So, here comes a young lady, very much different in appearance from the last time she showed up at Davy's, with blood in her eye and swearing vengeance upon Davydd for the changes wrought in her. Her hair's still blonde, but right now, she's got it coiffed neatly - a shining twist of slippery straight pale locks piled up onto her head as a crown. A silk blouse starts purple and gradually fades out to white as the colour moves down her torso - it's paired off with a closely tailored black skirt, snug over the hips and thighs, shadowy stockings embroidered with little butterflies at the ankles, and a pair of well-fitted black heels.
Entering and sliding off her jacket as she does, the newest (and youngest) editor for the UK version of Interview looks around, debating on where to sit, and finally nonchalantly goes straight to the bar. No point being shy this late in the game. "Yes, could I get a half-pint of cider, please? Sweet, not dry. And have you got a menu?"
Kelly's not "on tap" tonight as they say, which is unusual, but the man has to have a night off sometime, doesn't he? Tonight, the Girls are in charge. There's Bonnie Belle, and yes that is her real name, as tender supreme tonight. As head server, there's Rhonda, yet another Welsh girl. Both have flame-red hair, same as Davydd himself (though his is actually more bronze, truth be told), small up-turned noses (they could be his daughters), freckles (someone should do blood tests), high cheekbones. where they differ is eye color. One girl is brown, the other green.
"Oh sure," Bonnie says with the flash of a smile, dimpled at that. "Half-pint it is, and would you like it dry or sweet, luv?"
Rhonda fishes out a menu and holds it out to you -- she was on her way to the kitchen. "We have a few specials tonight. The ploughman's, mostly fruit, cheese and bread. The usual shepherd's pie for the tourists, but we also have Welsh rarebit tonight," bit of a rabbit dish, isn't that? "The rest is as it always is. Have a seat where you like... "
It's certain she thinks she recognizes you. It's just as certain that she's not sure...
Well, the last time she was here, she was a tatterdemalion of piercings and tattoos and wild blonde hair who ended up slung over Davydd's shoulder as he hauled her over for a little chat in a booth, so it's perhaps not too shocking that they don't recognize her. It makes her smile a bit, in fact, a crease developing at one corner of her mouth.
"Sweet," she repeats with more patience than anyone'd have thought she had, at the Gory, "I'll try the rarebit, then, thanks kindly." And she settles in at a seat where she's got a good view of the stage and of the bar. Puts her back to the door, but then ... she's not avoiding anyone now, is she? To herself, she mutters as she goes, "There's something to razz Davydd about, oh yes."
And have you seen him... excited enough to see the freckles across his small upturned nose? Doubtful. They only come out when he's pissed, sexed or sunburned...
Rhonda nods and smiles a sunny smile. "I was just on my way to the kitchens so I'll put your order in..." And with that she heads to the back, to do just that...
The tap is tapped and a half-pint of sweet cider is poured for you. A nice healthy glass, no short-sheeting here. Bonnie gives her trademark wink and wipes her hand on her apron as the waitress picks it up.
It's Young Heather who brings it over to you. A waitress younger than you, most likely, willowy creature with blonde hair and grey eyes.
"Here's your half-pint... would you be needing anything else? A bit of grazing?" Appetizers, she means. "Oh, there's music planned for an hour or so... you've got a great seat..." She grins.
Fiona laughs. "Oh, wonderful. Always nice when it works out that way. Mmm, that depends, I've ordered the rarebit. How likely is it to fill me up?" Not that she really has to watch her weight, she's far too hyperactive for her own good. No point in wasting food, though...
"What sort of music could I expect?", she asks, curious as she accepts the half-pint. "Good, I hope, but anything?"
"Well, we were hoping for Our Usual," Davydd, "...but he's been incognito lately. But we have a new act, a woman. She's big in folk circles," she doesn't know if you'd know that circle or not. Her name is Helena Rhys, she's out of Cardiff..." Another Welsh import. They're coming out of the woodwork. They're everywhere!
Heather leans her weight to her right hip, standing a bit cocked with her hand on her hip, idly placed. "I think she primarily does traditional folk, a bit more hauting. Like Loreena McKinnet, if you've heard of her. Anyway," she smiles and waves her hand, afraid she's gabbing too much, like usual, "... hope that helps. I'll be right back with a water and will check on your rarebit now..."
The pub's a touch on the quiet side, but it's midweek and folks are just starting to filter in from work. Happy hour hasn't kicked in proper-like, not to its usual fervor anyway. But there are a few fine lads already about, if you've a mind for shopping...
