Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Sentence changed.
A mistake? Too much to drink?
D.o.C.

D.o.C., could you please change the following sentence from: "They got wild, but this set's completely different," to: "They got pretty wild, but this one makes the GQ set parties look like a garden tea party," Thank you!
Sandy
-hit the blasted submit by mistake, grrr...., - Friday, June 30, 2000 at 14:46:27 (PDT)

Sandy pulled herself from the pool after George and Joya left for the cabanas, opting not to use the ladder and walked over to the bar, where Alexander was sitting with a ferocious scowl on his face. "You just can't resist, can you?" he grumbled as he sipped his drink.

Just then, a loud, deep baritone voice started singing from the direction of the set's entrance. In Russian...

Sandy
I'm in total agreement with Cindie & MA-WOW.... MA-good luck to you, - Friday, June 30, 2000 at 14:04:04 (PDT)

Just in time for the hoiday week-end, the July issue of The Monthly Rickmanista is on line, with new recipies from Mary Anne. Please come visit.
Fausta <emma-mail@mailexcite.com>
Here George, have some corn salad . . . , - Friday, June 30, 2000 at 06:19:39 (PDT)

Slight flashback:

As the infuriated George emerges from the pool, Brandon draws Mary Anne back to a safe distance and places himself protectively in front of her, waiting until George has gathered Joya into his arms and moved off with her toward the cabana area before giving Mary Anne the all clear and slipping an arm around her shoulders.

In the awed hush that follows George and Joya's departure, Ed's voice carries clearly across the pool. "So, Brandon! Fraternizing with the captives, are you? That won't do!"

Ed has helped the still-aggravated Claudia from the pool and the two of them are walking toward Brandon and Mary Anne, with the twins following along behind.

"This is getting less and less like a raid all the time," challenges Ed playfully as the group draws near. "Look, everyone's going to think the Avenger is going soft on us!"

Mary Anne is all set to respond with a prize-winning double-entendre, but Brandon heads her off, laughing, "So, you're quite the brute yourself, are you?" and looking pointedly at Ed and Claudia clasping each other's hands.

"Oh, I think she's suffered enough for one day--haven't you, Claudia?" is Ed's airy response, and Claudia's black look in the direction of the cabanas confirms it. "But Mary Anne, now . . ."

"So, you don't think being fussed at by The Director is enough suffering?" ripostes Mary Anne, grinning.

"Oh, that." A dismissive gesture from Ed. "He fusses at all of us, sooner or later. That's his job. But this calls for something special, you know. After all--" Wicked gleam in Ed's eyes, and Mary Anne shifts uneasily from foot to foot and thinks briefly of taking refuge behind Brandon again. "--part of this party, besides the FOF Anniversary, is your birthday celebration as well."

Mary Anne is still grinning (sort of) but she eyes Ed with death in her gaze and enunciates, "If you're thinking what I think you're thinking . . ."

"Nothing without your captor's consent," chuckles Ed, to which Brandon promptly adds, "AND that of Mary Anne," earning himself a grateful look from his captive. "Let's hear this idea."

"Right," agrees Ed cheerfully, drawing Brandon aside. "Claudia, make sure she doesn't run away now, will you?"

"Right," giggles Claudia, stepping forward to "stand guard" over Mary Anne, who rolls her eyes but makes no attempt to flee.

The women watch as the two men confer in whispers.

"Claudia," demands Mary Anne, "do you know what Ed has in mind?"

"No," replies Claudia in a mischievous murmur, "but it's bound to be interesting. Ed's an imaginative man, you know?"

A glare. "That's what I'm afraid of," snaps Mary Anne, as she sees Brandon start to smile, and then hears him laughing out loud.

I'm doomed, thinks Mary Anne. Absolutely doomed.

MA--in piratical peril!! =8-O
Wow . . . you go, George! *grin*, - Friday, June 30, 2000 at 05:55:37 (PDT)

Wow, I need a dip in the pool, a cold pool, after that one!
Cindie <cynthiagreen@ameritech.net>
- Thursday, June 29, 2000 at 18:24:27 (PDT)

George broke through the surface of the pool, tossing his head back and spraying a mane of water droplets. It had the double advantage of clearing his vision and annoying Claudia, who had come up immediately behind him and had just wiped her own eyes. She spluttered and thrashed wildly with her arms. Treading water by this time, George gave her an irritated glance. "Do you mind? I'm wet enough as it is." He struck out for the ladder, leaving long ripples and a furious Claudia in his wake.

He swam past several pairs of legs without paying much attention to them. It seemed to him that everyone was gathered around the pool watching. Some people obviously have nothing better to do, he thought. They'd better not be blocking the ladder. I wonder where the really big towels are.

With one last large splash he reached the aluminum railing. With a grunt he heaved himself out of the pool, climbing the rungs hand over hand. He paused at the top to catch his breath and let the heavy weight of the water cascade off his black costume. Those closest to the ladder fell back hastily, some of them too familiar with that set look of pale rage. His leather boots squished sickly on the tiles.

Claudia was cursing him with no little verve from the middle of the pool. George ignored her. He was busy scanning the crowd for someone else. Someone not immediately visible. Like a great lion he raked his gaze across the collection of faces without pausing. Two boys swallowed hard and stepped quickly behind a large potted palm. By the time he'd completed the arc of his glare, his brow was furrowed in a great frown. Joya wasn't there.

Which raised an interesting question: where, precisely, was she?

George sucked in his breath for a bellow designed to shake the kliegs in their sockets. He was in no mood to play hide-and-seek. Joya could bloody well come out of wherever she was hiding and apologize for abandoning him. He was cold, he was wet and he demanded satisfaction from somebody for it. His lungs were full and he was about to let loose when another thought struck him. Suppose she was still in the pool?

He spun around in his tracks, his cloak splattering everyone in the vicinity and raising a collective moan of outrage. George ignored it as he stared into the depths of the pool. It wasn't that deep. He could see the bottom. Surely he could see her if she was there. If only his brain didn't feel so frozen, if only he could think, where could she be? He stepped to the edge again, hands fumbling with the clasp of the cloak in his efforts to shed it before jumping back in.

"Look at me!" It was a petulant complaint from the far side of the pool. Three waiters jumped out of the way as George swung his gaze in their direction.

Joya was sitting on a plastic chair. Her long almost-sort-of-in-the-right-light blonde hair hung in soggy ropes almost to her waist. Her greenish-blue dress was crumpled, no longer clinging to every curve but draped limply over her form like a sack. "George, my dress is wrecked! My hair is ruined! I look just awful and I especially wanted you to think I was beautiful so you'd be proud of me tonight!" Her full lower lip quivered into a pout.

George stepped back from the edge. His hands, trembling slightly with suppressed emotion, succeeded in freeing his cloak and it fell with a solid splat onto the tiles. With careful, pronounced steps he crossed the floor towards Joya.

Some of the women looked at each other with alarm. Men tensed their shoulders and tried to calculate how fast they could reach the young woman in the chair if George should forget where he was. One of the waiters stepped forward but fell back immediately after he intercepted George's stare. The entire room seemed to hold its breath.

With one last loud squelch, George reached his destination. He stared down at Joya. For long moments he did not speak, then with a speed almost inhuman he scooped her up in his arms. Gasps burst from several female throats. She wrapped her arms around his neck, gazing into his fierce eyes with perfect serenity.

"Every other woman," he said with great precision, "is a flickering candle in the sun of your beauty." For another long moment she didn't respond. Then she smiled and leaned her head against his shoulder. George turned and headed for the cabanas along the wall. Everyone in his path stepped back as the silence fell in around them.

Magda
- Thursday, June 29, 2000 at 17:46:20 (PDT)

Sandy resurfaced from her dive just as a earth-shattering screech rent the air. "Jjjooyyyaaaaa!!!!" It was Claudia's voice. She whipped around in the direction of her panicked scream just in time to see Claudia crash into Joya with an "Oooofff!"

Her mouth opened in an O of astonishment as George, who couldn't absorb the combined impact of the two women, stepped backwards, lost his balance, and fell straight into the pool. "Uh oh, the crap's going to hit the fan now," she muttered as George resurfaced, red-faced and sputtering...

Sandy
Oh boy. . . , - Wednesday, June 28, 2000 at 18:58:29 (PDT)

George released Mary Anne's arm and shoved her almost roughly away. Brandon had saved his skin by removing himself from Joya's vicinity almost immediately after he'd bumped into her. George smiled grimily. At least one man had a strong sense of self-preservation.

But there were others. And the floor was turning positively lethal with great puddles of water everywhere. He watched as the two men dressed as pirates chased another woman across the set, shaking his head. You have to set an ambush, he thought. Otherwise it's too easy for the prey to get away. Amateurs.

Another shriek split the air. George tensed. That one had an all too familiar ring. He looked over his shoulder and saw Joya barely right herself after skidding through the largest puddle. He closed his eyes and muttered a short prayer under his breath. Then he opened them again and stalked across the floor to where Joya was panting for breath.

So intent on his quarry was he that the second shriek caught him completely by surprise. He'd just come up behind her when Joya threw out her arms and turned to run. They collided with an impact that knocked the breath out of her and the anger out of him. Leering grey eyes looked down into startled blue ones and then another scream split the air. They looked around and Claudia exploded into their midst.

George grit his teeth but he wasn't large enough to absorb the impact of another woman. Clutching Joya in both arms, Claudia plastered by the force of her slide against them both, he took three faltering backward steps -- straight into the pool.

Magda
- Wednesday, June 28, 2000 at 16:43:12 (PDT)

"Joyyyyaaaa!" squealed Claudia, running towards her at full pelt, closely followed by 1 large, and 2 small pirates, yelling bloodthirsty curses with gusto.

