The evening crowd at Davy's has already well established itself, pulling on towards 10pm. But, corporate girls can't be expected to try and pull away from work any time sooner, so when Rose Caermichael rang up Fiona to meet up for a tip or two, it seemed the way to go. And where else would make sense, but Black Jack Davy's, since, of course, the topic of conversation could likely not end up being anyone else once things get going.
     Of course, it doesn't hurt that the simple fact that she's walking through the door after the better part of recent memory. The former regular performances still remembered by long time customers and bar girls alike. She is, obviously, not performing tonight or probably any other night for some time, however.
     Black woolen trousers and a cerulean blue blouse that may in fact have been literally dyed to match her eyes allow her to at once blend in, and stand out. Which, the regulars would tell you, is the normal fare for Rosamund. Obviously couture, obviously tailored, and obviously entirely Rose. Not wanting to make too much of a stir (early on at least) she's picked up the back corner booth along with a pitcher. And for anyone just passing through, she looks like any other young lady waiting to meet up with someone for the evening.

     At first there was the vague sense of 'who?' Fiona's memory did eventually kick in, leaving her to flounder while making polite noises at first. Davy's? Well, all right. Kelly'll likely be surprised to see her back so soon, but hardly complaining, even if it's not a 'singing' night. And let's face it, work's a bitch and a half, a drink to unwind before going home (ALONE) to her bed wouldn't be unpleasant.
     Fiona's made a recent stir at Davy's with her singing, which may be why she's made a point of not dressing like she did the last time. More likely, the last time was her performance clothing and now it's her work clothing; she's recognizable even at a distance, though, the cornsilk hair perhaps the most immediate thing about her - well, its length, at least, and the colour which Clairol had nothing to do with. It's been braided intricately, smaller braids hung with glass beads pulled back into a larger main braid, small knots tied into some of the strands, as if part of the overall pattern. For clothing, she's got on a pair of - how prosaic - designer jeans, paired with a white silk shirt and a dark green vest that's stitched around the hem with silver thread. A brown leather jacket is loose on her shoulders, protection from the elements, and a laptop case is slung over one shoulder.
     Looking around, she almost doesn't spot the booth; it's been a while. Quite a bit of water under that bridge, you might say. Finally, eyes that at present are a neutral grey tinged with hints of blue and green settle, and once settled, her course is set. "Miss Caermichael, is it, yes? Fiona Arundel. I do hope I'm not terribly late, there was a bit of a holdup in production." Terribly polite, terribly posh accent, and ... terribly bland, even banal, isn't she? Aside from that hair.

     Contrary to popular belief (or maybe more to the point, rumor) Rose can actually be pleasant. And, it seems, that's her plan for the evening. Smiling so easily that somebody nearby almost might think it was genuine if it wasn't so rare, she extends a hand. Cosmopolitan, anyone? "Oh, no problem at all. Gave me a bit to get reacquainted with the place. I haven't been in in ages. And do call me Rose." Since we're all being friends.
     She nods to the seat across from her in invitation to sit, "I got a draught of the local. I hope that's alright, I wasn't sure after I got it if you'd like it or not." If not, it sounds like, she'll do just fine putting it all away on her own. "We can get something else if it suits you instead."
     So the two singers are sitting together. If one were to gamble, one might wish to guess how long precisely it takes one of the girls to call up and mention to interested parties that there's something afoot. Luckily (for some people) Davydd should be in Wales. And while that doesn't mean he won't show up entirely, it puts the odds in the ladies' favor.
     "Hectic day, sounds like."

     Accepting the hand, Fiona smiles despite any caution, misgiving or just regular exhaustion at the end of a long workday. "Rose, then. I'm Fiona, of course. Davy's is a bit of a character-spot, isn't it? I quite like it."
     She slides into the booth with a rattle of crystal baubles, shifting her laptop to lean it up next to her, no longer on her shoulder, shaking her head. "Not my usual drink, but the local will do just fine, really. I'm more a fan of cider when I'm not drinking for the sake of the stupor - sweet, you know. But I'll happily drink anything in a pinch - all my years in the Underground had their toll."
     Propping her chin on her hand, elbow to the table, Fiona tilts her head slightly to the side. Luckily, right now she's avoiding Davydd altogether - and like as not Davydd's got his hands full, either with himself or with Sandrine, or isn't anywhere near a phone where so mundane a thing as a cell signal could reach. "I admit, you surprised me with your call. Not that I mind, as such - just, I wasn't expecting to hear anything."

