October 1st - October 15th, 2000
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The Interrogator’s cell:
Pressing against the bars for leverage, HE spins abruptly to face . . . The Empress.
HIS eyes half-close and his hand rises involuntarily as if to shield himself . . . from what? A beautiful woman, and the allure and presence of her lifts the fine hairs all over his body like the proximity of lightning. HE is dimly conscious of details: the visored guards flanking the Empress on either side, the faint waft of her perfume-is it perfume? The shadow of a scent, there and gone. But stronger than all else is the panic beating in his blood, the unbelievable nearness of her, close enough to touch, and the irrational terror that at her touch he would collapse.
And the question screaming in his mind: HOW did she get in here!
He had been facing the only door. Obviously, it is not the only door. There must be another, for she is here . . . Oh, yes, she is there with a vengeance, and The Interrogator presses his back hard against the bars of his cell, harder, as if he could squeeze his body between those bars and escape her slow but deliberate approach.
"You are a stubborn man."
The Interrogator braces himself against the bars, and, catching sight of that motion, the guards move forward to intercept an attack . . . but there is no attack, merely HIS certainty that if he lets go of the bars, his knees will give. To fall before her . . .
And her voice, again. "I have been very patient with you. Don’t make me regret it."
He pauses to gather his breath, feeling the rage within him as the only strength that can hold back the icy waves of terror. Only for a moment, as he forces out a harsh, grating response: "You . . . you madden me. I would rather be killed than spared by you." (homage)
The Empress is silent, returning his defiant gaze-yes, at that one moment, galvanized by his fury, he can look her in the face, can even narrow his eyes slightly in the approximation of a mocking smile. You did not expect me to be able to resist, did you? And now, what shall you do . . . ?
She takes one step, and her hand flashes out . . .
. . . to touch HIM.
Instinctively, The Interrogator flings up one hand to ward off her approach, her electrifying nearness, and as quickly and neatly as the clasp of a shackle, her beautiful fingers close in a circle about his wrist . . . for seconds only, yet it seems to him as though her hand rests upon him for intolerably lengthened minutes, the pad of her thumb upon his thundering pulse, the tips of her fingers pressing his wristbone . . .
Impressions. The exclamations of the guards, who had leapt forward at the instant she had taken that step that placed her so dangerously near to her great enemy . . . the way he had pulled back his arm as he would jerk it away from an open flame, and yes, the way his hand had slipped from between her fingers, and her touch had left trails of fire upon his skin . . . and his uncertainty as to whether he had truly screamed aloud, or if it had been only within his mind, that hoarse cry as he had released the bars and fallen to the floor of the cell . . .
MA--Claudia: Awwww . . . Cindie: I don't think The Empress is the one in danger!!
And Claire: niiiiice Brandon pics. Mmmmmm, I really must get back to writing about the Colonel and Mary Anne . . . ;-), - Sunday, October 15, 2000 at 19:43:38 (PDT)
Ed was relieved to feel Claudia relax into his kiss, and when he let got of her wrists, her arms came up and wrapped round his neck, hugging him closer to her, as silent tears ran down her cheeks and dampened his beard.
Being with her was always going to be an emotional rollercoaster ride, he realised. He had to decide whether being with her was worth it. But he wasn't there because of some duty, or mistaken act of chivalry. He was there because he too, loved her with all his heart. If there were such a thing as a soul mate, she was his, and he was hers. Her volatility, her lust for life, and her naivety in the roles of good and bad in the world - these were the things that had drawn him to her in the first place. To leave her for the same reasons would be unthinkable. To try and change her would be imprisoning the spirit that he loved.
He only hoped after her time with the Interrogator, that she truly felt the same way too. Something HE had said had got her very upset, and Ed tried hard not to think about what that could mean.
As Ed kissed her a sudden clarity hit her. She didn't have to hide from this man. She didn't need to mentally stand arms akimbo, defiant and defensive. She rediscovered how deeply she loved him, and with her tears, the barrier between them melted, washed away.
As much as I pretend, she told herself, as much as I try to be tough and brave and save the world, its all an act. All I really want is this.
She pushed Ed's lips from hers, and whispered, "I'm sorry." And meant it. "With all of my heart."
Claudia
Homage to Ally McBeal in a couple of places in the last 2 posts., - Sunday, October 15, 2000 at 12:53:55 (PDT)
Okay, fingers crossed but it seems to be up again. The chickens did not die in vain. Will try for tomorrow night.
Magda
- Saturday, October 14, 2000 at 17:57:42 (PDT)
Header added.
D.o.C.
D.o.C.--I forgot to put a header on my last post: "Off Set -- The Stag and Thistle:". Would you mind, please. Thanks.
Cindie
Guess all that dancing left me a little light headed., - Saturday, October 14, 2000 at 07:49:38 (PDT)
Off Set -- The Stag and Thistle
After a lifetime or so, Cindie heard a voice announce that this was the last dance. Their pace and dancing style had shifted as the music unfolded. Now she found herself, still firmly ensconced in Patrick’s arms, being swept slowly around the dance floor to the delicate strains of “Long Ago and Faraway”. She nearly wept, although whether it was due to the beauty of the song itself or because it was the last song she did not know. He held her gently but maintained complete control of their rhythmic movements. The lilting melody filled her ears, the feel of Patrick’s body so close to her overriding her other senses. As they had danced his commands had become bolder, more complex. Now with a simple pressure here, or slight turn of the wrist there, she responded to his movements without thinking. They danced as if of one mind, one body…. Patrick now lead her into increasingly intricate patterns. As the music began to ebb, he began to slow their pace and simplify their steps. As the music ended they were hardly moving at all. Finally, with the song over, Cindie looked up to see Patrick looking down at her. His expression,… no, not his expression, his soul… but this was too much, …and yet he looked at her with an utter honesty that pierced her heart.
He recovered his control and lead her back to their table. It had been cleared of the remains of their dinner and coffee. Now all that was there was a pitcher of water and two crystal goblets. Suddenly aware of her own thirst she stared at the water with avarice. He guided her into her chair and then picked up the pitcher and poured two glasses of the cold clear liquid. Although there was no ice, the water was so cold that condensation immediately appeared on the outside of the goblets. He picked them both up and handed one to her. He tipped the top of his goblet to hers and a single clear note rang out. He took a sip of water, she did the same. His gaze was like fire as he maintained eye contact with her and sat down. She now drank her water greedily, not waiting for him. When she looked up, he was finishing the last of his glass in one long draught. He placed his goblet on the table. Their silence had been complete throughout their dancing and their trip to the table. Finally, he spoke, his voice low but as clear as the water they had just drank, “What am I going to do with you.”
She didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t seem to require a response. He looked at her, his eyes running up and down her frame, taking her in as he had just taken in the refreshing liquid. There was the sound of chairs being upended onto tables. Cindie looked around. They were the last patrons. Everyone else had left. She had no idea how long they had been alone. The staff was working industriously, cleaning, straightening, but not near them. Patrick stood at last and extended his hand as he had earlier, “Time to get you home.” Cindie found herself taking his hand again.
**
They exited The Stag and Thistle and began to walk the block and a half to the car. There was a slight chill to the air and Cindie gave a barely perceptible shiver. It was, of course, perceived by her companion. He had been walking with his arm held at his side and his elbow crooked, her arm tucked in the opening created between his torso and his arm. He shifted position so that now he held his arm around her shoulders sheltering her body protectively against his own. It wasn’t that cold really but she didn’t mind. “Would you like my suit jacket?” he asked her. The concern registered in his voice as he continued, “I wouldn’t want you to catch cold.”
“No, I’m fine, really,” she replied looking up at him and smiling. “We’re almost there anyway.” She gestured towards her car. “Won’t you let me drive you back to the lot so you can get your car?”
“Thank you, but no. I’m just going to catch a cab back to my flat. I’ll use my other car for the weekend.” Was it just her imagination, or had he pulled her even closer as he spoke of their imminent parting?
She looked up at him,“That’s two things I know about you now, you have a cat and two cars.” She reached in her pocket and produced her car keys. “Are you sure you don’t want a lift?”
“I’m sure.” He reached for the keys in her hand and his fingers caressed hers. He took the keys and unlocked the driver’s side door. He opened the door as she stood there watching him. He turned to her and she felt his kiss brush her cheek lightly, a whisper of silk and promises. Somehow she found herself seated behind the wheel, the keys now returned to her hand. “Goodnight,” he said simply, his voice almost a whisper itself.
“Goodnight, Patrick,” she replied. His smile held a trace of wistfulness as he closed the car door. He took a step back and she started the car. She looked up at him through the car window. He nodded and she began to pull away. He watched to taillights recede and then turned around, his face impassive, as he walked back to the corner and held up one arm. A cab pulled up and he got in.
Cindie
Oooh Empress, please be cautious, this new subject couldn't bear it if something (or someone) happened to you so soon after being welcomed into your Realm., - Friday, October 13, 2000 at 18:16:38 (PDT)
The Interrogator’s cell:
HE stands at the bars, listening.
Silence.
Again, in memory: the moment when he had declared himself . . . it has been a day of performances, for even as he had played the role of terrified prisoner for Claudia, deceiving her with his voice, so he had resumed his role of Interrogator and brutalized Claudia as deftly and ruthlessly as the imaginary guard had abused the helpless captive.
For The Interrogator was disappointed in her, and meant her to know it-especially since she had been practically tripping over her own feet trying to please HIM, back in the West Wood lair. Surely you could have noticed, Claudia-anyone with even half a brain would have noticed-that those two voices in the cell had never overlapped, but had always been in succession to one another? Did you really need so much more in the way of a clue? Oh, well, allowances must be made, HE supposes, but it is frustrating, isn’t it, to expect great things and be so continually let down, and isn’t the world simply filled with incompetents? Had you noticed? So tiresome.
