he says after a moment, and he lifts an eyebrow and half-grins, half-winces. "As for the date... I'd prefer to go out with an historian... but... I'll say... 1088. It's not my best subject, Miss West. I'm much better at Welsh and Persian history." Odd. Random. Obscure.
     He glances to Reggie and Danny at the bar -- they haven't moved much and there's a couple of hours to go yet. Balthazar leans forward, eyebrows cocked. "How did I do? Did I pass or fail? And it sounds a tough life. And you here in London, tormenting electricians." He chuckles a bit. "Lead electricians at that."

     "Oh, well, if you like, I could see about hooking you up with the senior lecturer, though I don't know if you'd be his type." Her eyes show her mirth, but she takes pity on you. "Good enough for government work. I'll let it be called a pass. Though I get the impression that's not the only pass in the works, Mister Davies."
     Her plates are carefully piled onto one another, and she picks up her soda for a sip, her smile wrapping around the straw. You've done what Maddie would say is impossible, and diverted her from her studies. Well, a little. Even this has involved a history exam. "So what about you? Do you live in London, or just passing through? Are your parents electricians, or did they just shine a little light?" Gillian closes an eye in a wink, sitting up straight again. "My life isn't that bad. I kinda like it, actually."

     Brown eyes are quick to light in a grin. You're a devil. "I don't think I'd be his type. Or he mine. I prefer girls, but thank you for your very kind offer. I don't know how to thank you. Really."
     Another swallow of Guinness. It's taken him a while, but it's nearly gone. "I live in London -- over the Black Jack Davy pub on The Strand -- and when I'm not working or in my flat, I'm in Wales. The family is based there, and funnily enough they are not electricians. Usually that passes from father to son, the whole union tradition," he grins. "My mother is a philosophy teacher. My father works in government. But they have electric personalities," he notes. "I am the lead electric guitarist and singer for a little group here in town. We're playing tonight, if you'd like to stick around." Come to think of it: it is getting a bit crowded in here.
     "I have ... two brothers and three sisters. That makes an even half dozen of us and we are scattered all over the place. My sisters live up north. My brother's also going into government. My other brother is a bit of a prodigy. He is an inventor: and he's only seven. I guess that would make me the official black sheep of the family: the dreaded musician."

     "Oh, a band? Sure, why not?" It's a tolerant look. "I should warn you, I don't really know anything about popular music. I had voice lessons - I had to sing, when I was in school - and I play violin, though not very well." Gillian pushes aside her Coke, running her tongue over her teeth. "Should I sit somewhere else for the show, or will this be good enough?"
     She stretches; the shirt is loose in most ways, but when she stretches, it does tighten dramatically over her breasts. At that, she does seem unaware of the effect it has. "Turnabout's fair play. My dad's a marine biologist. Right now he's helping with shark conservation and he's studying the disappearance of various types of shark in the Bahamas and around the Florida Keys. Mumsie helps him - she's actually a research economist, though. My grandfather's Preston West the second." Owner of a multi-million dollar yacht design and brokerage firm; it does rather explain everything else, doesn't it? She watches you covertly to see if you react to this, and if you do, how.
     She continues, meanwhile: "I've got two siblings - a little brother and sister. My sister's still at school, my brother's in college - major undeclared. Maddie, my sister, wants to be a marine biologist like dad. Or a professional surfer. She hasn't decided which, yet. She has a thing for black sheep. Maybe I shouldn't introduce you - she might want to clone you."

     "I can play just about anything with strings. My grandfather's a musician and composer, and tavern owner. He's a brilliant violinist; me, not as much. I prefer guitar. Electric, acoustic, classical, what have you. When we get started, you can sit at the band's table, how about that? And we'll make sure your tab's covered. We don't have to pay off fans, but a little bribery never hurts, right?"
     Balthazar leans in -- maybe the sound's getting a bit louder, what with the steadily growing crowd. But it also gives him a good view. The best, in fact. "Florida Keys. I've not been there. We're heading to New York and Philadelphia for a few shows soon. And then heading down to Austin, Texas to catch the south-by-southwest festival. Maybe play here and there, and aim for ACL festival booking if things go well. Then back here. Of course, parents aren't at all pleased about the traveling but," he shrugs. And, no, it doesn't stop him and it doesn't actually bother him.
     "Maybe I'll have to take a detour and see the keys. Marine biology. Interesting. I'm not familiar with Preston West. What does he do? I had a pet fish once. That's as close to marine biology as I've been. What do you mean to do with history? Will you become a professor, then? Maybe a think tank. I could see you at that."
     And he most definitely does see you. At the thought of being cloned, Balthazar grins. "I don't think that would be a very good idea. I think one of me is sufficient. I'm sure you'd agree. There are only so many electricians we can bear."