     "Fabulous." Rose smiles once more, picking up her bar glass to have a sip of the slightly frothy contents. "If we polish this off and want another one it'll be your pick then."
     See? Congenial.
     "Oh, I was just going through my bag and found your card in there." She shrugs slightly, things just striking her fancy and all, "Since Davy said he was surprised we hadn't met before I thought I shouldn't fall too far out of touch. And it's always good to keep connections with journalists open." That was a bit teasing, though it's obvious that she's not entirely without sincerity. Might as well lead with the truth.
     "I was glad you could make it though. I wasn't sure if you'd want to or not." Again, honesty. What's gotten into Rose some might ask. Or, it could be that she's also at least a little curious to see if Davydd warned you off after the coffee encounter.

     "Alright, that'll do," Fiona agrees easily, giving her head a slight shake to realign her braid along her back. "I'm currently working in television rather than print media - left The Magazine to go work in production. Hence the dark circles under my eyes and the drawn and haggard appearance." Not that she actually has either, but it sounds good on paper, right?
     And of course, there was The Magazine - M. The article which kicked it all off for Fiona - the exclusive interview with William. The painting which William did of Fiona - free of charge. The original still hangs in her living room, waiting to smack the eye of any who walk in through her front door and down the corridor...
     Meanwhile, Fiona continues, taking a sip of the drink without apparently being too bothered by it not being cider. She runs a fingertip around the rim of the glass absently, a gesture of habit of some sort. "Well, glad you found it - I haven't changed my number, obviously, even if I've changed jobs. As for making it - well." She falls silent for a moment, one eyebrow drawing up, the other down as she considers how best to respond. Finally, she speaks.
     "You and Davydd obviously have a ... a history, and I've known Davydd just long enough to know that he's bound to have both friends and enemies, and likely lots of both. He didn't just turn and walk away from you, and I'm sure he's capable of it - I can't really judge what the two of you had to say to each other, though I admit I wasn't entirely comfortable having a ringside seat. But," a shrug, "I'm not going to assume you're a worthless human being just because you wanted to verbally slap his face." For a moment, Fiona's expression is almost mischievous. "I've had occasions of wanting to do just that myself."

     Oh, yes. The Article. That one, Rose did catch, as things go. No comment on what she actually did with it though. No reflection on the author intended, of course.
     She smiles and nods, "I think we met after you'd already moved. Once you mentioned it, I remembered seeing something with your byline on it. I hope you've liked the switch, sometimes career shifts can be trying."
     There's another drink, a nod at the assessment of the conversation such as it was. "History would be a very apt way of phrasing that, I think." She wrinkles her nose slightly at the memory of the conversation. Not that it wasn't bound to come up. "And I have to say I think you did pretty well for having to sit through that one. There are many many people who would've probably begged off on sight. Which, I should apologize for. We were both fairly harsh and it probably wasn't entirely polite of us to you."

     Fiona shrugs casually, wrapping a hand negligently around the edge of the glass, watching the moisture underneath it shift as she drags it to one side. "It's hard to close off the past, I've found. You've got to really work at it, and even then, it has a nasty way of popping back up to smack you in the face. Sometimes more literally than others, of course. And don't apologize - really, it's between the two of you. I won't deny to a certain amount of curiosity - I've got more than my fair share of that - but it's certainly none of my business."
     She pauses to take another swallow, leaning back in her seat and sighing. "The job? Well, the work is interesting, and I get to be creative, which is a plus - but at the same time, it can be horribly busy almost to the point of mind-numbing. I've just been handed an additional project to pull together - I get sent out of town on at least a monthly basis. I'm thinking of dipping into my own funds to at least make it first class flights, because I'm spending almost as much on chiropractors." She grimaces wryly, then smiles. "But it is interesting - for the time being. Might make a change later on - I've been considering joining the Beeb, actually."
     The Beeb. BBC. At least she aims high? Fiona then continues with the original topic, apparently having no trouble switching back and forth. "As for Davydd ... neither of you took it out on me, just each other. If you'd aimed it at me, I'd have been a lot less forgiving. I don't make a very good chew toy... I gather that the two of you used to, ah, be an item?"