A little earlier, Claudia had marvelled at how elegantly Joya had slide on the wet tiles, on one foot, and hadn't over balanced once. Not even with that chest. No matter that it seemed to defy physics or gravity. She was obviously a genius. Of course chasing Joya had been of no help, her trip had been halted by the arms of a startled then bemused Sinclair, as Joya thanked him profusely for saving her life, bosom heaving in her 'distress'.

But back to the action at present, Claudia on the other hand, didn't react as well to a damp patch on the floor. Her arms cartwheeled wildly backwards, then she did an untimely half twist to see if her pursuers were catching up. This caused her legs to fly out from under her in a most dramatic fashion.

Joya watched the approach with amusement, then alarm, as a tangled of arms and legs, previously known at Claudia, flew through the air towards her. The landing, wherever it happened, would be spectacular.
Claudia
Sorry Magda, I've been so snowed under here! I'll try and post some more tomorrow, - Tuesday, June 27, 2000 at 19:57:45 (PDT)

Sandy stared at the diving board with a scowl. "You're going to make me do this, aren't you?" she grumbled. Alexander grinned rougishly, twirling an imaginary mustache as he brandished his prop cutlass. "Oh, all right Alexander, the Not-So-Great. I'll humor you." He chuckled in reply.

"And...." she raised her voice so the others could hear her quite clearly and an absolutely evil grin crossed her features. "You thought that that sand storm scene I wrote was pretty nasty, huh? You just wait until you see what I've got in store for you!" She crossed her arms at her chest and shouted as she bounced twice on the board and jumped up and back, tucking her legs underneath her. "By Grabthar's Hammer, I will be avenged! YAHOO!!!!!" SPLASH....

Sandy - ready, set, go, and running with it....
Good thinking, MA (both for Ed and defusing the George situation)....and thanks for the explanation. That just puzzled me when I first read it., - Tuesday, June 27, 2000 at 13:25:21 (PDT)

"It seems to me he's a little too interested in my co-star . . ."

Mary Anne, trying to ignore the uncomfortable grip on her shoulder, follows the direction of George's scowling gaze. Yes, Brandon is near Joya at the moment, but only pauses long enough to say, "Pardon me, please," as he passes her--and continues his direct progress toward Mary Anne, who supresses her gulp.

She has seen that look on his face before.

She leans toward George. "Yes, I know him." A conspiratorial whisper. "Tell you what--why don't I go and distract him, so you can attend to Joya? Does that sound good?"

"Perfect," growls George, as Mary Anne slides out of his grasp and moves toward Brandon. Seconds later, George looks again at his fingers and does a double-take at the retreating Mary Anne, but then thinks better of it and heads for Joya, intending to lay down the law to her in no uncertain terms.

Mary Anne, meanwhile, advances to meet Brandon, trying to keep a suitably docile expression on her face, as he struggles to maintain something approaching sternness on his. Neither party meets with particular success.

"It seems," Mary Anne offers meekly, "that there is no escaping the Avenger. So I've come to give myself up." She lowers her head, trying to conceal the smile flickering at the corners of her lips.

"A wise decision," is Brandon's grave reply. Then, more gently: "Are you all right?"

"Perfectly." No hiding the smile now. "It was fun!"

"Do you have any idea--"

Mary Anne forestalls him. "I won't be doing it again; don't worry. You don't have to tell me how dangerous it was--"

"Then I will," announces a VOICE from behind her, and Mary Anne turns to confront The Director.

Brandon shakes his head. He had hoped it would not come to this.

Mary Anne tries to lighten the moment. "Well . . . the Dread Pirate Alan, no doubt." (homage)

"No doubt." The Director lowers his voice. "Mary Anne, I'll keep this short. It worked--this time. It looked wonderful. But suppose it hadn't worked? Do you know how badly you could have been hurt?"

Mary Anne is about to fire back a sarcastic reply along the lines of, Why, sir, I didn't know you cared or some such, but she pauses to remember some of the injuries they have had on set. Even a mild sprain can hold up production, to say nothing of some of the accident-related injuries that have kept cast members out of commission for weeks on end. Expensive, that.

That alone would be reason enough to refrain--but, to do The Director justice, it isn't all about money, and she knows this perfectly well.

"I'm beginning to have a pretty good idea," she finally acknowledges.

Her tone tells The Director that she has taken the matter to heart. "Very well," he hrmmphs. "But if you ever do anything like that again--" Wicked gleam in his eyes, and he leans forward so that only she can hear. "--I will personally auction off your birthday spanking to the highest bidder! Or better still," he ruminates, "raffle it off, so that all the men could have an equal chance."

Mary Anne flushes crimson, but keeps her wits about her enough to grin. "Not a chance. You wouldn't do anything of the sort--you'd be afraid I'd enjoy it too much!"

"You're probably right, but don't press your luck," grudges The Director. "Enjoy the party--and Brandon, keep her out of mischief, can you?"

The Director turns away, and this time Mary Anne does give in to her impulse to stick out her tongue behind his back.

Without turning or breaking stride, The Director warns, "I saw that, Mary Anne." Leaving her speechless, he moves off toward another area in which trouble seems about to break out . . .

MA
No particular "rules," Magda--everyone just sort of runs with it! 8-), - Tuesday, June 27, 2000 at 05:58:08 (PDT)

Could someone please email me with the rules to this virtual party? I keep posting and waiting for responses and nothing happens. It's very discouraging.
Magda
- Tuesday, June 27, 2000 at 05:08:57 (PDT)

Sandy--Ed always has paint on him somewhere; he's an artist! Perhaps he, um, hand-painted his own Polynesian-designed shirt . . . *wink*

MA (thinking fast)
Yeah, good luck, Renie--if you need it. I know I shall . . . *gulp*, - Monday, June 26, 2000 at 18:59:22 (PDT)

Hi MA- just a quick question from your post from Wednesday about Ed that I forgot to ask earlier. How did he get into the paint?
Sandy -good luck, Renie!
- Monday, June 26, 2000 at 12:54:20 (PDT)

The arm is encased in black velvet and is surprisingly, uncomfortably strong. Mary Anne is startled for a moment before she looks up into George's laser-like eyes.

Then she becomes - just a bit - nervous.

"Can I -" She licks her lips and tries again. "Can I help you?"

"That pirate -" George nods in Brandon's direction. "Do you know him well? It seems to me he's a little too interested in my co-star."

Magda
- Monday, June 26, 2000 at 03:47:21 (PDT)

Chase scene:

Renie barely has time to exclaim, "We'd better split up, Mary Anne!" and dart away through the cabana area before Brandon and Hans have crossed the set and are almost upon them.

Crack up, more like, thinks Mary Anne as Hans veers off in pursuit of Renie, leaving her to dodge madly about in her efforts to keep a potted palm between her and Brandon, before she finally abandons this strategy and makes a run for it across the set, with Brandon right at her heels.

Once, Mary Anne is certain that she will be caught; Brandon reaches out and gets a fingerhold upon the beaded wrap, but the beadwork is unexpectedly smooth and glides away through his fingers, leaving him clutching a fistful of thin air as Mary Anne redoubles her speed--but even then, she knows that she cannot run much longer. It is not that she minds being "captured" by Brandon. Far from it . . . but her dramatic instincts are never far below the surface and she wants to make a good show out of it, first.

And then she sees her chance.

I just hope this works, thinks Mary Anne, rounding the corner of the pool with Brandon close behind her.

There, away from the edge of the pool itself, about six feet to one side.

The aftermath of the balloon fights . . . the sheen of water on the tile flooring.

Mary Anne heads straight for it. A brief flash from childhood passes through her mind: the thrill of a freshly waxed hardwood floor, and taking off her shoes, and getting a running start in her socks . . .

No time to shed her sandals. The film of water is just ahead . . .

With a last-minute prayer for survival, Mary Anne angles her body with her feet slightly forward, one just in front of the other, and launches herself into a magnificent sliiiiiiiiiiiide across the floor, putting distance between herself and her amazed pursuer as she hydroplanes across the slippery surface, her sandals cutting through the water and sending it up in a wake on each side of her feet.

"COWABUNGA!" shrieks Mary Anne, vaguely aware that a flashbulb has just gone off to one side of her--someone usually remembers to bring a camera to these parties--and wondering just what such a shot might have captured.

Brandon could tell her--Brandon, who has halted in awe and wonder and . . . well, yes, it must be admitted: the resolve to give Mary Anne a stern talking-to after the party, about pulling off such a risky stunt. If she had not hit that part of the floor just right . . . if she had skidded and fallen into the pool . . .

If, if, if, Brandon chides himself. For after all, none of these things have happened; for once, a spontaneous display has gone off exactly as intended, and Brandon will not soon forget the spectacle of Mary Anne skimming across the floor, the beaded wrap sparkling behind her like the arc of a comet. Still--someone will have to speak with her about doing such a dangerous thing. She would probably rather hear it from me than The Director. Very well, after the party . . .

As for Mary Anne, she is still speeding along, enjoying the rush of a stunt well-executed, the stares and calls of the spectators, the elation of outrunning (or at least outsliding) the pursuing Brandon--enjoying everything, until a long arm reaches out, snags her by the shoulder, and neatly reels her in . . .

MA--well, he's not the only one who can do the slide . . . ;-)
Looks like I'm in trouble with Brandon (again), R--how are you doing with Hans?, - Sunday, June 25, 2000 at 20:01:19 (PDT)

Sandy couldn't help but laugh when she saw Mary Anne and Renie emerge from the cabanas, Brandon and Hans pursuing them after Mary Anne did her 'moose antler' bit. "I think we may need to have another balloon fight in order to defend ourselves against the men," she remarked to Lis as Dev and Therese ran by.

Alexander's eyes glittered as Sandy moaned softly, "My parents are right: I DO have incurable foot-in-mouth disease...."