"Thank you." Heather's sent off with a brief smile, and Fiona looks around. She's not much into Loreena McKinnet, though her musical choices always have secretly ranged further than the angry punk bands she publicly was seen with. She takes a sip of her cider, slowly relaxing... well, inasmuch as she'll ever relax, which still isn't that much. Appearances.
She revels a bit in the relative quiet. After working hard all day lining up ducks to be shot at, and shooting down other people's ducks, there's a wealth of comfort in that brief silence. Fiona lets her gaze drift about, and linger...
Of course, she can't help but appraise her fellow patrons, even if the wary part of her that urges 'constant vigilance!' hasn't fully died yet, only a single flame to its name. And there's that lingering suspicion, too - that 'normal' just won't do - but she can window shop, surely?
You thought I forgot didn't you...
Well, how could you. You don't even know I exist. But here I am, sitting across from you in your both, looking from my dimension to yours, plane to plane, like Alice through the looking glass. You don't see me smile.
The door opens and I feel the one moving through it, like a drumming of fingers at my temple. If I had a temple in this form...
Ships passing in the night, I think they call it. Maybe you will signal with flare. Maybe ships will come together with cannons, broadside encounters, or maybe the captains will merely lift their hands and wave. We never know, we can only make the waves lift, the wind shift and hold the clouds for a moment at bay...
...He's pretty non-descript. He's not Lancelot or Galahad or The Blue Man or the Embodiment of Lust. He has a kind of hipster quality. Not goth or punk but more like mod. His coffee brown hair is short overall, but the top's long, sort of one of those shaggy mop-top like 'do's. He's wearing a brown corduroy jacket, fleece-lined though, over an olive-green turtleneck. The trousers are loose wool numbers. He looks like he played soccer once, or maybe he still does, but he's a wiry poet sort of guy. Like Dylan only good looking.
Maybe you don't even notice him. Maybe it wouldn't matter if you did. Maybe the ships are supposed to pass in the night. It's up to you.
The dice are squarely in your hand...
Fiona's expression is fairly skeptical. Not bad, but ... well, she suddenly bursts into a fit of almost uncontrollable giggles, thinking of what Dot would say. The scathing criticisms, followed by the shrewd assessment, followed by 'oh, well, why not, after all' - followed, quite likely, by the fellow finding a Dot in his lap...
Still, why not, after all? Huw's gone a-wandering, Hwyll hasn't been seen in ages anyway, and neither Davydd nor William are around (and she's not entirely sure she wants to see them, really, after the last time). But she's got to do something, to keep from becoming stagnant, dull, weary and, well, bored. She offers the man a pleasant smile, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. Maybe he'll think she's crazy, but - well, quite probably, she is.
Nothing is without risk. Not life. Not love. Not even death. What is lost in the chance of a smile? In the chance of love? In faith? Nothing. Nothing is lost in it...
Besides, this chap's real...
I think...
But the way these things work, the other ship has to notice the wave...
Emrys Pierce is sailing by on yet another evening of "doing his own thing", which usually consists of him drinking, smoking and writing. Sometimes here, sometimes on a bridge, sometimes in his studio apartment. He usually shrugs his way in not saying a lot to anyone really, but he doesn't look down to the ground or anything. He has confidence, you know...
Emrys was on his way past your both when he caught what he thought was a smile. He turns, slowing a half step, and he smiles back. It's pleasant enough. He's not ruddy like Mars Llywelyn. He's not as dark as William. He's not burgundy and unbelievable like Huw. But he's not bad. "... da," he says in shorthand for good evening/good day, and he starts to head to a booth or table.
"..'allo, Emrys," Bonnie calls out. "Your usual, lad?"
"Ah... yeah, yeah," he says, twisting distracted. "Anyone good on tonight...?"
"It's that lovely lassie Helena. She's a good one. It's ladies' night at Davy's apparently..." And she laughs at that. "I'll bring it on over. Usual table?"
Well, listening works, certainly, and as a reporter, she's done her share of that. Not that anyone'd recognize her now... In a way, that's probably one of the biggest downsides, of not being a punk anymore. Part of her definitely did like the attention it got, of being different, of that difference showing on the outside, the angry badge. But, c'est la vie, as they say, and she's certainly not going to assault the chap. Well ... maybe his sensibilities, later ... maybe not.
At the greeting, she responds, accept that upper class, well-bred Oxonion vowel. "Good evening." Well, he's moving on, and she doesn't quite know whether to look disappointed or not. But she's still new at this, and isn't going to hold him up.