So The Interrogator had continued, raking and stinging and slashing her with HIS voice-and her initial response had been full of promise, a truly gratifying rage that did not hesitate to point out that HE had given himself away, and if he is so bloody all-knowing and all-powerful and . . . and . . . then how had he allowed himself to be so distracted as to make such a slip as that? And that he shouldn’t dare try to pass if off as if he had simply chosen that moment to reveal himself and mock her; he had screwed up, that’s what he’d done, the bleeding almighty Interrogator, the Terror of the Realm, had put his foot in it just like a flunkey the first day on the job who wouldn’t make it to the second day if he made a botch of things like that . . .
And so on. But HE had worn her down, and was strangely angry that he could do it, could reduce her finally to tears with some well-placed jabs concerning her talents and abilities and intentions. Dear Claudia, whatever were you thinking of, offering yourself as MY assistant? Sincere, or not? Defection, or infiltration? Either way, you would not have lasted-ah, well, more where you came from. Always another. More warm bodies, more lovely faces . . . although it is to be hoped that some of those faces have brains behind them . . .
The Interrogator can feel it and wonder at it: HE is coldly furious, and wreaks that fury upon a convenient target, savaging his listener and venting his frustration over the time spent in his own cell, waiting and wondering . . . a stronger woman, even one in perfect health and good spirits, might be excused for collapsing before such an onslaught; what, then, of Claudia, who has been in The Interrogator’s shadow, shared his bed, carried out his commands under hypnosis, and still feels her knees go weak at the thought of HIS secret touch upon her skin?
It is more than flesh and blood can bear; nevertheless, HE had expected better of her. HIS demands . . . summed up in the single word, more.
It is a while before The Interrogator realizes that a silence has fallen, that HE is receiving no answer to his taunts: neither curses nor tears. HE advances nearer the bars, curls his fingers through them and presses close against the door, craning to see as much of the hall as he can . . . which is little enough.
Is she defying him? The silent treatment? HIS lips curl, but the look is not a smile.
"Claudia."
Not a question. A command.
Silence.
The Interrogator feels it before HE turns: an icy spot on the back of his neck. Eyes. A presence. And something else, which he abruptly recalls, a wave of utter, unreasoning terror, as he flattens himself against the bars, knowing what he will see if he turns.
And the sound of a voice. Low, pleasant. Female.
Ominous. "You seem to enjoy talking . . . now you will speak with me."
MA--oopsie, looks like someone is very aggravated with HIM.
Therese, between Dev's "I'm completely yours to command" and Cindie's dance with Mistral, I am a puddle of mush! On the floor! Yowwwwlll., - Thursday, October 12, 2000 at 20:37:31 (PDT)
Off Set - The Stag and Thistle
Mistral leaned back in his chair and regarded his dinner companion. “Yes, it has been a rather full day,” he replied. He continued to look appraisingly at her. “And you’re still here. Haven’t I scared you away yet?” His expression was neutral.
Cindie put down her coffee and met his gaze, “Is that what you’ve been trying to do, scare me off?”
“I seem to engender that response. It is very useful. You saw how it worked tonight. If I had twitched so much as a muscle the fellow at the bar would’ve run screaming. The reaction has its uses.” He took a sip of coffee but set it down with distaste. It had gone cold.
“But, as you said, I’m still here.”
“So far.”
“Well, I will have to go home sometime. It’s getting late and this day started along time ago.”
He smiled now. “Yes, I suppose it did. Tea for two this morning and now dinner, that makes this our second outing.”
“Is that significant?”
“Yes, now we can get down to business.”
Now she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Oooo K, what business would that be exactly?”
“The business at hand,” he spoke, putting emphasis on every word.
“And that is…..”
“Do you trust me?” The look he gave her was so intense it nearly took her breath away.
“Yeeees…., but….” She was squirming in her skin, if not her seat.
He stood up, “Then take my hand and follow my lead.”
“What are you going to do?” She took his hand, but concern, now of a very different sort, showed in her eyes.
“You mean, what are we going to do.” He said this in a low husky voice that sent a tiny shiver from the base of her neck down her spine.
She nodded mutely, unable to verbalize the question.
“We, my dear, are going to dance.” He said gravely. Her eyes opened wide as he placed his left arm around her waist and his left hand applied pressure to the small of her back, guiding her onto the dance floor. He began to move, taking her with him, giving her subtle yet unmistakable signals as to what was expected of her. There was no small talk now. She marveled at his supple grace. Her right hand was on his shoulder and she could feel the muscles through the silk of his jacket. She wished he had taken the jacket off so that there would be only cotton between her hand and… a shudder ran through her. It was not fear. They danced, she didn’t know for how long. There was just a blur of turns, now this way, now that…. of their bodies, parting and coming together with the music. Was there music? Yes, of course, they were in a pub….
Cindie
- Wednesday, October 11, 2000 at 19:40:46 (PDT)
"I don't think you should touch that," said Ed, regaining his balance, and walking determinedly over to her.
"Why not? I'm sure HER majesty can spare it," Claudia turned, her hair swinging out like a shampoo commercial. She had two glasses in her hand and shoved one in Ed's direction. "Red wine, go on."
Ed grimaced, remembering the night before, and the bottle he had emptied by himself, but he took the glass. "I just want to know why you keep doing these things? It doesn't stop, you just dive in deeper and deeper each time, you don't care how it affects anyone else! We could be living peacefully in the beach house, letting someone qualified chase the bad guys. Why can't you be content with that?"
Claudia took a deep sip from her glass. "I actually don't want to be too happy, or too content, because then what?"
Ed's jaw dropped. "Then what?"
"Ed, the reason I got in the Tardis, the day it appeared in my living room, was because I was fed up with the nothingness in my life. Suddenly I was alive. I can't go back there."
"And where you are now, is it any better? All the people you've hurt, the pain you've caused, to me and to yourself especially?"
"YES!" Claudia punctuated the word by slamming the glass back down on the sideboard, the red wine spilling over her hand. "Because at least now I FEEL something. I'm not numb, I feel. And I'm doing something. I'm not sitting back and watching."
"No, you're not doing that… were things so bad with me, that you didn't feel anything?"
Claudia was sucking the wine off her hand, and suddenly froze, and looked at him. "I told you you were better off without me." Her voice was low and shaking.
Ed took an involuntary step back as if he had been slapped. "So, you didn't feel anything... I don't know why I'm here."
He turned and walked away, leaving the glass in the middle of the table, and continuing on to the door. He didn't make it. Claudia slammed into him from behind, so hard, that they both tumbled to the floor. She quickly rolled over and sat on top of him, leaning forward and pinning his arms to the floor. "Don't you dare do that to me…" her voice was shaking uncontrollably and there were tears streaming down her face. "No matter what I've done, how lost I seemed, the one thing that's kept me going… I love you, you have all of my heart. You always have."
Ed hooked his foot around hers, taking advantage of his superior strength, and quickly flipped her onto her back, swapping their positions. Holding her wrists tightly in his large hands. "For a minute there I thought you'd gone crazy again."
"I did. I'm comfortable there."
Ed still boiled with hurt and emotion, but the only way he knew to win an argument was to kiss her. So he did.
Claudia
- Wednesday, October 11, 2000 at 19:38:45 (PDT)
"Well, go ahead," Claudia glared at him, then leaned over the table, resting her torso on the tabletop, and spreading her arms in a crucifix.
Ed took a sharp intake of breath, then stood up. His hand played lightly over the back of her jeans, his fingers tracing the stitching. She didn't squirm. "You want me to hit you?"
"Yes, if it makes you feel better!"
"I think, it will make you feel better, it would probably make me feel worse." He grabbed the top of her jeans and pulled her upright, then pulled her round to face him. "Besides, you'd probably enjoy it." A sardonic smile.
Her lips twitched slightly, but it was hardly a smile. "Look, Ed. I did my best to keep you out of this, and still, you're here. If you want to be around me, there's a start, but for God's sake, hit me, yell at me… get it all off your chest. I've been stuck in too many small empty rooms by myself, here and at Delaford. All I've been able to do is think. Do you know how hard that is? Going over and over this in my mind? You know I'll go mad without action. So do something, tell me what an idiot I've been, tell me you hate me, tell me what an awful mother I am… anything! I just can't stand it anymore!"
"I don't hate you…" He brought a hand up and gripped her shoulder, a little too tightly. "And you know I can't hit you, as much as you deserve it."
"Well for God's sake do something!" She pushed him hard, and not expecting it he staggered back, and nearly tripped over the chair. Claudia moved away from him and over to the sideboard and investigated the bottles and glasses. "I don't know about you, Ed, but I could use a drink."
Claudia
I'm sure he'll do something soon, - Wednesday, October 11, 2000 at 18:33:40 (PDT)
Magda, about your computer----have you tried duct tape?
a Rickman admirer
- Wednesday, October 11, 2000 at 15:07:38 (PDT)
"Ohmmmmmm. Ohmmmmmmm. Ohmmmmmm." Repeat the chant: Technology is our friend, Technology is our friend....
Cindie
Magda,sending positive computer vibes in your direction., - Wednesday, October 11, 2000 at 12:50:23 (PDT)
Magda, my condolences on the loss of your hard drive. I know how difficult this can be, having just received my new one at home a couple of weeks ago (computer this is, I decided not to bother trying to install new hard drive into old PC-I think I killed it in the first place by installing new parallel port!)
Here's hoping that your guru succeeds in the resurrection, and that your faith is strong enough!
Chris
- Wednesday, October 11, 2000 at 08:24:44 (PDT)
Update: The computer did not survive the move. Waiting for Techie Guru to perform ritualistic slaughter of chickens over the corpse of the hard drive. Positive results will depend on personal faith in reincarnation. If all goes well, I might have something up by the weekend. On the other hand, all the dishes and glassware came through unscathed.