Sandy - uh oh, the wrath of George....
Oh MA- booga-booga! ROTFLOL!, - Saturday, June 24, 2000 at 18:21:38 (PDT)

George craned his neck around a potted palm in his effort to keep Joya within view. He cursed under his breath as she slid precariously close to the edge of the pool before regaining her footing. To his further annoyance, three waiters stopped to stare open-mouthed at her.

He promised himself that as soon as she came back to the bar, he would march her across the set to the costume department and find a shawl to drape around her shoulders. Preferably one that was long enough to trail on the floor. The woman needed protection from herself.

It had been this way for months. Joya had a wonderful ability to wrap men around her little finger and get them to do anything she wanted. He'd watched in contempt as crew members raced around to get her glasses of water or to make sure she was sitting on a thick cushion or didn't have a breeze blowing on her. It was ridiculous the way they made fools of themselves.

Except for himself, of course. He'd been immune to her charms from the beginning, as she'd admitted to him after they'd worked together for a few days. She'd looked at him with those clear blue eyes and expressed her admiration for his strength of character. She never expected him to do any of those little cosy acts for her and had even rolled her eyes along with him when some of the callow puppies around her were particularly servile.

He settled back against the bar. The sole action he was prepared to take on her behalf was to keep her out of trouble. She was so independent! Thought she could do everything and anything herself, and then gazed at him limpidly when he was forced to get her out of trouble.

Suddenly George sat up straight. Was it his imagination or was one of the would-be pirates paying too close attention to Joya? He grit his teeth and slammed his drink down on the bar. It was that damned dress. To hell with waiting for her to come back. They were going to get that shawl now, whether she liked it or not. And he was going to tell that pirate to watch himself. Pushing the glass aside, George started menacingly across the floor.

Magda
- Saturday, June 24, 2000 at 17:14:15 (PDT)

The "pirate invasion" continues:

"What are they going to do, do you think?" says Mary Anne to Renie, as they watch from their hiding place among the cabanas. Mary Anne feels quite free to speak in a normal tone of voice; if she whispered, Renie would never be able to hear her over the giggles and squeals as the men fan out in their woman-hunting raid.

"Whatever it is, I don't think it'll be anything too terrible," snickers Renie.

"You think not?" A little pout of pretended disappointment, which transforms into a grin as they listen to the women.

"I think not," re-asserts Renie, wearing a grin of a different sort as she fixes her eyes on Hans. The Corporate Raider stands near the food tables, his arms crossed, his head lifted, and his expression set into such a self-parody of a masterful sneer that it is all the two women can do to avoid falling about in laughter once again, especially when the elegantly self-possessed Raider has to dodge out of the way to avoid being run down by Dev as he pursues the fleeing Therese. "Fleeing," that is, if pausing every few steps to look over one's shoulder and stick out one's tongue constitutes a serious escape effort.

Mary Anne shakes her head. "An Irish pirate?"

"Well, Dev has that Spanish blood--and some of the Spanish that survived the Armada wound up in Ireland, so I guess it's possible." Renie has not taken her eyes from Hans. "But a German pirate?"

"Well, of course," replies Mary Anne. "Haven't you ever heard of the Hanseatic League?"

A grooooooan from Renie, which stops abruptly as she observes Hans, who has been joined by Brandon. Together, the two men are intently scanning the set.

Mary Anne steps further back into the shadows. "They're looking for us, you know." She would whisper, but in the bedlam of the raid, she can hardly make herself heard in anything less than a shout.

Wicked chuckles from Renie. "Well, shall we give ourselves up now, or make it interesting for them?"

"Oh, yes, by all means--let's make it interesting . . ." And before Renie can stop her, Mary Anne steps out into full view and puts her hands up to her head, wiggling her fingers "moose antler" style and making booga-booga noises.

In less than a finger-snap, Hans and Brandon catch sight of her and launch themselves across the set in hot pursuit . . .

MA--not exactly the Pirates of Penzance, are they? ;-)
Posting in haste--hope I don't repent at leisure! (Thanks for all the birthday cards and good wishes, BTW) , - Friday, June 23, 2000 at 05:26:13 (PDT)

Slight flashback prior to the FOF "Pirate Invasion":

"Well..." Sandy said with a wicked grin crossing her face as she lifted a piece of grilled shrimp. "He's the most charming...uh...snake in the grass I've ever met," she chuckled, Lis joining in.

Sandy - Happy Birthday, MA!
Sorry, I can't drink champagne, but I'll join in the toasts with a glass of vintage Reisling instead...yum!, - Thursday, June 22, 2000 at 13:19:22 (PDT)

Correction made.
Launched me pirate ship yet?
D.o.C.

D.o.C.--"Hans and Brandon are no longer standing . . ." Not "not." Thank you.

MA--tying myself in "nots" (making it easier for the pirates to capture me, I guess)
And it was the champagne talking, not the "champage." *hic* No sham page, this; it's the real thing!! 8-D, - Thursday, June 22, 2000 at 04:39:41 (PDT)

"Oooooo, Renie!" squeals Mary Anne in glee over the miniature sword--yes, perfect in every detail. Her eyes glittering maniacally (or perhaps mai-tai-ically), she grasps it and flourishes it about as if it were the full-length version. "Stand back, Musketeers!" Striking a pose. "They shall sample my blade!" Rotating half-steps, jabbing in every direction. "Ho! Ha! Guard! Turn! Spin! Parry! Ha--THRUST!!" (Copious homages, of course, with more to come.)

"Feeling a bit daffy?" deadpans Renie.

"More than a bit," replies Mary Anne with an absolutely straight face. "This sort of thing never happens to Errol Flynn."

"Maybe to Errol Venn. Emma could probably tell you, but I'll bet she won't." A teasing grin. "I guess this means maybe you like it, then."

Mary Anne gives Renie the fish eye. "Ho, ho, very funny. Ha ha. It is to laugh." Then, cracking a smile. "As if you have to ask. Thank you, dearest." A glint. "You always know the right thing to give."

Before the glint can become a glimmer--and after that, the deluge--Renie smooths her hair into place and risks a quick peek out at the party. "Is it safe to go out, do you think?"

Mary Anne edges out and looks around. "The balloons have stopped flying . . ." She frowns a little--then notices that several of the men are nowhere in sight. Hans and Brandon are no longer standing near the cabana area, nor is Mister I, and several of the other men appear to have gone missing as well.

She points this out to Renie, who glances about and then shrugs a little. "Well, far be it from me to point out the more indelicate side of life, but they may have had, um, some business to attend to . . ."

A pshaw noise from Mary Anne. "It's women who go to the bathroom in groups--not men! No," she murmurs, stepping further out, "I don't see them anywhere. No sign of Christopher . . . I don't see Hans, or Mister I, or . . ."

From her vantage point, Mary Anne can see the women gathered in small groups, talking, and if she is any judge of their expressions, they are puzzling over the mystery of the missing men.

"I'm sure there's a simple explanation--" begins Renie.

A bloodcurdling noise rends the air.

Renie gulps. "What was THAT?!"

Mary Anne is shaking, though Renie cannot tell whether it is from fear or laughter--or both. The piped-in music has changed; the drums are insistent . . .

Mary Anne points, still quivering. "THAT, dearest--" She raises a shaking finger. "--is the simple explanation."

"ARRRR, mateys, shall we sail to Panamarrrrrr?" "Aye, captain! But first--a RAID!"

Renie's eyes widen to their full limit, and Mary Anne's are not far behind. "Am I seeing things?" squeaks Renie.

"If you are, then I am, too. But you thought of this ages ago--you mentioned it to 'Mary Anne' in one of your letters!"

"Well, I didn't think they'd actually DO it!"

Do what? you ask.

The missing men have reappeared . . . in cobbled-together pirate costumes. Or suggestions of costumes: the idea is clear enough. In the case of Hans, all that is necessary is a black eye- patch, and he has the style to look--well, piratical, whereas most men would simply look like an advertisement for Hathaway shirts.

Mary Anne and Renie shrink further back into hiding, certain that this time they shall certainly die laughing. "Oh, no," moans Mary Anne in mock terror. "It's the Teutonic Terror--the Corporate Raider!"

"Attila the Hans!" contributes Renie, as they fall about in the cabanas, laughing themselves into conniptions.

Yes, it is the Corporate Raider himself, with Brandon the Black Avenger, and Ed the Red-Handed (couldn't quite scrub off all of the paint), and Demon de Valera, and a host of others, all turned out in some pretense or other of piratical rig and armed with prop cutlasses, swords, and daggers, which they flourish to squeals of appreciation from the women on the set--that is, until Ed gestures with his wooden mock-up of a wicked-looking Malay kris and orders, "To it, men, and let not a woman escape!"

MA--thank you for the present, dearest.
And here's a silly present back, for everyone. Must be the champage talking . . . ;-D, - Wednesday, June 21, 2000 at 21:16:24 (PDT)

Paragraph made.
'You sure?
D.o.C.

I mean paragraph after "you . . . You"
Silver chains to match MA's footwear . . .
- Wednesday, June 21, 2000 at 13:17:55 (PDT)

DOC--paragraph, please after V, V comes after you.
At your mercy...
R, - Wednesday, June 21, 2000 at 11:56:08 (PDT)

"As I'll ever be . . . except, dearest--well, there's one thing I want to tell you." Renie's green-flecked eyes seem to fall to the floor of the cabana, and do not rise. Mary Anne, ever ready to support, listen to, and chat with all those she cares for, sweeps aside her beaded wrap, the translucent pleats concealing themselves like rows of floating pillars which frame an angel in a temple of mist.

"Renie--whatever it is . . . " she begins.

Renie's face, still glued to the floor. Her long hair dances as she shakes her head slowly. "This reminds me of that scene--remember when I told you--that HE had been my husband?" Renie bites her lip.