     "Oh, it's most likely quite far off from being a closed subject." Rose says with a half smile, some part amusement and some part what could pass for genuine sadness. Though she's not very easy to read most times. After more than a century of being together, it will probably take quite some time to close out. There's a shrug, "But, it's still not something that we should pull out and drag around on street corners like a parade float."
     She listens over another drink to the scheduling woes of the media, nodding, "Oh, I have to say I don't know if I could do anything else, either. Planes can be awful if you're on them for any length of time. I don't travel out of the isles much, I can't imagine having a schedule like that."
     Golden eyebrows arch slightly at the mention of the national network, "Well, let me know if you want somebody to send your portfolio too. I know several of the execs, I might be able to get you their secretaries names." Any good social climber always knows the secretaries, of course. That, it seems, she assumes is a given.
     And then it comes back around to Davydd. The half smile returns, ironic and humorless at once, "Oh, no. We were the item. For entirely too long." She takes another drink, "I'm surprised he didn't explain it to you after the fact, really." Davy, Davy. Losing out on opportunities like that. "One of those fairy tale romances where everyone is blissfully in love and then everything turns out positively horribly in the end."

     "He has a certain magnetism," Fiona admits readily, rubbing absently at one of the knots in her hair, close to the scalp. "But he's hard on people, I can see. I'm hard on people myself - as he knows. I once tried to break his nose." She manages a half-smile of her own, shaking her head. "I was not," she says drolly, "always as you see me now."
     Cornsilk blonde and aristocratic, with that ladylike ease and haughtier by turns - the daughter of privilege she may well be, but she'd put it aside for a time...
     "At least if you must be a parade float, you can be an engaging parade float? - Sorry; I have a tendency to be a bit flippant. As for the Beeb, I'll keep that in mind - daddy's made a similar offer, I think he's made nervous by all my traveling." And there's that irrepressible hint of mischief again; Fiona may not be malicious about her father's discomfort (this time), but she doesn't seem too concerned with it, either. "He's in London presently," she adds by way of explanation, "standing up in the House for some ... something or other, I forget. He's had me working on some family papers, lately. But if you're willing to exert your influence, I won't say no - if and when I decide to make the leap, anyway. Haven't quite decided just yet. Any help is appreciated, really." Any port in a storm...
     Ah, yes. Davydd. Him. Who is he, again? No, Fiona's curious, and it does show, in the slight slant of her head, the canting of her eyebrows. "Well, you have to realize that while Davydd and I're friendly now, we've had an ... on again, off again sort of acquaintance. Loads of screaming at each other, plenty of pent up frustrations, and all that. Until recently, really, I've gotten along better with Sandrine than with him. So you can't really blame him too much for not baring his soul to me about past life experiences." She frowns. "Past life experiences? That doesn't sound quite right. Well, anyway. So it was blissful and then went to hell? I'm sorry to hear that."

     "Magnetism. That's a word for it." She takes a final polishing drink on her glass and then reaches over to pour the next one, pausing to offer a topping off if it's in order. She smirks a little at the story of violent encounters with her ex, "I once pushed him down a flight of stone stairs." Apparently Fiona's not the only one he stirs physically destructive urges in. "I'm quite sure he deserved having his nose banged up. If not at that moment exactly, somewhere in the area of it."
     "Well, give me a ring and let me know. I'll schedule a lunch or something." Introducing people around has always been one of her strong suits. Though why she's inclined to do it for someone she's only just met for all intents and purposes might be a curiosity. Normally it's got a fairly hefty price tag.
     "Sandrine seems good for him, really. He's calmed down a great deal since they've paired off." Again, she seems genuine. And not at all disliking of the new flame of her former beaux. "She's gotten some rough spots from associating with him that she wasn't really deserving of."
     "Oh, well, it wasn't actually blissful. It just seemed like it to me at the time. Really, when I look back at it, it probably wasn't anywhere as lovely as I thought it was." She takes another drink, "But that was part of the problem. We'd leave each other for a while, sometimes amicably sometimes not as such. And end up getting back together again in fairly short order, only to do it all again." This last spill was quite different, however. Though that goes unsaid.