Magda
- Wednesday, October 11, 2000 at 07:31:39 (PDT)
We cut to: Claudia, being removed from her cell.
Even Ed must admit that she had behaved admirably, when they had first appeared in the corridor outside her quarters, hidden from The Interrogator's gaze, with Rupert’s hand lifted to his lips in a commanding gesture for her to remain silent. And she had. The only sound in the corridor had been the metallic clatter of the door being drawn back . . . no sound from The Interrogator . . . was HE listening . . .? HE could not see them, but must know something is taking place . . .
Ed waits until they are clear of that corridor before he risks a glance at Claudia, taking note of her red-rimmed eyes, the traces of her recent weeping, though he notes that she still carries herself proudly, her head raised and her eyes straight ahead. Defiance? Bravado? Ed is, at once, both proud of her and furious with her. At any other time, his combined desires-to hold and comfort her, and to shake her until her teeth rattle-would strike him as comical, but not now. Not here.
And then they are in a clean, though rather bare room; the furniture sturdy but sparse, consisting of a table with a few chairs gathered about it, a long sofa under the windows, and a sideboard with some bottles and glasses ranged along the top.
"You can talk here," offers Rupert, and both Ed and Claudia startle a bit at how his voice breaks the silence between them. "I’ll be back as soon as I’ve arranged quarters for our . . . visitors. The guard will wait outside."
With that, Rupert is gone. And even The Doctor does not linger, remaining only long enough to check that Claudia is uninjured, though he shows a trace of alarm at her uncharacteristically low-voiced replies. Ed makes no attempt to overhear their conversation, but watches as The Doctor stands by Claudia, his hand resting on her shoulder, speaking softly to her, a questioning note in his voice that at one point makes her shiver and shake her head-as if trying to shake something off, rather than in disagreement.
The Doctor steps away, then, and with a murmur of, "Ed, my boy, I’ll wait outside. Talk to her . . . "
The door clicks closed. Ed draws his chair closer to the table, where Claudia is seated across from him.
A silence.
Then, Claudia’s voice. "Well?"
"Well."
"You heard what he said. Talk to me."
"What would you like to talk about?" Sharply.
Claudia does not look up. Then, hesitantly: "Where are the boys?"
"In the Tardis. They’re safe." Good news, of course, but again there is a harshness in Ed’s voice that he can barely control, so that Claudia flinches from the sound of it. Ed catches the brief blue flicker of her gaze before she lowers her eyes again. "That’s . . . good."
"Yes." A touch sardonic. "It’s very good." Why am I DOING this to her? When she’s been through so much already-but then, so have I! And so many other people! WHY does she think I can just keep taking things, and taking them and taking them . . .
Yet another occasion when Ed cannot be aware of his own face-and it is probably just as well, as his gaze flashes over Claudia like sheet-lightning and his fingers drum restlessly on the table top.
And then, suddenly, Claudia rises from her chair and moves to stand directly in front of him.
"Look," she snaps with something of her old spirit, looking him straight in the eye. "You’re mad at me and I don’t blame you. But this won’t help us any, circling and spitting and hissing like two cats who can’t decide whether to fight or not. So yell, or throw things, or do whatever you like, but could you just get it out, so we can go on, for God’s sake!"
Ed’s eyes narrow as he looks up at her. The drumming of his fingers ceases, and his hand slowly uncurls until his palm rests flat against the table.
"Whatever I would like?" he deliberates, sitting up straighter in his chair, never taking his eyes from the woman standing before him. "Right now, if I did what I would like to do, you would not be able to sit down for at least a month."
MA--well, Claudia . . . ? *insinuating grin* Ed wouldn't really . . . would he?
Now, what trouble can I get HIM into . . . ? , - Tuesday, October 10, 2000 at 20:24:05 (PDT)
The Imperial Palace, the Empress’ study:
Ed’s intercession for Claudia is not being well-received, or so it seems to him.
The Empress herself had greeted her guests kindly enough, seeing to their comfort and bantering with The Doctor, calling for refreshment . . . for all the world as if they were casual visitors dropping by to pass the time in idle chatter. It had not taken Ed long to decide that enough was enough.
"But she’s done nothing!" protests Ed.
The remark is directed not at The Empress but at Rupert, who seems to be standing by as her spokesman in this matter. And it is Rupert who imperturbably replies. "I’m curious as to your definition of nothing. By your own account-and hers as well-she joined forces with The Interrogator and performed tasks at HIS command. If memory serves, that’s called giving aid to the enemy. Also known as treason."
"But that was . . . it was so she could-"
"Yes, I know. She claimed that she was trying to infiltrate THEIR organization. And it may be the truth, but we cannot decide on the basis of what she has told us. She hasn’t been especially forthcoming."
The Empress, who has remained silently observant through Ed’s protests and Rupert’s calm replies, now enters the conversation, her voice so kind and gentle that Ed would almost be prepared to weep at the sound of it, if he did not feel that he is past all weeping. "It may be that she is indeed innocent of any serious charges. And speaking of charges, the Grubers have indicated that they will not press charges for Claudia’s actions . . ." A delicate pause. "But we must look at the facts: she joined HIM. Willingly, it would seem. We will speak further with her, and if she is telling the truth she has nothing to fear; I would not see an innocent subject of mine come to harm. But-" A raised eyebrow. "-this is not the first time I have had to sit and hear such pleas on behalf of someone who has made a terrible mistake. I say mistake, you understand; it may be possible that she committed no crime. But mistakes have consequences, as well as crimes. She is an adult woman, and responsible for her actions."
A woman, thinks Ed morosely, but I think Luke and Joseph act more adult than she does, most of the time. And behave more responsibly. He directs a glance at The Doctor, who, discouragingly, has nothing to add to the discussion but simply sits with his teacup, staring at nothing and thoughtfully gnawing his lower lip. At that, Ed sinks his head into his hands, feeling his last shreds of hope disintegrate.
"Excuse me, Your Majesty-"
A young Guardsman enters without knocking, raising his hand to his heart in salute as The Empress rises from her chair. "Forgive the interruption, but the Captain sent me. He’s been watching what’s going on down in the cells, and he thought someone should be told."
"Told?" This from the Empress, overlapping with Rupert’s "What’s happening down there?"
The young officer catches his breath. "Well, the prisoner-Claudia?" He pauses at Ed’s pained expression, but then continues. "It seems she knows . . . who HE is, now. They’ve been talking, and she’s been shouting at HIM, and . . ." The guardsman looks vaguely embarrassed, as if he had seen something he would rather not discuss. "Well . . . now, she’s crying."
There is a long silence in the study, and an exchange of glances between Ed and The Doctor. Claudia, crying? thinks Ed. What on earth can HE have been saying to her? Or doing . . . but what could HE do, by just talking? No immediate answer comes to mind, but his instinctive and bone-deep shiver hints at prospects better left unexplored, as Ed turns to The Empress. "Please-Your Majesty."
The Empress turns to face him. Ed cannot see himself as he looks to her, though he knows well enough how most people perceive him: rumpled, a touch scruffy, hair sticking out in all directions. Endearing, some people might say-especially women. But none of them would guess how dignified he could appear despite all this, love and anxiety warring in his heart, pooling in his eyes, and melting his voice into music. "Please," he asks again, his gaze fixed on the Ruler of the Realm, this woman who holds Claudia’s fate in her hands. "Please, let me go to her. If I could see her for just-"
The Empress nods. "Yes, I had already decided." Her voice is a trifle shaky, though it steadies after a moment, and then positively hardens. "I am beginning to lose patience with . . . that man. Time to take things to another level." She turns toward Rupert. "You know the plans, all the usual precautions. I will wait to enter his cell until after you have taken Claudia away. Let it be somewhere quiet and private, where they can have some peace."
Rupert nods, but scowls in protest. "It’s dangerous, you know-you can’t keep doing this for very long."
"I don’t intend to, for very long." An imperious gesture. "Let me know when Claudia has been removed. When I see HIM, there will be no . . . distractions."
Rupert still looks sternly disapproving, but bows, gesturing for Ed and The Doctor to follow. They exit with the young guard . . .
. . . and The Empress, once alone, reaches into her desk and draws out a phial of brown, coarse powder. She measures a scant spoonful into her teacup and swallows it down, grimacing briefly at the bitter taste, then locking the bottle securely away in the hidden drawer from which she retrieved it. And as she waits for the radix to take effect . . .
MA--on a roll tonight, and up to mischief . . .
I could almost feel sorry for HIM, were it not for Renie's endless warnings! ;-), - Tuesday, October 10, 2000 at 20:16:03 (PDT)
Off Set - The Stag and Thistle:
Cindie watched as Dev followed the path Therese had taken just moments before. His pace was quick but his movements so full of grace that one would hardly guess at the fires which drove him.
Mistral immediately took the situation in hand. “Won’t you please join us?” he said to Hugh Laurie and Jo Green, who looked slightly bewildered at the abrupt loss of their erstwhile companion. He had pulled up a fourth chair and held it for Jo. Cindie moved over to take the seat Therese had just vacated and the four of them sat down, Hugh taking Cindie’s former spot. “You are a very accomplished dancer, madam.” He said to Jo, inclining his head slightly.
“Thank you,” she replied, “Dev is a terrific partner, it’s a treat to dance with someone that good. He makes it easy.”
“Yes,” Mistral drawled, “he shines like the sun doesn’t he?”
“I suppose so.” Jo replied. She smiled at Hugh, “Darling, don’t forget we promised the nanny we’d be back early tonight.” Her comment may have been a bit more pointed than society would consider polite.