     "More than one of you and I think the world might be in danger, Balthazar Davies." Gillian seems amused by letting your full name (or so she thinks) roll off her tongue. "Ooh, the band's own table? You might spoil me. Sure, as long as you won't be too hurt if I do peek through my notes a bit during your set. I'm kind of a workaholic."
     She picks up the ink bottle, tightening its lid before dropping it into her bag; the books are next. "You don't have to pay for me if you don't want to. Granddad designs and sells boats. Mostly to ridiculously rich people with more money than sense, but also occasionally to the Oceanographic Institute and NORAD and so on. Which is how dad ended up a marine biologist, I guess. I don't know about professor. I'm not very good at professing."
     She looks actually a bit embarrassed. She has no idea what she's going to do with her life after school - and school is a very effective way of putting it off indefinitely. "I don't know your musical style, but the Keys are more ... Jimmy Buffet and reggaeton than anything, really. You should try Cape Town, or Perth. But those're a bit far from New York and Austin. Just a regular rolling stone, aren't you?"

     "A working musician," he answers. "I might have to get a bag like yours, if you can get a whole caravan in it. I'll need that," he smiles to you. "It's probably bad enough that I have brothers, yes. Though little Ani's a good boy. I don't think he's going to give the world any trouble. Gruffydd and I?" He chuckles and smiles that smile. It's a killer. It's a charmer. It's a real disarmer.
     Gruffydd and Balthazar. His parents must be hippies to give their children such unusual names.
     "Well, even though you don't need me to pay your tab, it's a bit of a family tradition to not allow lovely ladies to pay for their own drinks, even if it's just soda. And you're welcome to work, of course. I will be too," he grins. "I might have to visit Perth one of these days. Not sure about Cape Town. I think I'd burn to a crisp. But we'll see. I expect we'll be based in London. I'll probably have to tour quite a bit, say six months, spend the rest of the time writing and recording. We're still without representation, but I'm hoping to change that shortly. Every night is a new opportunity. That sounds a bit Hallmark, right?" He chuckles to himself and finishes his Guinness.
     A finger raised calls the waitress back. He looks to his tablemate. "Anything else for the now, Miss West? Another soda? Another Guinness for me, Bev. And please add whatever Miss West here wants to my tab at the bar. I'm also in for Reggie."
     "Sure, 'Zar." And she looks to you. Anything else?

     "You never know. I might not stick to soda." Gillian's smile widens - she is charmed by you, although she's aware of your charm and treats it with a small amount of respect. Only a small amount. She still thinks she's safe enough. "But I won't bankrupt you. Or I'll try not to."
     She stands - she's about five-seven or eight in those boots. She slides her bag over her shoulder, picking up her jacket but not pulling it on. "The trick is to pace yourself. I mean, look at me. Do I look burned to a crisp? And I'm fair enough. You develop a tolerance, over time; you just can't rush it too much. But then, I've always loved the ocean too much to avoid the sun. It's in our blood, us Wests."
     She grins at you, prepared to follow you - maybe not quite anywhere, but to the band's table, at least. "If there's one thing I haven't liked about England so far, it's that you just don't get the right kind of waves here. But Maddie's talking about Oahu for spring break, or maybe graduation. Who knows? Maybe I'll run into you there."

     "Send a drink menu to the table, Bev," he notes, rising with a smile.
     "Brilliant," Bev says with a smile. She gives a bit of an appraising look to the American girl heading to the band's table. "Your Guinness'll be there."
     Standing, he is next to you, about four inches taller and he's in flat Converse. Balthazar pivots, and his hand barely skims the air at your back, but it is enough for the static to pass between you. "We're over there," he notes quietly. "Near the corner. I'll have them bring you a few extra tea lights so you don't go blind like Milton, squinting at your homework in the dark."
     There are people crowding everywhere, and where he goes, they all look. There is a buzz and a charge, not merely between you, but between everyone and him. And he guides you to the corner. It's not roped off, but there are three tables marked reserved. One table is full already, with a smattering of band member's wives and girlfriends. The drummer, Charlie, and now Reggie (the bassist) too.
     "Everyone, this is Gillian West. Gillian, this is everyone. We'll do the more formals after the break," Balthazar smiles as he leads you past that table to the adjacent one, yet empty. There a Guinness rests beside a menu. He waits, still standing, as his hand lightly touches your back in the unspoken, universal sign for Go ahead. "Oahu," he says near your ear. "I have heard of that. Hawaii, right? I'd like to go there. Have you been to Ibiza? I'm not much for the party scene, but I love the beach and ocean too. Course, I am an islander. It's just a bit of a cold island is all. Not tropical, Britain."