     "Well, as it happens, it was something which wasn't his fault. I didn't end up connecting, it went a bit wild - he ducked, I think, I don't really remember," Fiona admits candidly. "I do give him credit, he didn't punch me back. Though he did make it plain that he wouldn't sit still for me to beat on him - how ungentlemanly, don't you think?" There's that streak of mischief again; she's not serious about expecting him to sit still and be beaten up.
     The mug is lifted, another swallow taken, and Fiona absently sets it down in order to untie her braid. "Scalp's starting to ache," she mentions by way of explanation, sliding her fingers into the loosened strands to massage above her forehead. "I'll do that, thank you. It's very kind of you. If nothing else, meeting around won't hurt, and besides, maybe if word gets back they'll offer me more money. Not that I really need it, but money never hurts, does it, now."
     Leaning forward on her elbows, Fiona's expression goes slightly thoughtful. "I don't really know what to make of Sandrine," she admits. "She's a nice woman - lovely, in a lot of ways - but ... well, I suppose I'm not used to people who're that remote, despite being English. If that makes any sense - I've felt most of the times I've spoken to her that while we were both speaking the same language, we weren't communicating. There was a serious comprehension gap that ... well, I'm rambling ..." She waves a hand. "Davydd's got to make the choice as to communicating with her, not me, but I do consider her a friend, of a sort. But I don't keep up with her, and I likely wouldn't if not for Davydd."
     She falls silent to listen, head tilting to the side for a moment as she does so, expression intent as she absorbs things. "I don't think anyone could be involved peacefully with Davydd for long, to be honest. I mean," she continues hurriedly, flushing just slightly in embarrassment, "don't get me wrong. Just ... Davydd isn't a man of peace. There can be no compromise - compromising means creating a lie, of sorts, where he's concerned, whether he's the one doing the compromising or the other one is. It'd mean a lot of bloody awful rows - but something might come out of those rows. Of course," she grins, "I could be full of shite, pardon the language. But ... if it's the sort of row which ends things ... well, then what you're describing means starting over, not building on. Or am I wrong? It's all theory anyway - I mean, I uh... well. Enough of that."

     "Oh, he wouldn't. And he didn't." With the stairs incident, "But there are ways to hurt people that have nothing to do with physical beratement." As demonstrated previously on said street corner. Rose chuckles a touch, "And there is very little that is gentlemanly about Davydd if he can help it. I think there are times he goes out of his way to avoid the entire idea of being a gentleman just for spite." Or, at least, he did with her.
     "We've never met." That'd be Rose and Sandrine. Wonder of wonders. "Which is probably for the best, I'm not entirely sure what we'd have to say to one another. Lovely weather. How's my former shag? Still doing that thing with the dragons?" She shrugs. There are some conversations that just are better left unhad. And meetings that are better left unmet. "Edward likes her though, which is good enough for me." Keeping tabs on the new girl to see if she measures up? Again, maybe surprises are the order of the night. "And were I you, I wouldn't worry about their communication. That is a challenge he has with just about every relationship he's involved in, romantic or no."
     Silently taking another drink, she waits until you get to the end of your minor ramble. Which then results in a quiet laugh, "You, my dear, have it right on the head with that one. I couldn't have said it better despite my years of experience." She turns her glass on the table and shakes her head, "Davydd is..." She pauses a moment as though she's trying to decide what she should say. Or, perhaps, if she should say it.
     "He believes himself to fall in love. So, when he tells someone that it's the case, he fully believes it to be true." She frowns briefly before smiling with more brilliance than before, even though this one is obviously forced by comparison, "But, his definition and most womens' are quite directly at odds. And, as you say, there isn't any compromising."