“Of course dear.” Hugh did not seem to grasp the point being made by his spouse and turned to Cindie, “Do you work on the set? You look familiar but I can’t quite place your character. I’ve been reviewing all he latest rushes to prepare for my stint at directing and I don’t recall seeing you.”
“Yes, and no.” Cindie replied. Truth be told she was a fan of Hugh Laurie’s and didn’t quite know how to handle him being dropped almost in her lap. “I work on the set but I’m not one of the actors.” She paused, uncertain of how to proceed, “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but…… I thought you made a wonderful Bertie Wooster.” She hoped her expression wasn’t too eager.
“Thank you,” he responded, “I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for good old Bertie. He opened a lot of doors for me.”
“Indeed,” Mistral chimed in, “such a whimsical character.”
Jo looked at Cindie, “If you’re not one of the actors, what do you do on the set?”
“I work for the Director,” was her reply .
“And what does that entail exactly?” Mistral queried.
“Whatever the Director wants it to.” She looked at Mistral as if daring him to take the inquiry further. Then, turning again to Jo, “How many children do you have?”
“Three. Dev is the godfather to our youngest.”
“Speaking of the little munchkins,” Hugh said, beginning to rise, “we really do have to get going. It was so nice to meet you Cindie.” They shook hands and he turned to Mistral, “I’ve been doing my homework on your character, some interesting scenes coming up with you. I’ll see you both around the set.” He and Mistral shook hands as well and Jo murmured her goodbyes.
Cindie and Mistral were left standing alone at their table. “Well, that was certainly a flurry of activity.” Cindie said laughing, “My, but people come and go so quickly here!” She then added, “That Hugh Laurie certainly seems like a nice man.”
“Yes, he is very nice, if that’s the sort of thing you like,” was Mistral’s reply. They resumed their seats, Cindie now sitting next to Mistral rather than across from him.
Cindie leaned forward in her chair and looked towards the door, “I hope Therese is alright. She looked rattled when she left. I guess that fan bothered her more than I thought.”
Patrick looked at Cindie sitting next to him. He noted the genuine concern in her eyes. He smiled at her most beneficently, and, reaching out, stroked her hair, drawing his hand back only as the tips of his fingers reached her jaw line. “Don’t worry, Eamon will look after her,” was all he said.
She turned her face to him and returning his smile,reached for her cup of coffee from the place next to her. She took a sip and remarked, “What a day this has been!”
Cindie
I finally have Hugh Laurie in my grasp and my hands are too *ahem* full to do anything with him. Anyone else for musical chairs?, - Tuesday, October 10, 2000 at 17:32:22 (PDT)
Off Set--The Stag and Thistle
Therese sank back into her chair, gazing morosely at the three individuals approaching the table. Eamon, tall and slender, moving effortlessly through the crowd, one arm still casually over the beautiful woman's shoulder, and Hugh accompanying her at her side. Therese wasn't jealous by nature, or so she had thought, but she vehemently wished to be anyplace else other than where she sat at the moment.
"Therese, where have you been?" Eamon asked, dropping his hand from the woman's shoulder, and moving toward Therese's side. She gazed up at him frostily. He continued, "Cindie, Mistral, may I introduce to you two of my good friends, Hugh Laurie and his wife, Jo Green."
WIFE? Hugh's WIFE!? The palpable relief Therese felt almost made her feel faint, much to her extreme consternation. She sank to the back of her seat, overcome with the desire to flee. Suddenly feeling as if she must act upon that notion or go mad, she rose from her seat. "Lovely to meet you Jo," she said quickly, "good to see you again, Hugh--thank you so much Cindie and Mistral--I'm afraid I really must dash." And without another word, she just managed to not run to the exit.
"What in the blue blazes was tha' all about?" Eamon asked, peering after Therese's departing figure curiously.
"She's had a rough time of it with a fan before you arrived," Mistral said quietly, pulling Dev aside.
Eamon nodded at the other man's words, his gaze thoughtful. And she'd been upset with me before that. . .it was stupid of me not to call her earlier. Dev, my boy, you think you'd have learned by now about that stupid Celtic pride of yours. . . Shaking himself out of his reverie, he clasped Mr. I soundly upon the back. "Thank you for looking out for her in my stead, Mistral." He inclined his head gracefully, "If you and your party would excuse me?"
Stepping out of the pub Eamon could see Therese in the dimly lit car park, leaning against her blue Eclipse, arms crossed fiercely over her chest. She considered him with a reproachful glare as he approached.
"Are you all right?" Eamon asked softly, stopping several paces before her. "Mistral said you'd had a rough go of it with an admirer?"
"Nothing I couldn't handle," Therese replied icily, her tone incongruous with the trembling of her lower lip.
Eamon took another step toward her, within reach now, but not touching. "What is it, then?" he asked softly, his expressive eyes darkened with concern.
Therese shook her head miserably, knowing that she would not, could not, make him understand. "I--you! and then--she, and this. . ." It was too much for her, and despite her best efforts, Therese gave way to the tears that had been building all night.
"Therese, there now," he gathered her into his arms, holding her gently against him, smoothing back her hair, and crooning to her softly. Her explanation, such as it was, had been completely unintelligible, but his response was all she had wanted.
Moments later, when she had calmed somewhat, she stabbed her finger in his chest, looking up at him accusitively. "You've no right dancing with other women like. . .that."
Eamon looked momentarily confused. "Dancing with other--oh, you mean with Jo? I hadn't even realized you'd be there." He grinned a tiny, rueful smile. "You were jealous."
"I was not!" Therese responded far too adamantly.
He stroked her cheek gently, one finger trailing down her jawbone and under her chin, as he eased her head upward to look to him. "You were," he said, utter confidence in his tone, a wide smile crossing his features.
"You needn't be quite so insufferable about the whole thing," Therese muttered, "she's exquisite."
"Mmmm," he agreed aimiably, "she is--the second most exquisite woman I know." He paused briefly, his lips brushing against hers in a gentle kiss. With a sigh, Therese melted against him, somehow feeling whole again.
He gazed down at her, an impish glint in his eye, a look Therese instantly recognized, and had dubbed his 'leprechan look.' "Don't even think about teasing me right now," she warned, "I'm not up to it quite yet."
"I wouldn't dream of it, dearest," he assured her with absolute insincerity, "it's merely that I wondered if I'm ever to be allowed to dance with other women again? It would seem rather hen-pecked of me to have to tell prospective partners, 'I'm sorry, not allowed' when we're out at parties and such. And you know I do so love to dance."
Therese rolled her eyes. "Hen-pecked? YOU?"
He stared down into her eyes, his gaze distinctly more serious than it had been before. "You know what you mean to me. I'm completely yours to command--and yet you still wish of me the freedom to see other people. I can't, I simply cannot--"
Therese silenced him, first with a finger pressed against his lips, then stepping up on tip-toe she drew his head down to her own. Long moments later when she could once again catch her breath, she placed a tender hand upon each side of his face, realizing what she held and its desperate importance to her. "You may dance with whomever you so desire, Mr. de Valera--because I know with utter certainty that you will always go home with me. I don't want anyone other than you, a point, I might add, that was brought home rather clearly this evening."
"And shall I take you home, now?" he whispered into her ear, his lips caressing her lobe and the tender flesh beneath it.
"Oh yes," she sighed, "I rather think you should."
Therese
There you go, Cindie--Hugh is all yours. MA--I saw Le Mis in London this July! The lead is a Welshman who is *amazing*, - Tuesday, October 10, 2000 at 08:08:27 (PDT)
A car. And in it, Mary Anne and Christopher Brandon, who have just left the theatre after attending a performance of Les Miserables. Brandon’s suggestion of finishing up the evening at the Stag and Thistle had been readily accepted, and having given their directions to the cab driver, they ride for a while in silence.
In silence, but not without communicating. At one point they pass a petrol station, and Brandon cannot help wondering what there is about such a mundane location to provoke that particular smile from Mary Anne-especially since a helicopter passing over the car a short time previous had elicited much the same smile. Brandon, however, is wise in the ways of Mary Anne and chooses not to press the matter, knowing how much more can be won from her by subtlety than by force.
Besides, whatever it is about the petrol station, he has no objection whatsoever to yet another response that it evokes in Mary Anne-for she slides nearer on the seat and snuggles in close to him, resting her head against his shoulder, and Brandon smiles, gathering her into his arms and holding her, stroking her hair, sliding one finger down her cheek for the pleasure of feeling that shift of her body, the sigh that breathes against him in the dark.
The warmth of her in the shadows . . . Brandon promptly decides that it is time to break the lengthening silence. "So, Mary Anne, what did you think of the performance?"
She laughs a little, producing a mangled handkerchief from her evening bag. "You have to ask?" Mary Anne smooths the wrinkles from the sturdy cotton square, whose only concession to romance and delicacy is a small tag of lace at each corner. "You see I was prepared tonight; none of those wispy little trifles!"
"Prepared, you say? I thought this was your first time for this show."
"It was. But I’ve read the novel, after all. I knew there were bound to be some moving scenes. You know how emotional I am-though it isn’t just me; half the people in the theatre were crying. And the ones who weren’t, should have been. Hearts of stone!"
Brandon knits his brows in puzzlement. "I could understand tears for Fantine. And Eponine. And little Gavroche-"
"Yes, wasn’t he marvellous?" puts in Mary Anne. "That little boy has lots of talent . . .although . . ." Sombre, now. "It must be hard for his mother, if she watches the performances often. I don’t think I could stand to see that, over and over . . ."
"But," persists Brandon, "tears for Javert?"
Mary Anne sits up and looks into Brandon’s eyes, astonished. "You weren’t moved by Javert?"