     There's a hint of color in her cheeks, and it isn't just bronze. You have a way of making her feel special; the electricity is both noticed and noted. "I think I have a flashlight on one of my keychains, but I'll gladly accept all the help I can get. I wouldn't look at all attractive if I went blind." You know Milton, too. Hmm...
     She suffers to be led, that beautiful smile turned on people as you give the general introduction. There's a hint of nervousness, though it's concealed fairly well. "Hi there." Gillian smiles, head tilting a little as you murmur to her, as she sinks into her seat. "I haven't ever been to Ibiza, no. I don't mind cold oceans. But there are some things you just only get in the tropics. If you're in Hawaii when I am... well, maybe I'll show you, and maybe I won't."

     "You'd still be attractive. You just wouldn't be a good narcissist," he smiles as he settles beside you. You can see from this angle that there is a stage area, and one of the reasons it is crowded is that there's some amount of square footage that's been eaten up by it. But not a single seat is vacant at this point, and the standing room only availability is shrinking. Balthazar twists in his seat, motioning to Bev, who's switched stations. Maybe she's the bands personal waitress. Probably easier to manage tabs that way.
     "Could we get, say, three of the little red tea lights? And whatever Miss West would like to drink. I'm good until the break." He's got to cut back now. Whatever else he may be, he is at the very least a professional.
     "I never noticed the water in Ibiza being cold," he says in rumination, almost to himself in fact. As Bev nods on the tea lights, he leans in and says in your ear: "Make sure to give me your number. How else will I find you in Hawaii? Or is your plan to lose me?" He chuckles and let's you order away. As you do, he takes a minute to take stock of the stage. Guitars are being set up. The kits are all there. His guitar is a red-and-gold burnished beauty, with high gloss. It is electrified, but is a hybrid between acoustic an electric unit. Specially made, a custom piece like no one else's.
     Literally.

     Oh, what the heck. "A Lady 52," Gillian answers demurely. "But just one. My limit." She puts her bag down on the edge of the table, pulling her chair in further. "Well, maybe sometime I'll get to Ibiza to find out for myself. I guess there must not be many sharks there. At least, dad and mumsie never dragged us out that way."
     You lean in, and she turns to answer you, taking a moment to watch you as you examine the stage. "I might give you my number. Haven't quite decided yet. Can't blame a girl for that, can you? I wouldn't want to give you the wrong impression, though. Us lady historians have to be careful." She touches the coral strand around her neck absently. "How long's your set?"

     "Right," Bev says, "... it'll be just a moment."
     He grins, and quiet laughter tickles from him. He doesn't blame you. That much is evident. But he'll take the Not Sure as a de facto Yes. For now. "I don't blame you," he grins again. "As history is wont to point out, and you would be more an expert than I, discretion is the better part of valor."
     He looks to you. A slight turn of the head is all it takes. "It's an hour and half. Two long sets, a break, a short set, a break and an encore set, which is presumptive -- but they're expected these days. We wrap up by midnight. Do you have any tests in the morning? A paper you're going to miss?"
     Balthazar glances to the coral strands at your throat, then glances to the stage. The drink appears, and then the tea lights. They cast a scarlet hue as they're lit. "This'll make for a nice focal point," he notes. "We perform all original tunes, with the exception of one song that they make us play at the encore since it gave rise to the band's name. But it makes Vampire Weekend happy. They get a cut, so it's all fair in war and music. Alright, you have me curious. What's a Lady 52?"
     He gestures to your drink. It allows him to look at the coral around your neck again.