     "...That thing with the dragons? I mean, I know he's got those bloody tattoos, but I'm torn between rampant curiosity and a creeping sense of dread." Fiona's gone slightly red again; apparently, she's seen some of his tattoos. How much does she know about them? Well ...
     That's a story in and of itself.
     One hand creeps up to finger the knots in her hair - and upon closer observation, there are several, elf knots tied and yet somehow not slipping loose or unwinding, at various places and lengths in strands and locks of hair. "Sandrine is a lovely woman, but she is cold. At least, she strikes me as cold - she will do what is proper, but I do not know if she will do what is right. But I'm the one people compare to Joan of Arc, so I really shouldn't talk, should I." Fiona's stories could fill a book by now - several, perhaps.
     There's a brief blank look. "I'm sorry, I don't think I've met Edward. Maybe I have, but if I have, he ... didn't really stick out - I've met William, though. He stood out. If you know William, though, you know what I mean." She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "First time I met him, I pissed him off, then got a lift home from him." In one piece, yet... "He's the one who's compared me to Joan of Arc first, I think - might've been someone else, but he was one of them."
     She listens again, as you talk about Davydd, a certain faint intensity in her expression as you do so - she's certainly paying close enough attention. Perhaps she expects a test later on. "But you don't think that he falls in love," Fiona says, not as a query but as a statement. "What do you think his definition is, then? And well, a lack of compromise is something I'm used to. It took jumping off a bridge for me to become as mellow as I am now, and half of it's an act - my social face, as it were. I'm not very good at passing for a civilized human being, at times."

     There's a light chuckle at the questions about the dragons, and apparently she's going to leave that question rhetorical. "I'd imagine she would, most likely. From what I've heard she's very honest. Which can be hard to come by." Among what class of individual she's talking about isn't defined. "And among the people that I've talked to about her, she comes across as close to a saint as Davydd's likely to be able to stand. So, I'd be more worried about her than him."
     Not met Edward. Now that causes raised eyebrows. "Well, you'll remember him if you do." There isn't much forgetting Edward if you've been introduced.
     Ah, William. She takes another drink at that. Perhaps covering a grimace or maybe she just swallowed wrong. "He and I, on the other hand, cannot get along at all. We're civil, of course, but in some ways even less so than Davydd and I were the other night." Which is obviously saying something.
     And the jumping off a bridge mention gets an arched brow again. But the topic changes again.
     "Davydd is physically incapable of being faithful to anyone, no matter how much he cares for them." And that is stated as though it is wrote fact, not an embellishment at all. "When we were together I think he probably had sex about twice as often as I did if I'm being conservative. And I'm not going to present myself as being a saint either." She shrugs, "It's just who he is. He loves the idea of love. Not unlike the rest of his family." And family there obviously doesn't just mean family in the genetic sense, though there's some of that too. "And that said, as earlier, I think he loved me in any way he was able to. It just wasn't..." Enough doesn't seem to be the right word for her, "The same. I suppose."

     "I wouldn't think Davydd'd need a saint, honestly," Fiona says slowly, but she dismisses it a moment later. Who is she to say who or what Davydd needs? "But I do agree that it's not a bad idea to worry about Sandrine. He is likely to hurt her, I'd say." Her face momentarily closes off with the comment; insider trading. Sandrine stock falling?
     Not met Edward indeed, to judge by the continued polite blankness at the mention of the name. "Well, maybe next time I see Davydd, I'll prod him to introduce me to Edward," Fiona agrees with a small grin. "Not that I plan on seeing Davydd before, oh ... March or April. When -is- the first day of spring, anyway? Not til winter's well and truly over." An odd way of scheduling it, perhaps. "William and I get along these days, but we didn't at first. But we're hardly in each other's hip pockets - he's married and gay, I'm a virgin, the combination works best when I use him as a girlfriend. Which reminds me, I still have to send him that recipe for fudge!"
     Brain broken, yet? She flushes at the explanation of sex and fidelity, and shrugs uncomfortably. "I'm ... a bit of a rarity, as already established." Fiona smiles self-effacingly. "Last remaining virgin off the Continent over the age of fifteen, that's me. His family?" She then blinks, looking mildly confused, and shakes her head. "I ... haven't really met any, to make the comparison. But I - I think he's searching for some sense of completion which he isn't going to find where he's been looking. I'm not sure he's going to find it where he's looking now, either," and she doesn't mean Sandrine. Her cell goes off, and she sighs.
     "Bloody hell - I've got to run. Office. They said I might be called in, but said it was an outside chance at best." Sliding from the booth, Fiona struggles to her feet, scowling at the phone. "Yes, yes," she grumbles at the beeping device. "It was lovely talking, maybe we'll do it sometime soon - if you want to set up that thing for the Beeb, let me know. I'm about one step closer to making the shift, I can tell you that..."
     So saying, with a final bright smile and a grab for her laptop, Fiona darts for the door, muttering polite epithets as she vanishes into the street.

Posted by rowan at February 23, 2004 07:17 PM