Brandon considers. "Yes. Or perhaps . . ." He frowns, thinking it over. "I could understand his dilemma, I suppose. But to be so pitiless, so implacable-"
"-yet not evil. He isn’t a bad man, you know-"
"It’s a distinction that would make very little difference to you, if you fell foul of him. Justice is a good thing, a noble thing; but this man is all justice, and no mercy-"
"He believes in order and builds his life around it. And it works for him, for a while. The trouble is, it leads him to a place in which he cannot bend without breaking, can neither forgive nor be forgiven." A pause. "There’s a name for that place, Christopher."
"And that would be . . . ?"
"Hell."
Miles pass in silence. The tears are glistening once more in Mary Anne’s eyes, and a lesser man would be dismayed, or would strive to turn the conversation into lighter channels. But not Brandon. Neither coward nor fool, this man, who knows this woman well enough to allow her emotions to have their way and pass on.
Her voice, soft as a breath. "Of course I pity him."
And Brandon’s reply. "So could I, after this." A gentle smile. "It’s that character of yours, Mary Anne. A woman who could pity The Interrogator would have little trouble with Javert."
Mary Anne knows Christopher Brandon almost as well as he knows her; this is teasing, but not mocking, and there is the brief sparkle of their laughter in the car as they pull up outside the Stag and Thistle, where Brandon helps Mary Anne from the car and pays the driver, who whispers to Brandon, "What was that show you just came from?"
"It’s called Les Miserables. From the novel by Victor Hugo."
The driver shakes his head. "Never heard of it. But I think I’ll have to go and see it, now."
Grinning, Brandon passes over some extra notes along with the fare, and turns to escort Mary Anne into the Stag and Thistle . . .
. . .and they are just in time to see what looks like a most unpleasant confrontation between Therese and a fan who will not be put off.
It is only in her peripheral vision that Mary Anne sees the motion, yet the distinctive style of the man rising from the table a short distance away catches her full attention, instantly. And Brandon’s. And that of almost all the other patrons . . .
Mary Anne’s breath locks in her throat. She has, of course, seen the transformation before: how the pleasant though enigmatic Mister I can slip into The Interrogator as easily as he might draw on a sleek black glove. But as many times as she has witnessed it, the process is still unnerving to Mary Anne . . . and never more so than now, when it seems that he shall become HE with some serious, true-to-life intent.
Mister I-but no, now he has become The Interrogator-rises from his seat, graceful and deadly as a cobra uncoiling itself from a snake charmer’s basket, and moves toward Therese’s unwelcome guest . . .
And Brandon, who has sized up he situation, takes Mary Anne by the shoulder and guides her unobtrusively to a back table-not that anyone is likely to notice them.
Later, of course, Mary Anne will smile to herself about the pub patrons who quailed before the presence of The Interrogator. But not now. Not at this moment, when her knees are weak with what she has just witnessed. When impressions are crowding into her mind: Looks like Therese is all right-good. And what about Cindie? Hmmmm, I wonder if there’s such a thing as dismayed admiration? And what about you, Mary Anne? Get a grip . . . looks like some people got carried away. "Ooooo, The Interrogator!" But then, how is that different from what you and Christopher were talking about . . .
The drinks arrive, and Mary Anne picks hers up, grateful for the distraction.
Brandon is watching her closely. "Are you all right, Mary Anne? Shall I take you home?"
She shakes her head. "I’m fine. It’s only that I’d forgotten how effective some things can be."
If Brandon does not understand, he conceals it well, and lifts his glass. "To . . ." His voice trails away, as he searches for a suitable toast.
Mary Anne does not have to search. "To the power of fiction." The glasses clink. "Cheers."
MA--yet another P.O.V. on the same incident, because it was so yummy I couldn't stand not to "be" there. Interrogator to the rescue--I love it! 8-D
R, dearest--"Some things can only be said in fiction, but that doesn't mean they aren't true." BTW, MA and Brandon's conversation . . . well, let's just say there's copious homage there. *wink*, - Sunday, October 08, 2000 at 18:25:36 (PDT)
And another thing.....Don't you just hate it when you log onto your favorite guest book only to find the same post you read the day before. I really hate that.
AR:Andy Rooney
- Sunday, October 08, 2000 at 15:37:55 (PDT)
Cindie--Ma and I met next door at the GB, and FOF became a joint passion, so much so that Karina was kind enough to create a separate page for Flights of Flancy. Suzanne has been an absolute wonder of an Empress. *flourish and curtsey* We could anticipate (or try to) *almost* every move--but never had the pleasure of a face to face meeting as yesterday (and today/tonight). Most certainly, Mary Anne is one of my dearest friends--though distance separates us in day-to-day life, and though we are different in many ways, we are as close as if we have been writing from the same book of life.
Forever. . . . because we have.
What a wonderful time we've had, dearest.
MA will check in when she returns home tomorrow--R, - Saturday, October 07, 2000 at 22:00:06 (PDT)
Claire and Renie, tsssssssss. H * O * T, calente!
Cindie
MA & Renie, from your posts I thought you two would have met ages ago!, - Saturday, October 07, 2000 at 14:27:05 (PDT)
"Have you any idea where we are?" Sinclair's finger tips drummed noiselessly on the leather steering wheel.
She sensed exasperation rather than annoyance. Perhaps post party had not been the best time for one of her famed map reading short cuts. Twisting the book round, she tried to make sense of the multicoloured spaghetti strung over the page, they seemed to have been lost for months.
Flashes of neon dissipated to a rosy hue as the giant wiper swept the screen. "This isn't quite where I thought, but I recognise the place. Can we errrrrr .... rewind? I think we have gone a little too far."
"Rewind?" Face furrowed into a suspicious frown, Sinclair let the window glide open to the elements. Leaning outwards he scanned the empty city street.
" You are a wicked woman!" Running his finger through rainsoaked hair, turning to his companion. "Is there an anniversery I have forgotten?"
She shook her head.
Slamming the automatic into reverse, he stepped on the pedal. The tyres shrieked against the curb until he abruptly cut the engine.
Reprise:
She turned the handle, but the card stuck fast.
He placed his hand over hers and reached round her, gently cajoling the plastic until it freed. He stood so close, they moved as one. They turned the handle together and the door opened ……
Lights from the Royal George Hotel lobby reflected on the darkened windows of a carelessly parked Mercedes.
Sinclair lay back, hands behind his head and watched her sleep. The sunlight through the windows illuminated a room scattered with clothes.
She lay there dressed only in his shirt. He smiled.
Claire
“So we found this hotel, it was a place I knew well, we made magic that night ….” Heart (31.10.97), - Saturday, October 07, 2000 at 08:55:52 (PDT)
Ahhhhh. Renie you cannot do this to me! Painting, of which I know we both have a print, is Chagall's Paris through a Window
And Paris, including Chenonceau, brings back such great memories of this past summer, right Dana? If you and MA have half the fun we did in Paris, right there in Memphis, then I'm surprised you can write anything at all in the morning!
Claire
Clinking the champagne glass to those FOF friendships, - Saturday, October 07, 2000 at 07:15:13 (PDT)
Scene: Interior of a plane. Not a Hansjet, but a large comfortable aircraft. Large, that is, for only two passengers. Seated in the First Class double seat, a slim, well-groomed European, and a slender dark-haired companion. She sits at the window.
Shhhht. She slides the shade up, and looks out at the edges of darkness beginning to settle below. From outside of the plane's porthole, her eyes, her face, look strange.
The noise of the jets quiets back inside. A pressured hum.
"I expect at this point I shouldn't ask how you arranged all this."
Hans shakes his head. Below them, Paris, receding from view.
"We deserved it." From nowhere, an attendant appears, as Hans removes his jacket, revealing a white shirt, and gold cufflinks with the Gruber crest. The jacket is whisked away. Comfortable, now, he reaches for her left hand, which stays exactly where it is, in her lap. His fingers open wide, then close over hers, as if they inhale when outstretched--then come to rest. They breathe, these fingers.
Though no other part of him touches her, she feels him everywhere. Paris has had its intended effect . . . Chenonceau had seduced her with its beauty, the Place des Vosges with its pensive spaces. And Hans . . . well . . . How, precisely, she had come to say yes to the whole idea of Paris was a harder question. It seemed to have been sprung upon her, without her realizing it. And now . . .
Without knowing that she been sighing softly, his companion shifts her weight. The plane pulls slowly to the right, but Hans does not release her hand. As soft as her sighs.
"There's matter in these sighs," observes Hans. Zighs. "Is the time out of joint?" Probing, lightly, this Germanic Hamlet.
"It was . . . " She cannot lie. " . . . wonderful. But . . . " This is difficult. "--your expectations--" She turns to him, as the words seem to require.
His hand rises, fingers stretching, seeming to withdraw. Her hand, once devoid of its blanket of warmth, feels a blast of cold from overhead. And then the tip of his middle finger touches the base of her chin. Lingers. His voice, low and confident.
"I expect nothing."
But you demand everything. The heat from his single finger on her chin rises up to her cheeks. How can you do that with your touch? Can you lead me anywhere, with one little finger?
"Then--your hopes. Call it what you will." She swallows. The finger does not move. The plane rises with an updraft. Paris at their feet. Paris in the dust.
His low voice, a whisper and yet a command. "Man cannot live without hope. Without desires. Without . . . "
"DESSERT!!!" announces the attendant, with a tray full of French delectables and an anxious-to-please grin on his face.
Cindie--I'm relieving MA and doing my own swooning! Claire and art hounds--The title of this post is a Chagall painting. Guesses? ;-) Thank-you, Therese for the getaway.
R (cracking the rusty joints) , - Saturday, October 07, 2000 at 03:05:48 (PDT)
Special Flash*****Stop Press*****
HOLLYWOOD BLAB
Mary Anne and Renie have been spotted together in a Memphis rib joint, and reports are that neither could restrain themselves. It has also been reported that a reservation has been made at Chez Phillipe, at the Peabody Hotel, under the name of Brandon.