     The coral is square-cut - almost masculine-looking, white coral on white string, fastened in the back by a silver lobster-claw clasp. It sits high, not quite choker but close-fitting. "No tests." Gillian looks amused again. "I'm studying for my master's. Means some lectures, but not classes, as such. Surprised?" She does look young to be working on her master's. Or maybe she's older than she looks.
     She takes a sip of her drink, giving you a long, thoughtful look under her eyelashes. "All's fair," she agrees. "Hmm. Here, try it. I'm not going to tell you - you can stand a sip, I think, and if you like it or not, it'll tell you more about me than otherwise. That is," she adds with an air of deliberation, "if that's how much you want to learn. As I said. A girl has to be careful. She slides her drink towards you, and her hand comes away from it, lifting instead to touch the coral strand.

     "Master's at Oxford. Very impressive. I really shouldn't play trivia games with you then. Duly noted," he chuckles. "Unless you're on my team. Then I'm all in for it. So what's your thesis? Started that yet or is it a bit soon?" Young overachievers aren't that unusual for him; for him, it is rather normal. And while he is nowhere near your level of knowledge in history, he is obviously well-educated and likely from a well-to-do family. Class is still prevalent in England and nowhere more than in the accent. You'd be able to tell straight away if he was from the wrong side of the roundabout.
     You offer ... is it the fourth?...challenge of the night. He gives a look to the drink and then to you. The bull can't resist the wave of the red cape. Looking at you, Balthazar raises the glass. He takes a little sniff and then he takes a little sip. He then gives it, and you, some consideration. It is not a White Russian, but there are common elements. "Cointreau... Kahlua. There's some cream and chocolate and something else behind it. A bit deeper but that part's a bit muddled to me. What does it tell me?" He sets the glass back down on the table and with a finger on the glass scoots it back to you.
     "It is exotic. Sweet. Rich. And complex. And, I think, an accurate statement." You want to be careful. A girl has to be careful. As he leans back to settle in his seat, you come to realize how close he is truly sitting. There is static there again. "How did I do?"

     She watches you as you take the glass, watches you intently as you take your sip. There's that hint of color in her cheeks again; the flare of interest that she's trying her best to tamp down. Too soon, to be interested; too soon, to take things seriously. She is a serious girl, though, even if with a playful streak. She pushes her glasses resolutely up the bridge of her nose. "Still working out the specifics. I entered a placeholder thesis for the scholarship - I had to prove that I deserved it, to be studying at Oxford, and that it should go to me into someone else. It's one of those limited scholarships, they only give it out to one person every year, though it lasts between two and four years or so, depending."
     She leans forward a little, folding her forearms along the edge of the table and sinking her chin down onto her wrists where they cross, listening with a smaller smile right now. "Not bad," Gillian murmurs as she looks at you, sitting up again in a hurry. "You only missed one thing, and it was a bit of a trick question, really. Irish cream for the mystery ingredient." She looks as if she might say something more, but instead, she crosses her ankles and takes her glass back for a quick swallow. "...You do realize I'm only going to keep it up, don't you."

     "If I weren't constantly challenged, I'm not sure I would know what to do. All conversations are a matter of truth or dare." He smiles to you. "I will pass some, and fail some, I'm sure. How am I doing so far? I have...what would you say? A low A? A respectable B? It's a lovely drink," Balthazar says. "Lady Cinquante-Deux." Fifty-two in French.
     "Then you can stay for the full set," he says. "No thesis due tomorrow. No test, no paper." No easy excuses then. He grins at that.
     "What time is it, by the way?" There is an energy rising around him, and so it is also around you. It is not nervousness, but excitement -- a variety of levels and types. He feeds off of it as much as he generates it. What passes between you just adds fuel to it. His leg begins to bounce, and his ears become crowded with music-to-be.

     "Grades are not tabulated until a minimum of the middle of the term, Mister Davies. I'm afraid you'll just need to wait." Gillian smiles at you, and it is an almost naughty smile, the color rising in her cheeks. "Peut-etre je resterai pour l'exposition entiere et peut-etre pas. Je pourrais avoir un autre essai pour vous... Monsieur."
     She folds back her sleeve to check her watch - a slim, expensive watch for a slim, well-kept wrist. Lady's Rolex, discreet diamond chip. She looks out of place, doesn't she? She feels it. But she resonates, all the same, keeping her eyes at least a little bit on you with that pink in her cheeks. "Just going on twenty to. You should probably tune your guitar." Her mouth quivers expressively. "Or whatever they call it."