Instead, Fiona lifts up her shoulderbag, and takes out proofs for the magazine, and glossies, an array of potential material that makes only a chaotic sort of sense, massaging her temples as she looks at it for a moment. She can bring order out of chaos, but wasn't she planning on taking the night off? She's so bloody bad at resisting such things. "Bollocks," she says aloud, reverting to a Drancyism.
"Well actually, someone's sitting in my usual spot..." Emrys rings back and he twists back to you, just in time to hear you say 'bollocks' and unpack your bag. You just became interesting. "Do you mind if I take up a part of it... it's sort of a tradition here on Wednesday nights..."
The 'snakebite' is poured -- half Guinness, half cider -- and Bonnie sets it down beside him, waving him away when he goes to pay it. "I know where you'll be. I'll come 'round later..." and Emrys lifts it, sips it, nods his approval to it and then looks squarely to you. His eyes are blue, kind of a smoky blue-grey. Kind of odd. Noticeable. Strange. Peculiar. Maybe that appeals to you.
"Emrys," he says, reaching forward with his left hand as he holds his drink in his right. He's left-handed, most likely. "I'm the local riff-raff. And you?" Riff-raff he may be, but he's well dressed and speaks well.
A startled look - she forgot, she slipped. Oops. Oh well. Fiona scoops papers up again, out of the way, and smiles. "Not at all. I'm unlikely to fully appreciate the music on my own, anyway, it's not at all what I'm used to."
She extends her hand to accept it, her own eyes a curious crystalline green at the moment - they shift as much as ever, capricious in ways she never shows on the surface. "Fiona. Call me Fifi and die horribly." But it's said with another smile, and her shake is firm, but light. "Not terribly local, I've only been here once before, but I'm a Londoner."
"Not by birth, but by association," he says of himself and he slides into the booth. "Nice to meet you, Fiona, and rest assured, I've no desire to commit suicide. So... you're not a big weepy celtic voice fan? Can't say I am either. If I'm going to listen to that, I'm more likely to play Belle & Sebastian. But my tastes don't run toward the listless and willowy. How about yours?"
As he settles in, he begins unloading his pockets. A small, well-used leather journal. A pen. A pack of cigarettes, cloves (natch), a lighter, and a small pile of pounds, which he tosses out on his table in way of setting up for his tab. And paying for your next drink. He takes a healthy swallow.
And wouldn't you know it, your rarebit's here...
Heather smiles to you, then chitchats with Emrys for a moment. He's a regular, it seems. "Hey, we were beginning to wonder if we'd see you. No sign of Davy-bach. I thought you were going to play with him this week..."
"Well, I was," a glance to you briefly, as if you should know, "...but he's popped off, not answering his cell. Not sure what nicked him. But I'm still game. I think I've the balls to stand up there as well as any man." He looks to you again. "Poetry reading to a pub full of fresh-from-work stiffs and drunk wankers, I must be mad. Do you mind if I light up?"
Heather sits your food down in front of you, glances to Emrys then wonders, "Do you need anything else, miss?"
"No, go ahead, I don't mind." Davy-back? Well, maybe it's the same one. Maybe not. Not like Davy is an uncommon name, after all... She waves a hand in Emrys' direction, giving her consent, while at the same time raising her eybrows in a look of relative innocence.
Who, me? I should know who they mean, what he's up to? Even if it is the same one ... well, he's not in my back pocket, no.
"Actually, your cider's delicious." Maybe she needs to get just the slightest bit pissed, to forget about work, and things. "Could you bring me another - a full pint, this time?" Oh, yes, Fiona will be merry.
Turning back to Emrys, finally answering the first, last, with a slightly bemused look at Belle & Sebastian. "Well, my tastes vary rather a bit, but I'm not into affected goth boys or girls, if that's what you're asking me." Mentally, she runs through - Hwyll, no, Huw, no, Davydd, no, William, no, Dei, no ... no, no listless and willowy youths among them. No youths, really, but that's not really the point. "Musically, mostly I've tended to listen to rather ... well, we'll not go into that, you wouldn't believe me."
He lights up, he blows smoke away from you and then he smiles. "Death metal, right? A little Ozzy Osbourne or Black Sabbath..." No, he's wrong, but in many ways he's dead on. You're into what you don't SEEM to be into, aren't you...
Heather nods to Fiona and looks across to Emrys. "Ploughman's and another black and tan, aye?"