When asked to confirm whether Brandon (or Hans) would be joining them for dinner, the mishchievous pair burst into raucous laughter and would neither confirm nor deny the possibility of those gentlemen (or others) joining them at Chez Phillipe. It is possible that only The Interrogator could extract that information.
The Interrogator could not be reached for comment.
--Renie (Yes, it's true the pair of us have finally met! *huge grin*)
MA--after all these years. And if Brandon, Hans, or other gentlemen show up, we'll post that too! 8-), - Friday, October 06, 2000 at 20:35:47 (PDT)
FOF, off set, The Stag and Thistle:
Patrick and Cindie sat sipping the last of their coffee. There was a period of silence between them, but it was not the uncomfortable silence of people who couldn’t think of anything to say. Rather, it was the companionable silence of two newly acquainted individuals very pleased to be in each other’s company. Finally Cindie stirred, “That was perfection, I could go for another one.” Patrick silently caught the waitresses attention and held up two fingers and pointed at his now empty mug. The waitress nodded and continued to thread her way among the patrons.
Cindie’s attention was now drawn to the crowd. They were three deep at the bar and there was some serious dancing going on as well. What a great place to people watch, she thought to herself. It suddenly struck her that there was a woman at the bar who looked very familiar. She craned her neck and was now certain she saw Therese. Therese, however had not noticed them, she was staring, her eyes fixed on the dance floor. Cindie began to follow her gaze to see what had captured her attention. Before she had a chance to determine what held Therese so transfixed she saw Therese stumble back and a man catch her as she righted herself. “Patrick, isn’t that Therese?” As she spoke it became apparent, even from across the pub, that the contact with her would be rescuer was not welcome.
“It certainly is.” Patrick’s eyes narrowed as Therese’s distress became apparent. “I’ll be right back.”
He got up and Cindie watched as he made his way through the crowd. It was amazing. People parted at his approach as if he was Moses commanding the Red Sea. He quickly arrived at the location where Therese was trying to extricate herself from the unwanted attentions of the male patron who held her arm. She couldn’t tell what Patrick said, if indeed he said anything, but the man let go of Therese as if she were suddenly a viper and turned very pale. He mouthed something and she lip read some of it to be “Interrogator”. The man turned back to his beer, trying to recover some of his lost bravado. Meanwhile, Patrick, his arm around Therese, was headed back to their table. It was very obvious that the populous of the pub, without exception, gave him a wide berth. If he noticed, he gave no indication.
As they approached, Cindie grabbed a chair from a nearby table and indicated to Therese that it was for her. Therese greeted Cindie warmly and they all sat down. “Therese,” Cindie asked, “what was up with that bozo at the bar? Anyone you know?”
Therese laughed, her composure now regained, “No, just an over-zealous fan who wanted to get to know me better than he ought,” she smiled.
“Yes,” began Patrick, “and you really shouldn’t be out alone…”
“Oh, hush,” interrupted Cindie, “I suppose you think a woman shouldn’t be allowed to go out by herself.”
Patrick seemed about to say something but seemed to think better of it. They chatted instead about various topics, including the, sometimes, problematic behavior of fans. Cindie was fascinated. It hadn’t occurred to her before, but of course these people she worked with were well known and had to deal with the fallout of appearing on a very successful program. The waitress arrived with their seconds of Irish coffee. Therese made a move to get up. Patrick began to stand. Cindie started to say, “Oh, don’t leave, it’s nice to talk outside of….” Therese sat back down with an expression on her face that Cindie couldn’t quite identify. This time she was able to follow her tablemate’s gaze. Eamon de Valera, and another man and woman were headed over to their table. “Hey,” Cindie said excitedly, “Isn’t that Hugh Laurie?” She didn’t immediately notice that Therese didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm.
Cindie
Oh, my hero, rescued a damsel in distress, doing some fanning of my own. (MA, thanks, I had hoped you'd like the delicate digits. They definitely do something for me! : ) ), - Friday, October 06, 2000 at 18:21:52 (PDT)
I think we're going to need a bigger table.
Cindie
Hope Cindie gets to meet Hugh Laurie!, - Friday, October 06, 2000 at 11:17:19 (PDT)
Magda-I know all about moving and Duct tape!! We moved into our new house in May...and we're still redecorating! But then it was a bit of a mess. Hope the house you're moving to is nicer than ours, and that your move is much, much smoother (not that it could be much more complex...)
Chris
Weekend, here I come-last one at the bar buys the drinks!, - Friday, October 06, 2000 at 09:03:37 (PDT)
Off set--The Stag and Thistle
Therese stepped backwards several steps, her movement a completely involuntary reaction to the sight of Eamon, her Eamon, closely entwined in the arms of another woman. Without realizing it, she backed into two patrons quietly enjoying their pints at the bar rail, and staggered crazily between the two stools. One of the men took her arm, and steadied her, admonishing her gently, "Time to leave off a bit, don't you think?" He paused at the obvious distress in her huge brown eyes, then recognition set in. "Why, I know you! You're the girl from that show!"
In the two years she had been on 'that show,' Therese had had no option but to learn about the delicate art of dealing with fans; her policy was to never refuse an autograph, but to not get too close, either. In this instance, however, she took solace in the man's obvious interest, and gladly slid onto the barstool he'd quickly vacated. "That would be me," Therese agreed half heartedly, "the girl from the show."
The dance floor had long since cleared as Therese sat between the two blokes, politely answering the questions she'd heard over and over again during the course of her career.
"What is it like to work with The Director?"
"Is The Interrogator truly caught this time?"
"Claudia hasn't really gone bad, has she?"
"Will George become sheriff again?"
And then the question that she should have expected, having heard it so frequently--it was the most frequently fielded query she dealt with: "Is your character going to marry de Valera?"
Suddenly wishing to be anywhere but where she was at present, Therese leapt off the barstool, as she apologized to her newfound companions. "I'm sorry, I've got to run--"
She was stopped by the man who had given her his barstool, his fingers gripping her upper arm in a way that immediately reminded Therese why she kept her distance from fans. There were individuals, especially those of the opposite gender, who would occassionally assume inappropriate familiarities because of a perceived closeness that didn't truly exist. It was something that still made Therese distinctly uncomfortable, and not even the advice from her far more experienced castmates served to reassure her.
"Where you going, luv?" he asked, pulling her back toward himself.
"I have to meet with someone, excuse me," Therese stated.
"Don't run off now, we were just getting to know you better," the stranger answered, tightening his grip.
Therese attempted to pull free from his grasp, her motions unsuccessful. "Unhand me," she stated, her voice gone cold.
The man ignored her, looking her over insinuatingly, all attempts at polite conversation eradicated. "Not good enough for you, am I?" he sneered, "maybe you just--"
The overzealous fan was interrupted by a deep voice, and an immediate parting of the steadily gathering crush of patrons. "I believe the lady asked you to let her go."
Startled, Therese looked up to see the familiar face of Patrick Mistral making her way toward them. Reaching the bar HE stopped, standing imperiously in front of the man who held her, HIS feet place shoulder width apart, arms crossed over HIS chest.
"It's The Interrogator!" Therese's fan dropped her arm instantly, and she quickly moved to HIS side. In another situation, the fan's reaction might have been comical, but at present, it barely registered. HE placed an arm around her shoulders, supporting her as HE lead her to another section of the establishment.
"Boy, was I ever happy to see you," Therese sighed, once HE escorted her away.
"Indeed," HE agreed, looking down at her with a raised brow. "Any special reason you're out in public at the weekend, sans escort? You know better," HE admonished gently.
Therese nodded in agreement, saved from having to respond by their arrival at HIS table. "Cindie! So lovely to see you here," Therese greeted the other woman warmly, accepting the chair that was offered as she effectively escaped any further remonstrations on HIS part.
The three co-workers sat chatting amiably for several moments, while Therese regained her composure--at which point she began to realize that her presence was, perhaps, an imposition. When a sever arrived bearing a tray containing two fragrant Irish coffees, Therese felt it was time to leave, and began to rise from her chair. She immediately sank back into her seat when she looked up to see Eamon, Hugh, and the vision from the dance floor headed their way.
*********************************************************** Chris: I wonder if I saw the Stag and Thistle when I was across the pond and didn't realize it? Was just trying to make up the name of one of those classicly Brittish sounding pubs! *g* Rickman Admirer: Aww. . .*blush* thanks! I'm glad someone out there enjoys reading my silly meanderings other than myself. MA: hot blooded? My Dev? ; )
Therese
- Friday, October 06, 2000 at 08:00:35 (PDT)
Cindie and Chris: thank you. Joya says hello and George offers a restrained scowl. Moving will take place on Sunday when the movers show up. Packing has been done all week. Most frustrating experience of anyone's life is boxing pieces of yourself and securing with duct tape. Post on the 10th.
Magda
- Friday, October 06, 2000 at 06:51:23 (PDT)
Oddly enough, there is a pub not far from where I live really called the Stag and Thistle, but it looks a bit rough so I've never been in.
Apologies for complete silence, I have work up over my eyeballs at the moment, and I'm in training all day too! I can work, or I can be trained, but doing both is making my poor little head spin!
Chris
I miss Magda too..., - Friday, October 06, 2000 at 05:13:53 (PDT)
Mmmmmm . . . Cindie's small hand in those long fingers . . . *fanning*. Melt-o-rama. "Warms you up," does it? ;-)
MA (Swooning by proxy for Renie!)