"As if I could forget. I think we raised a few eyebrows that day." Then, more gently, Mary Anne urges her friend to unburden herself. "Is it here that Renie and Mary Anne will 'talk?'" (homage)

A smile, for that one. And Renie raises her head. "You always know just what to say." A deep breath, and then . . . Alright, I can't keep this to myself any longer." Renie takes Mary Anne's hands. Looks directly at her dearest friend. "Mary Anne . . . Happy Birthday!"

It takes only microseconds for Mary Anne to react--to grab the nearest green and white striped cabana pillow, and fling it at Renie, who ducks. A *crash* as the pillow hits the blinds, rattling them. "Oooooh--you! Don't worry me like that! You, you . . . "

"V-V. V comes after 'U'."

"I'm coming after you!" In the space of one minute the cabana has been reduced to a war zone, pillows, cushions, towels, all used in the brief battle.

Mary Anne is a one-woman pillow tornado. "What say you, will you yield?" She holds the advantage, and a large round neck pillow, brandished as a rapier.

"All right! All right" Truce!" pants Renie, holdig up her arms as Mary Anne nails her again on the shoulder. "I can't even see!" Her hair, like Cousin It, wildly in her face. "Wait. No really, wait!"

As Mary Anne pauses, pillow still in hand, Renie reaches into a purse, and pulls out a small wrapped gift. "Here. Peace offering."

Mary Anne drops the pillow. With a look of childish anticitpation, Mary Anne opens the gift. The tissue paper falls away. "Oh, Renie--" She lifts the glittering gold piece from the small rectangular box. "

"It's a letter opener. I hope I got the design right. The Winterbourne family helped make it. Metalworkers, too."

Mary Anne turns it over and over, as Renie continues. "There's a small case for it, underneath."

Camera, if camera there was, would now be in close-up. A five-inch long replication of the famous shimmering Aurientine, in gold.

Happy Birthday MA! :-)
R, - Wednesday, June 21, 2000 at 11:54:12 (PDT)

Aftermath of the water balloon fight:

Therese thinks to outrun the pursuing Dev by dodging in and out among the set decorations and hiding herself, but Dev--carrying an armload of water balloons--finally corners her near a cluster of potted palms and she makes an effort to give in gracefully, laughing a little and looking him in the eye, hoping not to get too drenched. Not that it will make much difference, though, she thinks, running a hand through her wet hair and pushing it away from her face.

Dev, however, has other plans, for after a moment of suspense in which he eyes his prey with a lethally raised eyebrow and a sinister grin, he tucks his cargo of water balloons into the crook of one arm, holding them carefully against this chest, while he reaches out with the other arm to encircle Therese and bends down to press a kiss against her damp hair. "Enjoying yourself?"

Therese sighs and snuggles against him. "Yes. I think everybody needed this. There've been so many intense scenes lately that I think we were all about to explode from the stress."

"Well, this should certainly take care of some of that. Things are getting pretty wild."

"You think?" queries Therese, glancing about the set. "I mean, it's a great party; don't get me wrong. I think everyone's having fun. But as FOF parties go . . . well . . ." She looks up at her companion with a wicked grin. "It's just a shame, I think, that we weren't here two years ago . . . why Eamon, you're never blushing, are you!"

"That's not a blush," retorts Dev, as the colour surges into his face. "Yes, I heard all about that party--" Witheringly. "--and I give thanks to my Maker I was not there."

Chuckles from the unrepentant Therese. "Oh, c'mon, Eamon, you would have fit right in. Talk about the wearin' o' th' green . . . maybe a little green g-string? With shamrocks?"

"The wearing of anything had very little to do with it, from what I've heard--"

"Don't sulk," soothes Therese. "Besides, you seem to be wearing the green well enough, tonight," as she admires Dev's tall figure clad in dark emerald trunks. "Very handsome." She makes an mmmmmm-ing noise of extreme contentment. "You may just have to leave this party a bit early . . ."

"And so may you." Dev returns the compliment, smiling at Therese's sleek black suit--technically a two-piece, but the pieces are joined by a complex arrangement of black straps. "A suit like that is bound to attract Mister I's attention, and that of every other male on the premises. I'll have to rescue you from their ardent advances, and . . . whatever."

"Lots of whatever," giggles Therese. "Thank you for the compliment, Eamon. That's sweet of you." She reaches up to hug him, and squeezes--hard.

All of the remaining water balloons, so carefully cradled in the crook of Dev's arm, burst--simultaneously.

He opens his arms, and the sodden scraps of rubber fall to the floor. Squish. Squelch.

In "slow burn" mode, Dev silently contemplates the soggy remnants. Then his dripping chest.

And then, Therese.

"Oooooops." Demurely.

Then, after another look at the Irishman's glacial stare, Therese turns and flees, laughing, as though for her very life.

It would be an understatement to say that Dev "pursues." His looooong legs devour distance as he thunders past the pool, never taking his eyes from the petite blonde target who is barely a step ahead of him, though her near-hysterical laughter rather hampers her ability to run--

"Dev, what in the world--!"

Dev skids to a halt just long enough to answer The Director. "She--did you see--that--arrrrrr . . ."

"Well, that's no excuse for obscenities," admonishes The Director, his lips curling slightly into a grin, and after a moment Dev echoes the grin and picks up his pursuit of Therese, who has now gained a considerable lead . . .

MA--good to see that Grace and Hart have arrived. Glad they could make it.
Get well soon, Therese!, - Wednesday, June 21, 2000 at 06:04:35 (PDT)

"I don't think anyone has noticed us. Which is a good thing at the moment, I think," Grace muttered from the far end of the bar, trying to drink out of her mai tai glass and speak at the same time, a little paper umbrella shielding her mouth from Hart's view. He said nothing as he took in the cavorting around him on the edge of the pool set, an elegant lift of the eyebrow his only acknowledgement of the lovely Joya gliding past on the wet floor, Claudia in hot pursuit.

"Fascinating," he said, sotto voce . Grace wasn't sure she had heard him speak. "What was that?" she asked, pitching her voice above the growing party pandemonium. "Nothing, darling," he replied absently, bending closer to her, his lips brushing the frangipani blossom in her hair. She had bought it in the airport on Kauai just as their flight to Los Angeles was called; it was still fresh and vibrant, while to Hart their vacation seemed long past. "Just considering a problem of aerodynamics. Or is it hydraulics?" he replied. She looked at him, puzzled, as her foot kicked the carryall she brought from her house.

"Um, do you think we should? You know, the stuff we brought? It might not be right for this crowd." Her tone was tentative.

"Absolutely," he breathed, his eyes meeting Joya's for an electric instant before her attention was caught elswhere.

"Very well," she said, unzipping the carryall and handing him a container. "Be careful with it. Wouldn't want to spill it."

"No dear," he said, carefully, concentrating on what he was doing while signalling the barman. She held her breath, then he handed her a small glass, then he filled one for himself from the container.

The barman leaned closer. "Is that what I think it is?" he asked. He had worked many FOF parties, but had never seen this before, although he had heard of it. His eyes widened. "I know what that stuff is," he said accusatorily. "And I'm not sure I can let you have that here. It's. . . it's. .. Jello!"

Leigh
Great fun so far. . . hope we're not too late, - Tuesday, June 20, 2000 at 22:52:56 (PDT)

"I'm supposed to wear what?"

"Come on, PL. It feels great to get out of those wagon train clothes."

PL's eyes slid appreciatively over Dana's attire. "You've certainly slipped into something more comfortable."

"It's a tropical beach party! Come on, get into the spirit of the thing. We've all earned a break and it's our 3rd year here! I found the perfect thing for you down in wardrobe." PL made a great show of indulging Dana as he allowed himself to be led into the adjoining bedroom where his clothes had been laid out.

"Good Lord, woman! Pink flamingos?"
Dana
better late than never, I hope!!, - Tuesday, June 20, 2000 at 20:33:54 (PDT)

Claudia frowned. "It doesn't seem to want to stay up."

Joya gave the offending strap a discreet tug. "Actually it was designed that way. It keeps George's mind occupied." She smiled.

They wandered around the room, dodging flying lumps of colourful rubber and gelatin, oohing over the decorations hung from the tent poles and trying not to lose their drinks. Joya looked over her shoulder once at the smouldering George left at the bar, his triumph in torturing vegetation unappreciated. He was definitely pouting.

She pondered whether to rub it in by raising her glass to him. At that moment Claudia exclaimed "Look!" in a pleased voice and Joya turned her head swiftly in that direction. It was a mistake. They'd reached a part of the floor slick with water and her feet shot out from under her.

"Oh!" She threw her arms in the air and skidded along the tiles in her evening sandals, arms akimbo and hair in total disarray. Claudia grabbed at one arm but wasn't quite fast enough to prevent the consequences...

Magda
- Tuesday, June 20, 2000 at 19:55:00 (PDT)

I guess running away after the water fight is why Claudia collapsed so breathlessly at the bar! *laughing*

MA--no need to call in Celestial Operators, is there?
Timing is everything--post early and often! 8-), - Tuesday, June 20, 2000 at 19:36:42 (PDT)

Mary Anne and Renie, hiding out among the cabanas:

"It is a nut farm out there," whispers the awed Mary Anne, peering out at the party.

Water balloons are flying thick and fast. Claudia and Therese have mounted an attack on Ed and Dev and seem for a moment to be making some progress--but Dev, true to Renie's prediction, reveals himself as a cunning strategist and topples the "carpet palm," quickly unrolling the rug and extending it to Ed, who catches on instantly and grabs the other end to form a shield against the barrage of water bombs.

"Look," murmurs Renie in amazement, sneaking peeks as she struggles to change her clothes in the confined area. "Isn't that Sei? He hasn't shown his face around here for ages!"