"Aye," he says with a smile and a nod, "...that sounds like me. And I sound predictable, don't I. Usual booth, usual drink, usual dinner..."
Heather smiles and heads off...
"... but while they seem that way," Emrys continues, leaning back, "...it's more a matter of ritual, less routine." As if he's had to explain this before. It's said so matter-of-factly. "Once the altar's prepared," a gesture to the table, "I'm free to worship my personal demon." A glance to his journal.
"And what do you do, Miss Fiona? If you don't mind my asking..."
A brief smile, almost impish, and she shakes her head. It's on the tip of her tongue to correct him with Lady Fiona, but, well, it's never impressed her, so why should it impress him?
"Not too far off," she tells him. "A bit more anarchic, though." She picks up her cider, and pulls her plate a bit closer, sniffing appreciatively at the rarebit. "I've almost given up on predictions, having no taste for crystal balls or horoscopes. What personal demon's that?"
She notes, but doesn't register, the glance to the journal, and then hesitates on how to answer that. "I've just changed jobs, actually. I used to be a reporter for a few magazines." True enough, if not very informative. "Now I'm an editor for one."
"Fancy that," he mulls out, clove cigarette bouncing as he speaks, and he leans in. "I'm a writer, myself. Not published though. What magazine?" Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and apparently he's not the shy type. He flicks off the dead ash and holds your gaze. He looks directly, without fear of rejection or fear of anything really.
That sort of answers the journal question, doesn't it?
Emrys pauses to let you answer and while he does he takes up his snakebite, or black and tan, and takes a healthy swallow of it. Breakfast. Mm-mm-good.
Heather comes sailing by with a plate of cheeses, bread, grapes, apples and a bit of ham and sausage, setting it down around Emrys. And then with a lean in, sets down your new cider and a water, as promised earlier. She lets you get settled with your food and your drink and without additional chit-chat heads to another table.
"Currently, or previously?" Counter a question with a question, but she doesn't wait for the answer, a slight grin on her face again. "I'm currently swimming with the sharks." Fiona names the magazine, though she seems unimpressed with her own youthful raise in status.
"What sort of things d'you write about, or is it less about than of?" She offers Heather another smile as the waitress passes, taking the opportunity to finish off her first cider. Then she takes the plunge.
"And Davy-bach - he wouldn't happen to be Davydd, oh, about so high, bronze-y hair, blue dragons?"
"It varies. Short stories, poetry. Modern fiction. I'm trying to get a play produced at the moment. It's not exactly Cats or Les Miz, so money's a bit hard to come by, but I think I'm getting close to finding a reliable backer. You know... since we ended up at the same table and share the same field, more or less, maybe you'd take a look at some of it, see if you can use it. Your mag publishes the odd bit of modern short fiction. Or maybe at least a review." He grins. Hey, when you're unpublished, you have to work it.
Emrys stamps out his cigarette and looks up at you as you mention Davydd. "Yeah, The Regular. Well, the Semi Regular these nights. Why d' you ask?" Then you see the thought cross his face. You're his girlfriend or sommat, aren't you...
He pulls a bit of bread, spreads on a little white cheese and begins eating.
That would make her laugh. Her, Davydd's girlfriend? Ha. She utters an almost Drancy-like snort. "Just wondered if it were the same one, is all. I know him a bit."
"I could take a look, sure, though my department isn't fiction," Fiona admits. "I handle culture and travel - nonfictional stuff. But I could try to get it in."
She starts working her way through her rarebit as she talks, arranging the glasses of drinks ahead of her plate with a brief glance to the Cartier watch on her wrist. Early enough, still.
"That's all I would ever ask of anyone," just a shot. Just a read or a look. Give it a chance to stand on its own merit. He may seem a bit rough around the edges, in that hipster poet sort of way, but he eats like a true gentleman. And he seems a little relieved that he's not trying to mac on another man's, particularly that man's, woman.
Or maybe he has his own interests...
Emrys doesn't seem shocked, however, that you know him. Davydd must get around. "I've been threatening to join him on stage for two years. I can't play music worth a lick, and god knows I'm no singer, but I narrate and act, well... I'm not half bad," and his accent certainly is fetching, in the lilting Welsh way. "He hangs out in poet circles, that's how I met him. Hell... he's the one who associated me with this place...so... anyhoo..." Not to chat up Davydd.
"Maybe you could give me your phone number... office or otherwise, and I can get you something presentable, not out of a scribbled in book. Or if you wanted to go get some coffee, my flat's right above the cafe on Coventry..." One of the new ones. Artsy area.