Stag and Thistle sounds great; perhaps Mary Anne and Christopher should stop in for a drink later . . . ?, - Thursday, October 05, 2000 at 20:54:17 (PDT)
The Stag and Thistle:
Patrick Mistral held out Cindie’s chair for her. After she was seated, he sat down in the chair on the other side of the table. The waiter appeared and lit the candle, telling them about the items featured on that day’s board of fare. They ordered drinks and dinner. Their conversation was casual and light hearted as dinner proceeded. Cindie talked about her recent move and the settling in process, her interest in the FOF and hopes to carve out a niche for herself there. Patrick reminisced about some of the more memorable moments on the set and behind the scenes. After they had eaten, Cindie broached the subject which had been preying on her mind.
“Patrick,” she began, setting the napkin down next to her plate and pushing the remains of her dinner (very scant remains) away from her .
“Yes.” He leaned forward slightly, giving her his undivided attention, with his hands placed one on top of the other on the table.
“I wasn’t being….. That is, this afternoon when I said….. Oh hell.” She took a deep breath and tried again. “Patrick, the reason that I left the set this morning was that it was too difficult for me to watch you work in character. I was not honest with you this afternoon. I apologize. Please forgive me.” She sat stock still, her eyes wide, looking into the depths of his gaze that had never wavered from her’s.
“Of course I forgive you.” He reached out his right hand and set it lightly on top of hers.
“I know you can forgive me for not being honest with you. You knew when we spoke that it wasn’t work that kept me away. But can you forgive me for being unable to stay on the set, for lacking the fortitude to watch you take on the Interrogator persona?”
While speaking, Cindie had, without realizing it, turned her hand and clasped Patrick’s. He now cupped her hand in both of his own. Her small hand was dwarfed in the embrace of his long delicate fingers. He looked at her earnestly, forming his words carefully as if to ensure a response grounded in, not only honesty, but a sincere desire to spare her from any pain. “Yes, you’re right. I knew why you’d left the set. At first I was …disheartened.” He looked away for a moment and then his gaze returned to her. “I had hoped, since you watched me work before, that you would be accustomed to the transformation that I must perforce undergo to achieve the necessary, ah…” he paused for a moment, “distinctive character of the Interrogator. I feared that for all our discussions that you really did see me as the dreaded Mr. I.” He said the last few words with a melodramatic emphasis. “Then it occurred to me, and I sincerely hope that I am right in this, that since you had been on the set in the past, watched my scenes with no trace of discomfort, that the difference now was that you had begun to know me, for myself, and that it was the dichotomy and not any similarities which gave you pause.” He finished speaking, and, releasing her hand, sat back in his chair and waited for her reply.
Her response was not verbal, but the look on her face conveyed to him everything he had wanted to hear.
The waiter appeared again, the table was cleared. “How about an Irish coffee?” he suggested. She nodded her assent. The waiter left and arrived momentarily bearing two glass mugs. They each took a sip. Patrick set his down. “It’s good isn’t it? Warms you up,” he said smiling.
She smiled back, feeling very warm indeed.
They fell back into a quiet and easy conversation. At one point Cindie became conscious that their surroundings had undergone a very slow but now distinct transformation. The quiet pub was now awash with patrons. There was music and the dance floor had become a very lively center of activity. Imagine her having been so preoccupied that she hadn’t notice the change as it occurred.
Cindie
I miss Magda! Is it too late to help her move? , - Thursday, October 05, 2000 at 18:54:38 (PDT)
The Imperial Palace, Guards’ Barracks:
"Excuse me, sir--!"
The Captain of the Guard looks up from his desk to see a young attending officer standing in his doorway, pointing out into the corridor.
"Forgive me for troubling you sir, but-"
The Captain becomes conscious of a strange sound out in the hall and, without a word, he draws his sidearm and joins the attendant, both of them staring speechlessly as the object materializing in front of them assumes the form of a large blue box with a light at the top.
The racket reaches a crescendo, then abruptly halts-and after a moment, a door opens in the side of the object, and out step two men: one tall and lean, with his hair wildly mussed in every direction, and one almost a foot shorter, looking as though his clothes have been assembled from the cast offs at the local white elephant sale.
It is the shorter man who is speaking to his tall companion: "-shouldn’t be any trouble; it’s not as if it’s the first time I’ve ever been here, you know-" Then, catching sight of the uniformed men staring at him, the short man beams and advances. "Oh, hullo. You can put those away, no harm at all." A gesture. "This one’s called Ed, and I am-"
"The Doctor," replies the Captain of the Guard, earning himself a stare from his attendant.
The Doctor is seldom caught off guard, and even now his startlement hardly lasts for more than a second. "Have we met? I don’t seem to recall-"
The Captain shakes his head. "No-at least, I do not believe we have." A slight smile. "We might have, though, upon another occasion, when you looked different." The Doctor is now regarding him appreciatively, and even chuckling a bit. "But I’ve listened to the fellows in UNIT often enough, when there’s a detachment here. And I’ve heard of the Brigadier’s ‘scientific advisor,’ and what to expect when a blue box appears out of nowhere."
The Doctor is now beaming openly. "Such an intelligent human! You’ll go far, I’ll be bound. But tell me-" A quick look at the rank insignia. "-Captain, this young man and I need to speak with Her Majesty as soon as it can be managed. Can you do anything for us, do you think?"
"I shall see what I can arrange. But first-" The Captain nods to his attending officer. "Cover me," he orders, and as the attendant keeps his sidearm at the ready, the Captain strides forward and, leaning down, puts his ear to The Doctor’s chest for a moment. The Doctor, however, seems to see nothing odd in this, merely waiting and, after a time, asking, "Well?"
The Captain straightens and nods. "If it’s a trick, it’s cleverly done. I’ll accept for now that you are who-" A tiny smile. "-you say you are. I shall contact Her Majesty immediately."
And in another part of the Palace . . . the dungeons:
The Interrogator listens as Claudia’s ramble continues, having retreated into a part of himself where he can think of his own concerns and listen to Claudia with only half of his attention. If only one of the guards had come when she had demanded ‘attention.’ If this continues, I shall beg The Empress for solitary confinement when I see her next . . . HE shifts uneasily where he is seated on the floor, trying not to think of what else he might beg for if that strange, daunting woman turns her notice in his direction once again; their last encounter was most unnerving and he cannot leave the memory in peace, but must turn it about in his mind, wondering how she had accomplished it, how she had reduced him to near panic with such effortless ease.
"-friends say they’re such beautiful boys-" Wistful. "-that they look like little angels. I tell them appearances can be very deceiving--!"
"Yes, they can . . ." HIS distracted reply, of which he is hardly conscious.
Then again, he would almost welcome another visit from The Empress, whatever she might be planning to terrify him. Terror, at least, is a stimulant of sorts, and so is anger . . . yes, HE is well-supplied with that, and would rather confront an adversary and face the prospect of galling defeat than stagnate here with nothing to occupy his mind . . . When next I see The Empress, I will pretend to show the proper deference. A little smile of derision at the prospect. My manners will be all that they should be. Perhaps that will gain me some privileges . . . something. They have a library here. Something to read, at least . . .
"-didn’t mean to bore you; I’m sorry if I seem to be just nattering on and on . . ."
"Not at all." HIS eyes closed. HIS thoughts far, far away. I can afford to wait. As yet, The Empress has done nothing. Not really. Shaken as he had been by that experience in the dungeons, The Interrogator knows the difference between scare tactics and purposeful questioning. And I’d have called her bluff, too-but I know she drugged me, no matter what she says to the contrary. HIS hands, once more curled into fists. One day, I SHALL know. That cold, heart-stopping smile. If ever HE has The Empress in HIS power, if their positions are reversed . . .
"-but it’s the only way I can keep from going crazy! All this waiting around. I don’t know what they’re going to do to me, and I’m scared-"
HE nods. "It’s the suspense, not the pain that will drive you mad."
The words have hardly left his lips when his eyes fly open.
Silence. Deep, echoing silence.
Slowly, The Interrogator rises to his feet, cursing himself for his carelessness. Of all of the foolish, stupid-and inyour own voice, as well!
He rises to his feet and moves toward the door, waiting for what must inevitably come, and it does . . .
As Claudia breathes, "You."
A blow to his pride, yes. A mistake. A slip. But a relief as well, to cast off that prisoner persona as one flings away a filthy, ill-fitting garment, and to draw about himself once more his full powers in all of their dark splendour.
"Yes," replies The Interrogator, who cannot keep the smile from his VOICE. "It is . . . I."
MA--sorry it took so long, Clods! ;-)
Hey, the caretaker does a good job; it looks very clean in here . . . , - Thursday, October 05, 2000 at 05:45:25 (PDT)
Echoing footsteps, whistling, sound of a broom brushing across the floor.
The caretaker stops, leans on his broom, scratches his head, and looks about the empty, and still clean set. "Must be some holiday no one told me about," he shrugged, and disappeared back the way he had come. "Time for a nice cuppa tea."
The caretaker
- Wednesday, October 04, 2000 at 19:17:24 (PDT)
FOF Parking lot:
Patrick Mistral looked at Cindie, trying to decide whether or not she was serious. Apparently she was. "Certainly, I know I place not far from here."
"Good, then get in, you can give directions and I'll drive," she indicated for him to go around to the other side of the car. He did so. They busied themselves for a moment tending to the business of settling belongings and fastening seat belts. "I hope you don't mind being a passenger, this way I won't lose you trying to follow your tail lights."
"It makes perfect sense," Patrick replied amiably, "I'll take a cab back later for my car."
"So, where to?"
"Turn left as you exit here, now right, just a half mile up there, the Stag and Thistle, its a nice, friendly place, I think you'll like it"
"You'll have to explain the name to me sometime."
After a short drive they arrived at their destination. Cindie parked the car and they walked the few blocks to the entrance. It might have been her imagination but Cindie was certain that Patrick had shortened his stride to account for her much shorter one. He opened the door for her and after conferring for a brief moment with the hostess they were escorted to a quiet table in the back. It was still early and the place was not in full swing yet.