It is indeed Sei, turned out in black trunks and a white wraparound shirt reminiscent of a karate gi, dodging about the set with near-balletic grace and an enigmatic smile . . . which widens as he manages to catch some of the flying balloons, cradling them gently in his elegant fingers so that they do not explode, and then depositing them in the rug held out by Dev and Ed, who briefly contemplate their formidable pile of ammo before turning toward Claudia and Therese with wolfish grins.

"Uh-oh," gulps Claudia.

"I couldn't have said it better myself," agrees Therese, who launches her last two balloons at Dev and then makes a run for it, followed closely by Claudia.

"Enough of water hast thou," smirks Renie.

"More than enough," replies Mary Anne. Therese and Claudia have passed out of her line of vision, but she can hear splashes and shrieks. "Say, who's catering this party, anyway? Bet those balloons are filled with Evian, if the food was any clue. Swordfish doesn't come cheap."

Her attention is caught, then, by Hans and Brandon, who have moved fairly near the cabanas and appear to be deep in conversation. It occurs to Mary Anne that the men may have seen them go in and are "guarding" them, while giving no appearance of doing so. Sweet of them. But I wonder what they're looking so serious about . . .

Hans and Brandon are joined shortly by Mister I, who is snacking on pineapple rings and extends another plate of delicacies for their approval--and wins it, as Hans nods appreciation for a skewer of grilled shrimp.

Mary Anne nudges Renie. "Look."

Renie looks. The conversation among the three men has taken on a distinctly conspiratorial air, and Renie and Mary Anne exchange glances while trying to overhear the talk, but they cannot.

I've got a bad feeling about this, thinks Mary Anne. No. Wait. Wrong movie. Aloud, she says, "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," replies Renie . . .

MA--I just knew that rug would come in handy. *grin*
White shirt for Claire--and the pineapple rings for you, Clods! ;-D, - Tuesday, June 20, 2000 at 19:32:26 (PDT)

Claudia appeared, laughing breathlessly and collapsed into a seat on the other side of Joya at the bar. “Another daiquiri please!” She hailed the bartender, then turned to Joya. “Hi! I’m Claudia. Joya isn’t it? I wanted to say I was very impressed with some of your scenes. You being in a closed set with George can’t have been an easy thing. I was impressed with the way you handled him.”

“Thank you,” said Joya, adjusting a strap. “And your choice of scenes, are um,” she seemed to be thinking of a kind way to put it. “…interesting.”

“Come on,” said Claudia grabbing her drink, and grabbing Joya’s arm. “Let me introduce you to some of the others, and let’s get this party going!”

“Aha!!” exclaimed George, finally harpooning his olive, then turned round to see his co-star rising from her seat. “Hold on just one moment, where do you think you’re going?” said George, waving the spiked olive in the air.
Claudia
- Tuesday, June 20, 2000 at 19:01:09 (PDT)

Whap! The assorted items on the bar jumped as George tried to harpoon an olive from three feet away. He frowned in concentration but the curve of the fork defeated his efforts everytime. On the other side of the bar, the bartender took advantage of the pause to grab another wine glass before leaping back out of range again.

"If you're through playing, you could get me a wine spritzer."

He looked up, startled. Joya was back, sliding onto a raised chair and folding her arms on the bar. She slid him a sidelong glance and smiled. He took care of the request and watched her sip her drink.

"And did the...gentleman take care of your strap?" He couldn't quite keep the inflection out of his voice.

"No. He'd disappeared by the time I got there. So I wandered around but no one wants to talk to me. I'm going to give it another half hour, then I'm taking off." She ran her finger up the stem of the glass and along the bowl to the rim.

"I'll take you home." It wasn't a question; from experience, he knew it was better to make a firm declaration.

She shrugged. "That's not necessary. You've got a role here. I don't. You should stay."

He looked at her for a long moment, then signaled the bartender again. He put in his own order, then slid along the bar until they were side by side. "Let's give it half an hour, then see." He toasted her with his glass. She smiled.

Magda
- Tuesday, June 20, 2000 at 18:11:32 (PDT)

Sandy--re: Valmont's first name. Lis sometimes refers to him as "ratbag," but somehow I don't think that's quite what you're looking for . . . ;-)

MA
Perhaps he grew up in that infamous quarter of Paris, the Sac aux Rats?, - Tuesday, June 20, 2000 at 17:40:54 (PDT)

Sandy turned around and smiled warmly at the person standing behind her - a tall, elegant and drop-dead handsome bearded man dressed in creamy linen. For some reason, the straw hat he wore on his head did not detract from that elegance. "That's quite all right, no harm done," she said. "And yes, I am new here. My name is Sandy. And your name is...?" she trailed off.

Just before Valmont was about to ask Sandy another question, moving closer to her as he did so, a loud shout interrupted him. "LOOK OUT!!!!" The two looked up just in time before...

Sandy - hey, what's Valmont's first name? I can't remember if it's mentioned anywhere.....
Thanks for wishing me luck - I may indeed need it..., - Tuesday, June 20, 2000 at 17:06:30 (PDT)

George waved the fork back and forth in the air. "Now come on, how do you know you don't like it, if you haven't even tried it? Hmm?" The aroma of swordfish left faint traces in the air.

"I didn't say I didn't like it. I said that I didn't want you feeding me." Joya pouted and pointedly turned her back on him, leaning against the bar and tracing a water stain with one finger. "I'm annoyed with you. You won't introduce me to any of these men."

"Of course I won't." He was amazed at the comment. "I'm not a fool. You stay right here by me or you talk to the women. That's it, that's all." With a flourish he popped the fish into his mouth.

"Well, it's not fair." She glanced at him under half-closed lids, then quickly looked away. "Just because I said no more rehearsing til we know if you're going to get killed or not."

"I'm not going to get killed. They wouldn't dare. I have fans who won't stand for it." His smirk was almost audible. "We shouldn't let our skills get rusty. Acting demands constant practice and effort. How about one of those tent things? Right now? No one's watching."

Joya assumed an air of innocence totally foreign to her personality. "Actually I'm going over there and ask that man to help me with my strap. I think it's coming loose."

George looked suspiciously at her dress. "There's nothing wrong with your strap. It looks fine to me."

"There will be by the time I get over there." She pushed herself away from the bar and strolled across the room.

Magda
- Tuesday, June 20, 2000 at 14:03:22 (PDT)

At the bar . . .

Creamy linen, up and down, and in a rare nod to the casual dress code, Valmont has donned a straw hat, one which must have been hand-made in Beverly Hills. Fitted and sold by some shopgirl, who now knows her way around the Rodeo Drive block a bit better . . . Sensing her personality in the way a lion sizes up its prey, he has taken the simple ploy of bumping into her to a new level of charm. He actually apologizes to her.

But this is out of earshot of Mary Anne and Renie, waylayed on the way to the cabanas by Mister I. No one could have predicted the way that chef's hat makes him appear--even taller.

"Don't tell me--you're in charge of the--"

"Grilling racks?" Mister I grins, stabs another piece of swordsfish on his silver three-pronged fork, then flourishes it in the air. "It's all in the preparation."

Renie and Mary Anne groan simulataneously. George, spying the bite left unclaimed in the air, descends upon it-- taking the fork with him as he charges towards the bar, where Valmont and Sandy are getting to know each other.

Of George. "Land shark. Early prototype." Mister I, nonplussed. "Wonder who let him out of captivity?"

"You'd better watch those toes after all, dearest," warns Renie. A water balloon whizzes over their heads. "C'mon, let's take cover in the cabanas! Christopher and Hans can take care of themselves."

Okay, Sandy, Valmont and George arriving . . .good luck! ;-)
R , - Tuesday, June 20, 2000 at 12:14:22 (PDT)

Sandy sputtered as Ed engulfed her with a huge wave in their splash war, the twins joining him with giggles. “Okay, I give up! I know when I’m outnumbered,” she called out, holding up her hands in surrender. “Besides, if I don’t get out of this pool soon, I’m going to turn into a prune.” Ed smirked in triumph as she swam over to the side and pulled herself out, taking her boogie board.

“Augh!” she yelled as she was poked gently in the back, almost spilling her drink. A voice behind her said, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you. You’re new around here, aren’t you?” She turned around to face the voice’s owner...

Sandy
Holy cow..., - Tuesday, June 20, 2000 at 09:30:13 (PDT)

Mary Anne, earlier in the evening:

“I think it’s just wonderful that you’ve come to our party, Joya dear.” Mary Anne patted the cushion. “Now just have a seat and tell us about yourself.”

“Very kind of you, I’m sure. Never been to one of these before.” The statuesque sort-of blonde swept across the tiles and dropped down on the lounger. The straps of her low-cut sea green gown creaked alarmingly under the strain. The other women pointedly averted their eyes as she adjusted herself. “That’s better.”

An awkward silence fell as everyone tried to think of something to say. Joya waited politely, then looked over their heads and scanned the crowd. Across the room, George waved and she nodded back.

“Well, how do like your work so far, dear?” One of the others asked finally, in a too-spritely tone of voice. “I know I find it very exhausting sometimes.”

“Oh, I believe in pacing myself, taking things easy. Just go with the flow.” Joya frowned as George relieved a waiter of an entire jug of sangria; she hoped he’d remember to share it with her. “Although George goes at it like a bull at a gate sometimes.”

“Well, we all know he’s pretty intense.” Mary Anne laughed. “But everyone has a different method of acting.”

“Acting?” Joya stared at her with wide, impossibly blue eyes. “I thought we were talking about fooling around!”

Magda
- Tuesday, June 20, 2000 at 07:06:46 (PDT)

Mary Anne, with Renie:

"No one will peek, dearest--I'll stand guard!" Retrieving the wraps from Brandon, Mary Anne slips into hers and spreads her arms dramatically, opening the long pleated sleeves like a set of glittering wings--much to the dry amusement of Metatron. And of Hans, who cocks an eyebrow and sings softly, "Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten, dass ich so traurig bin . . . " But he does not appear to be so traurig. No, not sad and troubled in the least. Nor does Mary Anne, who--though she blushes and closes her arms--laughs softly as she turns away and leads Renie toward the infamous changing cabanas at the far side of the set.