Fiona smiles faintly. "I can sing, a bit." Isabel once sang through her, fit to bring the house down. Not a dry eye in the place. Not that she remembers it, and it was her voice, not Isabel's being used nonetheless.
"I met him ... a while back. I can't say we're friends, exactly, but I don't think we're enemies, either." Not exactly... And the last two times were distinctly awkward. She vaguely remembers maybe trying to pinch his bum, too - or was that William's?
"Sure, it'll have to be my office, though. I'm in the process of moving, and while I don't have an awful lot of stuff, you know how the tel co tends to be." She tilts her head. Coffee. "That wouldn't be by that old church converted into an art gallery, would it?"
He nods while he chews. A swallow of bread and cheese, chased by a grape, washed down by Guinness and cider. "Nearby, yeah... down Coventry just a bit, there's another cafe, not the one in the gallery, anyway, I live above that. New flats just opened up. Mine's small enough you can stand in the center of it and touch all the walls..." He's exaggerating. Most likely. Though probably not by much.
"They're newish. Well, refurbished, nothing in London is new," he cracks with a smile. "But yeah... nice location, close proximity to a few pub's, nightclubs, art gallery, warehouse studios, artists and it's kind of a flourishing area of writers, actually. Rent's fairly cheap, course... the flats are small..."
She's just moved from her previous relatively tiny apartment to something rather larger - she might have to do entertaining on occasion, now, after all. "Stale flat, unprofitable?" Fiona says it with as much of a straight face as she can manage.
"So all right, you write. What do you -want- to be writing, though, that you're not?" Some instincts never die, and hers are a combination of reporter's and something ... mystical, that moves under her skin and comes out through the pores, through her eyes. Maybe that's what causes the pin holding her hair in place to give up the ghost, falling into her rarebit and sending the long tresses down. With an exclamation of annoyance, she picks up the pin, checking to see if it can be salvaged.
"I don't want to be famous. I'm not looking to be Stephen King or Tom Clancy. I do it, primarily because I'm compelled to, but as for goals, my first is to have -something- published, and then build that -something- toward a steady living, either by freelance, published playright. To me, the ... form that writing takes is not as important. Do I want to be a reporter? No, I don't. It's not my bag. Would I like to have a short work of fiction published or serialized in a magazine, sure. Freelance writing to pay the bills. My focus is short fiction and drama. I mean, that's what I would prefer to do, given my choice. I may venture a teleplay or screenplay in the next year or so...but it depends on how the play goes..."
He watches your tresses unravel and has to admit a momentary distraction. "There's a bit of ... sauce ..." and he gestures to the end of your hair. Flaxen as it is. Emrys looks to his plate and slices another bit of cheese for another piece of bread.
"Hnh? Oh. Bollocks," Fiona mutters again, wiping the sauce from her hair and tipping her chair back a bit. It's a bit difficult to manage, which is why she'd been keeping it tied back and up in the first place. "I should hack it all off again," she grumbles. "Not that it'd help for long..."
Holding her hair back with one hand, she bends forward to rummage in her bag for a rubber band, a paper clip, anything which can be improvised into a hair tie. "Well, I meant less about type and more about topic, but ... I understand if it's a bit personal. You don't after all know me very well, do you..." Unless there's something I've not noticed...
"Oh... aye well," he shrugs and chuckles, "... it varies. No fantasy. No elves. Every day life, somewhat," he mulls, drawing the word out, "...autobiographical. London. Cardiff. The differences. Quasi political." A Welsh freedom poet. Well, no wonder he and Davydd crossed paths.
"It looks good long, personally not enough women have long hair these days. Not that you have to keep it long on my account. Who am I but some wanker writer you met over a drink at Davy's, right?" Emrys laughs quietly and picks at his food.
"I bemoan love a lot, I'm a bit bitter about the whole thing, so it's a bit sardonic. Peppered with delightful words like 'fuck' to make up for the sheer lack of fucking I do...how's that for personal." And he downs his drink. "I don't really have a lot of internal dialog," he mentions. "I think that's why I do it, really. To find my conscience."
"Having a conscience is a vile thing to suffer through," she says absently, twisting the rubber band around her hair in a snug ponytail, albeit one of unusual length. "I used to be political, but I ... got out of it, a bit. Got tired of having to run away with people trying to arrest me." The downside of the punk movement.
"Aye well... it's the curse of the downtrodden," Emrys offers grandly.
Posted by rowan at June 06, 2003 08:59 PM