Cindie
Do they have fish and chips here? , - Monday, October 02, 2000 at 17:35:17 (PDT)
Oh Claudia--such a simple but effective method! LOL.
Cindie
- Monday, October 02, 2000 at 12:32:58 (PDT)
After half an hour of listening to Claudia’s voice drone on, Mr I began to think she had learned more from HIM than HE’d realised - about torture.
“… and they have 2 weetbix for breakfast. It’s funny because when they were 2 they had 5 weetbix for breakfast, and now they are 5 they have 2. I don’t know - perhaps they were going through a growth spurt or something…”
HE realised he’d been clenching and unclenching HIS fists involuntarily.
“Stop!” he cried out, a bit of genuine distress in HIS voice. “I’m not listening, I’m not listening to you!” How HE was glad that this talent for inane chatter, that seemed never to run dry, had not manifested itself when HE’d seduced her. But collecting HIS thoughts HE realised how clever she was being, and she wasn’t disappointing HIM. Whether she had doubts about HIS fake persona or not, this tack would make the genuine or ingenuine prisoner say anything to get her to shut up - would either open up themselves, or let their guard slip and reveal themselves to her.
That is, anyone not as disciplined as HIMSELF.
Claudia
Pride leads to carelessness Mr I - be careful!, - Monday, October 02, 2000 at 00:42:28 (PDT)
Delaford:
Mary Anne heads downstairs, grimly determined to do something to make herself useful, though she cannot think of exactly what she can and should do. Miss MacLeod is certain to have the day’s orders well in hand, and Mary Anne is once again thankful that the housekeeper had taken a liking to her right away; without ever having managed a household, she instinctively realizes that one’s staff can make life easy or difficult. The other servants take their cue from Miss M and it would have been entirely possible for the staff, at her instigation, to carry out a campaign of insubordination without the least sign of outward disrespect. Instead, the household seems to have taken "the new Missus Brandon" to its heart, and Mary Anne has no desire to interfere in that by making too much of a nuisance of herself. The people here know their work; leave them alone to do it.
If not inside, then outside. Perhaps she should go to the stables and see if she can be of any help there? But something in Mary Anne shrinks from the idea; she would probably be in the way, with all the stablehands milling around, and another encounter with the distressed Therese and Dev into the bargain, and the injured animal-Mary Anne grimaces at the idea of the hurt mare, an animal in pain-and all of the other horses . . .
Mary Anne pauses on the stair landing and settles herself in a window seat there, looking out over the lawn, though not seeing it.
Horses.
Brandon had promised, long ago, that he would teach her to ride, but Mary Anne had not pressed him on the subject, for there had always been other matters of more importance. There had been some teasing exchanges, as when she had told Brandon she looked forward to being at Delaford to indulge the dogs and spoil the horses, but nothing had ever come of it and she had been content to leave the matter as it was, without ever admitting to herself . . .
Mary Anne shifts impatiently on the narrow seat. Not that she is afraid of horses. Of course not. Though they certainly are very . . . large. Huge, in fact. Not that it matters; Sir John’s mastiffs and wolfhounds are large and she had not been frightened by them, once she had seen they were friendly. Still, a horse . . . it is one thing to pet a horse and rub its velvety nose and feed it apple quarters, but it is quite another thing . . .
Mary Anne frowns, biting her lip. She had been on horseback once before, in Colonel Brandon’s company, on Edgon Heath.
At Hilltop.
Afraid? No. Not of the horse. Brandon had chosen well for her: a docile, surefooted animal that would not have shied from an earthquake, and he had been close by her through the entire ride, so close he could have grasped the reins and guided the horse himself, if need be. But Mary Anne, remembering that day, knows that it would have made no difference if she had been mounted on a medieval destrier of the most warlike temperament, or one of the fire-breathing, flesh-eating stallions of horrifying legend, or Pegasus himself; what she had feared from Brandon had overwhelmed such petty concerns as whether she might be thrown, bitten, kicked, or trampled. Her fears, of course, had been greatly misplaced, but real, and the memory is most unpleasant; she cannot help wondering whether she will always associate horseback riding with that stomach-tightening rush of anxiety and shame. What was it she had told Dev? That Brandon had not struck her, that he had not even spoken much . . . but that she never wanted to be that close to hell again.
"Mary Anne!"
Mary Anne turns from the window to see Joanna McCoy mounting the stairs. Grateful for an interruption to her thoughts, she calls down a cheery greeting, inviting Doctor McCoy to come and share the window seat.
McCoy pauses on the landing but does not sit down. "I was just on my way up to check Therese. That housekeeper of yours said she sent up some trays-" A chuckle. "-and that when she cleared away, there was nothing but crumbs. Now that’s more like it. If she keeps that up, she’ll recover just fine . . ."
Mary Anne smiles a little, remembering how often Joanna McCoy’s prescriptions for her own ills had consisted of one single word: EAT. But she had better be told, before she wastes a trip upstairs. "I’m sorry Joanna, but you won’t find Therese up there."
"Where, then?" Mildly startled. "After what she’s been through, to be up and about already-"
"Yes, I know, but-I wouldn’t call it up and about, not exactly. You see, I went to see her . . . to talk to her a little about . . ."
Mary Anne’s voice trails off and McCoy nods understanding. "I see what you mean. If anyone would know . . ."
"Well, yes, that’s what I thought, too. And I thought she might rest-that she should rest, so she could get better. But-" How to tell McCoy that her traumatized patient had gone chasing down to the stables after the wounded mare? "Well, as much as I talked with her, I don’t know if it did much good, and as for Mister de Valera-"
"De Valera? Again?"
Mary Anne pauses on the verge of explaining that even Dev had not been able to persuade Therese to stay in the room and rest, as McCoy rolls her eyes and flings up her hands in a gesture of exasperation.
"That-that-MAN!" she explodes. "That thick-skulled . . ." She is obviously talking more to herself than Mary Anne, who remains cautiously silent. " . . . knot-headed . . . the woman’s been through enough to kill her-one more day, a few more hours, might have done it, and how does he expect her to recover when he can’t even keep his hands to himself--!"
MA--happy moving, Magda. (I know, that probably sounds oxymoronic . . .)
Hasty, hasty, Doctor McCoy--she must think Dev is pretty hotblooded. Wonder where on earth she got that idea . . . ? *grin*, - Sunday, October 01, 2000 at 20:17:13 (PDT)
FOF Set, Cindie’s cube, continued:
The rest of the day passed in a haze. Cindie found herself, at the day’s end, sitting in her chair, leaning on her briefcase, staring into space. What happened? Breakfast with Patrick had left her breathless with possibilities. He had gone out of his way to provide everything for their get acquainted tea, lovely setting, music, food and her tea of choice. He had confided something to her, which, for whatever reason, he had heretofore kept to himself. He had been gallant and tender and had wanted to see her again. What happened?
You watched him take on his character and lost it dearie, she said half aloud. It was true. She had been shaken as she watched him slip into character. But why? She had seen him act before. She’d watched him play the part of the Interrogator. Seen HIM do horrible things. Observed HIM toy with Claudia in these latest scenes. She worked on the set -- all this was nothing new. She’d even chided him over scones this morning that she would never assume he and his role were one and the same. So why all of a sudden was it so disquieting to watch him turn into HIM?
She put her head down on her desk, pillowing it in her arms. This is crazy,” she thought. I’ve got to get over these silly schoolgirl misgivings.” After awhile she looked up at the clock. It was getting late, 6:30 Friday evening. There was almost no one left in the building. She stood up resolutely, picked up her briefcase and purse and, clutching her keys in her hand, she headed out the door.
As she walked to her car the sense of disquiet she’d felt before clung to her like an unwelcome aura. She picked up her pace, chiding herself for letting the events of the day affect her like this. Half way to her car she thought she heard footsteps behind her. This is getting ridiculous, she thought to herself. Of course she heard someone else heading out behind her. It was well past quitting time. Anyone left would be going to their car too. There were still a few vehicles scattered around the lot. She was almost to her car when she was struck with the certainty that the footsteps were echoing her own. Her car stood alone, just up ahead, under a lamp which arose from the darkness and bathed it in a pool of light. She automatically parked under a light if she could. Now she was glad her routine was paying off in welcome illumination. As she reached her car she whirled around, keys pushed forward as if a weapon, ready to confront her stalker under the light. Ready to scream and run more like it.
It was Patrick Mistral. He took one look at her, stopped dead in his tracks and put his arms out. “I didn’t mean to scare you. When I saw you leave and noticed how late it was…” he faltered here, seemingly uncertain how to proceed. “I just wanted to be certain you made it to your car safely.” His gaze became stern, “When you leave late like this you really should have someone walk you to your car,” he admonished her.
“Patrick, you scared me half to death. Why didn’t you say something?” She relaxed her stance and leaned back against her VW.
“I thought that would scare you even more,” he said levelly.
“Ouch.” She peered into his eyes, not sure what she was looking for, “I guess I deserved that,” she said.
His gaze softened perceptively as he watched her relax. He hadn’t meant to cause her alarm. Quite the reverse. “No, please forgive me. It was thoughtless of me not to realize my presence would be unnerving.”
“ No,not at all, really,” she reached out and tugged at the sleeve of his suit jacket. “It was very thoughtful.” Her hand dropped back to her side, “just unexpected. Not unwelcome.”
He smiled warmly. “I know I don’t have the right to be protective…” his voice trailed off and he shrugged, still smiling.
“Look,” it was now Cindie’s voice which faltered, “I’m still learning my way around, would you like to grab a bite? You could give me some pointers about the area and maybe let me apologize for not being completely honest with you this afternoon.”
Cindie
- Sunday, October 01, 2000 at 10:03:54 (PDT)