"What was that all about, Mary Anne?"

"It's a song about the Lorelei." Another soft, wicked chuckle. "You remember--the mermaid who lured unwary sailors to their doom." A note of self-mockery. "Appropriate for a pool party, don't you think?"

Renie grins in appreciation. "Well, if it comes to luring someone to his doom--" She glances down at Mary Anne's sandals. "I hope there's no one here with a foot fetish, or you're going to have men nibbling at your toes all evening!"

"Better men than sharks," giggles Mary Anne, extended one blue-sandaled foot. A tinkle of chains and a flash of silver-laquered toes.

A silence falls as the two women stand still for a moment and look at each other. "Dearest--" begins Mary Anne, filled with nostalgia, with joie de vivre, with . . .

"Swordfish?" A VOICE from behind her. Renie's eyes widen, and Mary Anne turns to see Mister I, who is holding a plate and fork.

"Fresh off the grill . . ." he entices playfully, helping himself to another steaming bite. "You should try it." A crooked grin.

"What--the grill?" replies Renie, barely able to contain her giggles as Mary Anne strategically withdraws toward the cabanas, her eyes as big as fish plates. For Mister I, always a handsome presence on the set, is turned out in exceptional style tonight . . .

MA--way to think fast, George!
Care to let your imagination "run mad," dearest? ;-D Or anyone else, for that matter . . ., - Tuesday, June 20, 2000 at 06:05:24 (PDT)

The empty glass went sailing into the bushes followed by another a moment later. George scarfed up a handful of canapes and tossed them one at a time into his mouth.

He saw the flash of pink out of the corner of his eye and reacted instantly. Twirling on one boot, holding the food out out to the side, he grasped the nearest lapel and heaved the attached body into the line of fire.

SPLAT!!

He cocked an eyebrow at the disconcerted trio. "You guys should take lessons from a real champ." He wandered away, shaking his head.

Magda
Nice try, but forget it, - Tuesday, June 20, 2000 at 05:29:40 (PDT)

Rather than stepping over a rather interesting row of plant pots, the new arrival aimed a boot at the base of imitation terracotta.

"He's one of yours I think?" Hans aggitated the pink balloon, sizing it up for destructive qualities.

"You mean the Shit Monster emerging from the shrubbery?" snorted the winged man. "Old plot line, another studio. Isn't this a private FOF party?"

They watched the dishevelled interloper reach out and down a glass from a passing tray. Mutterings of "Make way. Make way Eighty Bloody Ninth day in Pergatory. " accompanied his progress towards them.

"My goodness it's George. He sounds in a foul mood. I thought his was a continuous closed set?"

"SOMEONE GET ME OUT OF THIS ... THIS .. " he tore at the costume "MEDIEVAL MUCK"

Hans weighed the detonator no longer, bending an arm launching it gracefully towards the pool. "Anything to assist George"

C
For you Sandy - Right with you R !, - Tuesday, June 20, 2000 at 00:40:13 (PDT)

. . . And Renie has caught sight of Mary Anne.

"Mary Anne!!" Her blue eyes, shining--and Brandon, at her side. A pair of blue sandals meets the black. "Dearest--oh, dearest. It's been so long!" A warm Diggory-Venn style hug, their wraps falling to the floor.

"I knew you wouldn't miss this," whispers Mary Anne.

"You look great, Mary Anne. Absolutely. I've missed you so." Brandon has obligingly rescued the wraps, and holds them, in his hands. "And you, Christopher." Before he can answer, she's hugging him, her left cheek pressed just below his, tangling her hair in the wraps. His embrace feels like a welcome home. "I've thought about you both a lot."

"Will you be staying on for some shooting, then?" comes the question from Brandon.

"Oh no, Colonel. It's just this evening. Hans was kind enough to--" She motions to where Hans is--was--as he chats, no longer holding the pink water globes, with Metatron and Jamie. Is it her imagination, or are little clusters beginning to form--behind potted plants, over by the lounge chairs, off the side of the bar. Near the "ammunition" buckets.

"--Although it seems like there might be some 'shooting' this evening, if the boys have anything to say about it. "

"If we were to draw sides based on gender, of course, the women would be sure to prevail over the men." Mary Anne's voice drips with half declaration, half challenge. "Don't you think so, dearest?"

"I do. In a battle of force, the men have it. But women--in the main--are so much more imaginitive at stealth," she observes by way of answer. "Although in this company," Renie continues, looking at the Interrogator and Dev who have just entered, "I should say it'd be a fair contest."

A splash in the pool was followed closely by a severe splash storm between Ed and Sandy, with the twins joining in for good measure.

"Mary Anne, maybe I'd best change into something less of a target--is it safe to change in there? I mean--no one will peek?" A wicked grin.

Renie
Silver nails and silver chained sandals. Nice touch, MA. Hi Sandy! Clods, you know you shouldn't run poolside!, - Monday, June 19, 2000 at 22:32:58 (PDT)

Correction made.
Yes, well, you're probably drunk.
D.o.C.

D.o.C. please (again!) "A tiny smile plays . . ." Just one smile. Not "smiles." Thank you.

MA
Have to see what else is in that "concoction . . ." *hic*, - Monday, June 19, 2000 at 19:36:02 (PDT)

The party:

Mary Anne stands sipping a Kahlua concoction and keeping well clear of the aquatic debacle in progress, though she is absorbed in watching it--so absorbed that she does not notice how Brandon is watching her. At the moment they had stepped onto the pool set with its subdued lighting and flickering torches, her long beaded wrap had subtly altered in appearance, the translucent fabric fading to transparency, so that she appears to be enveloped in a glittering cloud that moves just as she moves, rising and falling at each step as the tiny pleats fan out behind her, then settle to wrap themselves about her once more.

Brandon is breathless with admiration. The sea and the stars. And Mary Anne . . . He remembers to breathe. Did she know how it would look? No doubt . . . no doubt she did. A tiny smile plays at the corners of his lips as he regards her: she knows how to appear to her best advantage.

But there is something in her expression now . . . Brandon moves closer, to murmur: "What is it?"

There is no need to explain; she can hear his concern. "Oh, it's lovely! I knew it would be. But--" A shrug. "--I always feel like the wet blanket at a pool party, if you'll pardon the expression. Since I can't swim." A wry glance down at herself. "And I usually like to be more, um, covered."

Brandon does laugh at that, but kindly. A hint of mischief. "That did not trouble you when we shot the wedding night scenes."

Even in the dim light, he can see the blush. "That was different, Christopher! That wasn't exactly--" A delicate cough. "--a social occasion."

"That depends upon your definition . . ."

Claudia-style, Mary Anne bumps him in the ribs with her elbow, but it is the gentlest of bumps; despite her show of modesty, she is enjoying their banter most thoroughly. Some might even say, shamelessly.

"You do have a point," she concedes. "At least I had a pretty easy time of it, doing a scene like that with you. Just think of those scenes poor Therese had to do with Mister I!" Mary Anne shivers dramatically. "By the way, where is he? I hope no one has let him near the grill . . ."

Brandon takes her arm. "Well, never mind that--this is a party, and you can use the relaxation." If, he thinks, there will be any opportunity to relax. If it follows the path of the other parties . . . He is briefly assailed by the memory of shrieking women, strobe lights, flying garments . . .

"You can leeeeeave your hat on--"

Brandon shakes his head to clear it--just in time to see the look of joy on Mary Anne's face, for she has caught sight of Renie . . .

MA--I got here as fast as I could!!
I work late on Monday nights . . . (And yes, ??, it's Byron. *grin* Rather endearingly scandalous for Brandon, don't you think?), - Monday, June 19, 2000 at 19:32:51 (PDT)

Sandy looked up from where she was playing with the twins and saw Claudia, Ed, and Colin struggling back and forth. "Do you guys mind waiting for a few minutes? Your mommy looks like she needs a little help," she said.

Claudia's eyes widened then glistened with mischief and she twisted herself, somehow making Ed lose his grip and she made a break for it, running after Colin, who was holding her drink hostage. Surprised, he unsteadily backed right up to the edge of the pool, his feet halfway over the side. "What the....?!!!" were his final words before two small hands gripped his ankles and with surprising strength, he was pulled into the pool.

Sandy
Just giving a hand, Claudia! Hope you don't mind...., - Monday, June 19, 2000 at 18:15:42 (PDT)

“What is that infernal racket?” said Alexander, to a passer by. “Sounds like someone’s being murdered.”

The woman stopped and laughed. He couldn’t help noticing her low cut jade swimsuit, as the contents jiggled interestingly with her amusement. “If those two don’t put Claudia down gently, and in a totally dry place, I’m quite sure murder will be committed.”

“A friend of yours I take it?” He extended his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced – Alexander Dane.”

“Please to meet you, I’m Lis.” She took his hand and squeezed. “I haven’t been here in a while, but it’s always nice to catch up with old, and new friends.”

Before he could reply he noticed two small boys running towards him, and something round, blue and liquidly mobile flying through the air in his direction.
Claudia
I know Lis wouldn't want to miss the party, - Monday, June 19, 2000 at 18:12:03 (PDT)

"Why don't you break them up, Hans?" Renie nudges him towards the pushing and pulling going on around Claudia.

Just then, Therese and Leigh begin giggling. A winged character (the only word for how this fellow looks) is handing out water balloons from one of the many buckets full placed strategically around the pool and its environs. He hands Hans two big pink round ones. "Never go unarmed, I always say."

Renie looks dubiously at the wings. "Well, you're no angel!" Not knowing whether to laugh at the upcoming onslaught, or the sight of Hans with his hands . . . ahhh . . . full . . . "I'm Renie, and--those are my friends over there."