     He smiles again and leaning back he says next to your ear: "Je ne doute pas de que vous faites, Madame Cinquante-Deux. Si vous etes vrai a votre nom, j'ai quarante-huit essais supplementaires a aller." Balthazar leans back further, turning his attention to the next table. "Twenty minutes, Reggie. Shall we go up in fifteen?"
     "We're tuned," Reggie says, he's standing behind you. He's brown-haired and English. "Hi," he offers and then he looks to his bandmate. "We're alright for ten, I think. Then I'll head up first with Charlie." His hand gives Balthazar's shoulder a shake and he disappears behind the nearby curtain.
     "A few more minutes then. Alright." His leg bounces with a purpose, a higher energy level. And when he looks at you, his eyes are bright even though their color can't be seen in the lowered lighting. "Mais qui est de dire que vous etes la seule personne qui peut questionner?" Balthazar grins, his French all but native. He winks. "Okay," he says at your ear, "I can't sit still right now." And he won't be able to for the rest of the night. "It won't be deBussy, but I hope you like it." It's a good as a kiss for good luck, the proximity of his mouth to your ear. "I'll be back in about thirty minutes."
     Standing, he places an arm on the chair behind you and then bends down. "Mind ordering me another beer and a fish and chips?"

     She smiles to Reggie, the same welcoming smile that Americans seem to give almost everyone - the smile with the hint of hopefulness, of let's be friends. "Hi," Gillian echoes, lifting a hand in a little wave. She takes another small sip of her drink, smile turned for a moment onto you. Her gaze flickers to the stage, then to over her shoulder, to the increasingly jam-packed pub and its variations on a theme in the form of its occupants.
     Reggie goes, and she turns her gaze to you again, glass lowering to rest against her thigh. For a moment, the golden tan takes on a roseate note; rose gold, supplementing her hair, especially in this light and with the red flickering dancing of the tea lights. "Then lay on, Macduff," she answers you, as lightly as if it were nothing. Her eyes glint over the rims of her glasses, though. Challenge accepted.
     Your mouth moves to her ear, and she has to work to hold herself still; it's that unexpected. "Sure," Gillian murmurs. "Er. Break a leg. I'll order for you, no problem." She lifts her hand self-consciously to her cheek, to rub her ear. "I won't run screaming into the night just yet, Balthazar Davies. Go on. Go to your ... night job."
     "If you do, make sure to scribble your number on a napkin, yeah?" And with that, he's stepping away.
     As the crowd sees the tall, red-haired beacon that is Balthazar Davies rise and begin to move stage-ward, the bar suddenly transforms to a concert venue. The lights dim until the only illumination comes from the little tea lights on the tabletops. Rhythmic clapping begins. No, it is no coincidence that the pub is this crowded. It's not the average crowd. They are at capacity. There's even a bouncer at the door now, to hold back any barbarians at the gates...
     By the time you see him again, truly see him, there is a flash of light and a flash of sound. Upbeat, brilliant, musically complex but with a touch of whimsy. When you see him next, he's not Balthazar Davies the electrician bull-shitter, but Balthazar Davies, lead singer of London's hottest group: Oxford Comma. When the light hits him, he is beautiful. And he's large. He plays it like a stadium, though the stage is small.

     She smiles a bit quizzically. Gilly girl, what have you gotten yourself into? She watches you go, she looks around again, and she motions to Bev the waitress. She places the order - and at the same time, asks for a telephone directory to be brought to the table. It's probably not the oddest thing that's been ever asked for. Probably.
     She's only just begun to flip through the directory when you take the stage. Her chin jerks up slightly, and there's a blush that creeps up into her cheeks as she watches. Gillian glances over her shoulder at the crowd again, then back to the stage thoughtfully. There's a sort of war of thoughts within her; she comes to some decision, something within her. But she doesn't go; not yet. Not until shortly before the end of the final set, waiting even through the intermission, watching you with an oddly troubled, thoughtful expression.
     And when you do come back after your set? She's gone. But she's left something behind for you. It's one of her boots - size 6 1/2 - with a roughly sketched but still recognizable lion, with a note beneath the sketch.
     It occurs to me that this might be a jerk sort of thing to do, giving you your next test so soon, but I thought about it and I'd be more of a jerk NOT to. If you understand, well ... let's see what you do about it? After all, the worst that might happen is you'll be a jerk, too. In which case I'm out of a boot, and I really like this pair.
     By the way ... nice set. I give it an A+.
     Lady 52

Posted by rowan at February 07, 2009 08:44 PM