"Seraphim. Jolly to meet you." Then, to Hans. "They detonate on impact."

R
Okay, Claire?! MA? , - Monday, June 19, 2000 at 17:08:54 (PDT)

“Oh no you don’t!” Claudia could just see the silk sarong being totally ruined by a dunk in the pool. Lis wouldn’t be impressed after all the work she’d put into it. She struggled, giggling in Ed’s arms. “Let me down at once!”

“Woman problem?”

Claudia stopped struggling to see where the voice was coming from, blowing her long hair out of her eyes. Colin, looking rather smart for a beach party in knee length shorts and baggy white shirt, the first 3 buttons open, to reveal a tan he must have got while on leave from FOF, and she was sure covered his whole body.

“As always, mate. What can you do with them?”

“Let me help you. I’m sure we can come up with a remedy between us.”

There was an outraged squeal from Claudia, who was ready to tip her drink over Ed’s head. “Put me down NOW, or I’ll write you both into a swamp full of crocodiles and piranhas!”
Claudia
- Monday, June 19, 2000 at 16:53:05 (PDT)

In the doorway:

"You mean, he picked you up, and didn't tell you?"

That voice. The Director. Trotting about outside to look after his brood.

At the sound of the Director's voice, Renie slides out of Hans' arms. The Director unties the silk ribbon, and looks only at her eyes. "I never know when to expect you."

Renie smiles. "That's when I'll be coming." She can now see the decorated set--half lovely, half camp, all Hawaii. Someone had a good time in the prop department.

"Claudia, Mary Anne, and some new people are here. I believe Sinclair may be getting a lift from Claire." The Director looks at Hans, then back at Renie. "I won't keep you."

A bright laugh from the direction of a makeshift pool bar sounds just like Claudia. Hans and his companion walk through, all smiles at the faces around them.

Hans gives a barely audible growwwwwl at the sight of Ed and Claudia. "Leave it to Claudia to waste no time . . . "

R
- Monday, June 19, 2000 at 16:38:18 (PDT)

“You know,” said Claudia, reaching for a large strawberry daiquiri, with the mandatory paper umbrella, and taking a satisfying sip. “I could learn to live like this.”

Ed pulled her round, cradling her hips in his hands, pulling her close. “You know, you could always give up FOF and come away with me. I said so before…”

“And you know the answer. I can’t give it up. The same way I can’t give up writing the current storyline. Not without a resolution. Anyway, it would be boring if Ed and Claudia lived happily ever after. Nice – but boring.”

“So, I’m too boring for you, huh? Let’s see about that!” Ed pulled Claudia off the floor and into his arms, possibly with similar intentions to Hans, who lurked in the doorway, blindfolded woman in his own arms.
Claudia
- Monday, June 19, 2000 at 16:32:25 (PDT)

"You aren't going to carry me in, are you? The Director will never approve." Hans was, in fact, only a few steps away from the door of the pool set. His leading lady in his arms, still blindfolded.

And loving every minute of it.

"Zince when have you ever played by the rules. Aren't you the woman who rewrites them?" She was sightless, and captive in his arms. But he knew better than to think she was helpless. Stealing a kiss now would not be as sweet as one given, perhaps later . . .

"When it suits me." Her eyes were covered, but even through the band of ribbon, he could see the mischief in them. "What is that smell? Tropical--flowers?"

"It's part of the theme." Behind his low voice, not a growl--not yet--she could hear laughter. "Speaking of what 'suits' you, I brought a change of clothing for you."

"Hans--are we going to the pool set? A pool party??"

"NOT ex-act-ly."

A new voice, though one known to her, joined the low tones of Hans.

R
Claire--ROTFL!!, - Monday, June 19, 2000 at 16:11:13 (PDT)

Sandy came up for air, only to be bombarded by a wave of water, as the twins, laughing, jumped in after her. They'd arrived in their latest costumes, which had been shorts and boogy boards.

Ed and Claudia followed them on to the set at a more sedate pace, grinning at the boys antics, and laughing as Sandy splashed them back.

"I've missed this." said Ed, and sqeezed Claudia's hand.
Claudia
- Monday, June 19, 2000 at 15:39:54 (PDT)

LOL! You're probably right Magda-and I think his hangover would kill a herd of elephants ;-) I was just feeling bad at the time (add +3 hours to my post and you'll understand why). Continue your torture test with my blessing.
Sandy
- Monday, June 19, 2000 at 12:45:16 (PDT)

The last character you should feel bad about is George. It's one of his very few "not unattractive" traits that he normally - in the cold sober light of day - doesn't feel bad or sorry for himself. Onward and upward, is George's maxim. Besides, he's got a hangover that would paralyze a rhino right now.
Magda
- Monday, June 19, 2000 at 03:27:44 (PDT)

Wow!! This is some party that's going on right now...;-) I'm sorry I can't join in- I won't be here for about a week *grumble* but there's the posts to look forward to when I get back. :) Till then...aloha!
??- MA- "She walks in beauty..."... Is that Lord Byron?
Happy birthday, FOF (albeit a late one!)! And a happy early b-day to MA! , - Monday, June 19, 2000 at 00:17:56 (PDT)

FOF Set, poolside:

Sandy shrugged her shoulders as she exchanged glances with Alexander. "All right, let's party!" she exclaimed as she untied her sarong, revealing a pair of bikini shorts that matched the color of the sarong and bikini top. She threw her boogie board in the pool, made a mad dash for the diving board and cannonballed in, tucking herself into a tiny ball just before she hit the surface of the water.

Sandy - Claire....yeow! Evil isn't the word (grin)
Could someone write George in? I feel so bad for him right now...., - Sunday, June 18, 2000 at 18:57:03 (PDT)

Correction made.
Those aforementioned amber eyes could make anyone woozy.
D.o.C.

D.o.C. please--that's "aforementioned" amber eyes. Thank you.

MA
No, I have not been NEAR the bar . . . yet . . ., - Sunday, June 18, 2000 at 17:40:33 (PDT)

Brandon puts his head around the door of Mary Anne's cubicle. "Are you decent, Mary Anne?"

"No," she quips, "but my folks were." (homage)

There are sounds of adjusted fabric from behind the folding screen, and Brandon waits patiently, leaning against the wall and managing to look not too embarrassed in his brown trunks and the loose-weave linen shirt with its batik pattern of palm fronds picked out in black. In deference to the festive occasion, he has left a few of the bone buttons undone, and the golden-khaki tone of the shirt turns his eyes a startling amber.

The aforementioned amber eyes blink in surprise as Mary Anne steps out from behind the screen. "Will I do, Christopher?" Demurely.

Brandon swallows. Not that there is anything remotely immodest about Mary Anne's appearance--quite the opposite. Bending the rules, she has donned a one-piece swimsuit in brilliant indigo. . . but the area between what would be a bikini top and bottom is filled in with a shimmering blue mesh that draws the eye even as it conceals. And for her cover-up, she is wearing a floor length wrap of some translucent material that shimmers like silk, folded into myriads of tiny pleats in the style made famous by Fortuny, and trimmed from neck to ankle in what must be hundreds of tiny, sparkling beads in various shades of azure, turquoise, aqua, silver, and pure white.

"I think you will . . . do . . . very well," Brandon manages, as Mary Anne rotates for his approval and he catches glimpses of her silvered fingernails and toenails, her long abalone-shell earrings, and her blue sandals fastened with thin straps and tiny silver chains. "But where did you come by . . . ?" He gestures to the sparkling robe. As if she stepped from a breaking wave . . . surrounded by stars . . . "She walks in beauty, like the night . . ."

Mary Anne twirls, allowing the multitude of pleats to fan out about her, and then stops to let them envelop her once more. "Like it? I found it a few months back and I've been dying for a chance to wear it ever since."

Brandon notes that she has not told him where she found it, and he decides not to pursue the matter. "Do I like it? How can you ask? Although--" Teasing. "--Ed did say, bikinis required for the ladies. You're breaking the rules by appearing in a one-piece suit."

"Yes, well, if Ed knew how awful I look in a bikini, he'd be glad to see me break the rules."

"I can't imagine you looking bad in anything." Gallantly.

Mary Anne hmmfs under her breath. "If you saw that, your imagination would never recover!"

Brandon eyes Mary Anne sternly, in preparation for delivering his usual lecture about slamming herself in front of him, but she forestalls him by laying a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry." A repentant smile. "It's why some men don't like giving us compliments, isn't it? Because we throw them back and won't accept them. Thank you, Christopher. I'm glad to know you think I look--"

"Lovely," finishes Brandon, tucking her arm through his and leaning down to drop a kiss on top of her head, breathing in her evening scent of tropical gardenia. "Simply lovely. Now, are you ready to enjoy the party, my dearest?"

Mary Anne's look is all the answer Brandon requires, and they set off together . . .

MA--My goodness, Claire!! *whew*
I know . . . "Goodness had nothing to do with it." ;-), - Sunday, June 18, 2000 at 15:50:13 (PDT)

Claudia did a little twirl. “Waddaya think?”

Ed let his eyes rove over the turquoise bikini top, the well-muscled midriff, and the floor length silk sarong, hand painted with dolphins by Lis. “Very nice. But I think if you’d worn the grass skirt as I’d suggested, it would have been even better.”

“So you could see my legs? You know how I hate not being covered up.” She shivered it was cold on the FOF set. It was hard to get over playing winter scenes in FOF when in reality it was summer. Except for Ed’s scenes. He’d had it easy, being on the New Zealand beach set, with the opposite season to the Delaford set.

“Anyway, I couldn’t possibly have worn a grass skirt. I’d be the tallest, blondest hula dancer you’d ever seen.”

“Yes, but…”

“I know, I have the hips for it.” She gave a little wiggle, and laughed.

“Very good, I see you’ve been practising. Perhaps you can lead the entertainment for this evening?”

He ducked automatically as her hand rose to cuff him round the ear. “You’ll be joining us then? Nice skirt by the way. I hope you’re wearing something underneath.”

Ed was wearing a Samoan lavalava (a wrap around man’s skirt) and a Polynesian designed shirt. He did his own little twirl, then took her arm. “You’ll have to find out later. Come on, let’s find this party!”
Claudia
Claire - you're evil!, - Sunday, June 18, 2000 at 13:58:31 (PDT)

"SSSlide. SSSlide down further." Emphasis all first syllable, repeated, coaxing, dying to a breath each time. As if the mere word could perform the action.

Fingers agitated to perform. Running over the double stitching.

Hard, smooth and hidden.

42 ...

“Relaaax” he intoned. "We have plenty of time."

Looking up she smiled, of course, there was no hurry. It was always the same, less stress more pleasure. Without wavering eye contact she let the hands slip down once more. Ripple over the folds and search again.

Eyebrow raised " .. And you are enjoying this?" She felt the stomach muscle contract at each touch. Resisting temptation to see if a sharper movement would have the same effect she tweaked the skin in answer.

"Keep still." The fingers spun.

17 ... 16 ... 15...

He groaned at the tiny pricking sensation. She was teasing him.

"You should be able to do this yourself."

Hitching the dress higher she knelt before him, pulling the shirt away.

9 ... 8 ...

Lowering her mouth.

Relief. An audible sigh and swift flurry of hands.

3 ... 2 ...

"Lobby" a disembodied voice intoned.

Sinclair stepped over the threshold a new man. "Ever done that in a lift before?" a conspiratorial whisper to the woman at his side.

"No" she replied. "Only for you" picking off her tongue the surplus thread from the emergency button replacement. "How old did you say that Hawaiian shirt was .. 10 years?"

Claire
Elevating the party tone? (grin), - Sunday, June 18, 2000 at 11:40:32 (PDT)

FOF Set:

She could smell the grilled seafood and hear the soft "whoosh" of the continuous tape loops of waves crashing against the shore along with the soft sound of steel guitars. She entered the set and smiled widely, placing her towel on a nearby beach chair. "Hi!" she called out cheerfully to the other early arrivals.

Sandy - all right, let's party!
Happy birthday FOF and many more to come!, - Sunday, June 18, 2000 at 09:47:46 (PDT)

FOF set:

All is in readiness.

We catch a glimpse of the former pool set, altered beyond recognition in the glow of coloured paper lanterns and the flicker of tiki torches. Flowering shrubs alternate with potted palms--some real, some blatantly fake for a touch of humour: one palm tree sports a rolled-up rug for the trunk and and oversized fronds of green construction paper at the top.

The bar stands ready to serve up tropical drinks--garnished, naturally, with the obligatory paper umbrellas. From somewhere there is a whiff of grilled seafood, mingled with the murmur of drums and the subdued twang of steel guitars, supplemented by a continuous tape loop on the PA system, playing back the rshhhhhhh of crashing surf--incongruous, yes, with the stillness of the pool, but an FOF Anniversary Celebration is no place for devotees of strict verisimilitude.

It is a time to relax, compare notes, swap memories, wax nostalgic.

Let yourself go . . .

Cut to:

Mary Anne's cubicle, where Mary Anne, concealed behind the folding screen, is adorning herself for the party . . .

MA--Aloha, everybody. And hugs to you, R, dearest. You haven't forgotten how to make an entrance! ;-)
Oooo, Hans. Those French cuffs, that blindfold . . . **SIGH**, - Sunday, June 18, 2000 at 08:48:48 (PDT)

"Happy Birthday to you," FOF!

Suzanne
And many more!, - Sunday, June 18, 2000 at 07:58:06 (PDT)

"Day the Eighty-third, in the month of February – In which I make the acquaintance of a new cellmate."

Someone was hammering on the inside my head trying to get out. Pain lanced through my temples as he pursued his mistaken course with energy. I pressed my hands against my skull so it wouldn't come apart. The inside of my mouth felt like a saddlecloth, an impression reinforced by the taste. Water was what I needed, and fast. I marshalled all my available strength and sat up. Bile crested in my throat but I forced it down again.

"You look like what we used to leave on the field for the ravens after the battle was over."

Wonderful. Now I was hearing things. Carefully prying my lids open, I looked around. I was back in my cell at the monastery; judging from the hazy light coming through the grilled window, it was dawn. A large heap of dirty cloth was piled in the far corner; it moved and I realized it was a man.

"Who…who are you?" I managed to croak.

"Name's Peter. Morning, bunkie." He grinned at me cheekily through his tangled hair. "I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to wake up. Your share of our ambrosial repast was in danger of getting cold. Is this the regular bill of fare? If it is, then I'm complaining to the innkeeper as soon as he has the nerve to show himself." He nodded at the bowls sitting on the floor.

I made the mistake of looking and even though I averted my head immediately the single glance of stringy, greasy meat and gristle was enough. I barely got to the bucket in time.

I finally managed to lift my head. Peter regarded me with some wariness. "You really overindulged last night, man. You looked like a corpse when the guards carried you in. Do they arrest people for drunkenness in England these days? Much has changed while I've been gone."

I climbed back onto the bed, trying not to move my head too much. The sun was up now and I took a closer look at my companion. He seemed to be a young man although it was hard to tell through the accumulated layers of grime. His voice was cultured and he spoke well - clearly he was no peasant. I could not begin to understand how he came to be in his condition.

"The guards looked in a while ago to see if you were up. They were talking about releasing you today." A note of urgency crept into his voice. "Are you listening to me? Do you want to make a bit of gold?"

I wished he'd shut up. Of course I wasn't about to be released; he must have misunderstood the guards. I closed my eyes. My headache was receding but not entirely gone and all I wanted was sleep. I rolled over and burrowed my head under the blanket. It didn't work. He addressed himself to my back.

"I've got twenty gold pieces. They're all yours if you help me when you get out. Just bribe one of the guards for the key to unlock my fetters. I'll do the rest." A loud clanking sound echoed around the room.

In spite of myself, I peeked over my shoulder. He'd stood up to demonstrate his predicament. A great chain ran from shackles at his wrists and ankles to a thicker chain around his waist. He could barely stand erect under the weight. After making sure that I saw his plight, he sank back to the ground with some relief and waited for my answer.

Prisoners are rarely chained if they are held in a secure place and never if they are men of gentle birth. This was most peculiar. I decided to buy some time. "Why did they chain you? What are you here for?"

"I'm here because I know too much about a certain lord. I'm chained because he wants people to think I'm too dangerous to be let loose. It will make it easier for him to kill me." Peter's voice was grim. "I was a little too mouthy in front of the wrong people."

I sat up in bed. "Which lord?"

"Walter of Krone." He spat the name out as if it were foul. "The greatest coward and murderer who ever journeyed to the Holy Land."

“Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."

Magda
- Sunday, June 18, 2000 at 07:38:26 (PDT)

In front of the mirror Renie smiles, thinking of all the mischief "that lot" has gotten into over the past—how long has it been—not three years!

Rising, she drapes herself in a sheer wrap, turns off the light, and--

Mmmmmfff!! There are fingers upon her lips. Gentle, but firm. In the dark, her eyes unadjusted, she makes no sign of struggle, no cry of alarm. The fingers slide away, and in their place . . . nothing. She can turn around at any time. Behind her . . .

Instead of turning around, Renie reaches with both hands behind her, brushing against clothing at first, then finding a man’s hands. They now contain something long and silky. A length of ribbon. She slides the ribbon out of his fingers, and snugly ties the blindfold, a bow in the back.

"All right, I’m ready now."

"Goot." She feels herself being lifted into his arms, and whisked away. As they approach the waiting car, she hears a pair of women’s voices from across the hotel parking area.

In a high-pitched wistful whine: "Why doesn’t Jeffrey ever tie me up like that?"

"Because if he had a ribbon, he wouldn’t be using it over your eyes!"

Inside the car, he sits next to her. She feels straps being fastened over her. The click of a buckle.

"I remember when I was last blindfolded. In a car. You were my seat belt, then." So this is his idea of "shortly".

"You were my ‘wife’ then." The engine begins to purr, and move. A driver, tonight.

"And, now?"

Now, it is real life, and the script is . . . But he does not say that, nor anything like it. "Now," teases Hans, "we are going to see our friends."

Some minutes pass. "Thank-you, Hans. For taking me hostage." All the teasing has gone out of her voice.

"I need the practice. And I can’t wait to see you in a grass skirt."

"What?" She could have sworn he’d just mentioned a grass skirt.

"I said I hope you’ve noticed my new white shirt."

Still "blindfolded", she searches with her fingers for his cuffs. French. Those lovely antique gold cufflinks. Then, his fingers. Long, soft, warm. She feels herself flush, and releases them.

"I can’t wait to see everyone." And she laughs at the incongruity of her statement.

Happy Birthday/Anniversary FOF!
R, - Sunday, June 18, 2000 at 02:34:12 (PDT)

Scene: A man's hand shows beyond a neat French cuff; it raps on a door. Room 618. A woman's footstep. Black satin sandals, beads laced on the bands across the foot. Moving across the carpet.

The door opens. Before she looks, she knows who it is. "You didn't have--" She looks up. She almost whispers his name.

The man shakes his head. "You weren't where you usually stay." His observance is casual. "So--Do we have time?"

"I'm not sure." Her watch missing. She does not look at her empty wrist. She feels it, weightless. Naked. Does he notice? "I don't even know if I'm dressed appropriately. Though at least . . . " She casts an admiring glance his way. "Do you think we ought . . . "

"If you're thinking, you're not feeling it." He takes her hand, and leads her to the center of the room.

The two tall figures face each other.

Then, there is music.

Her reluctance falls away, and she slips into his arms. He takes up the ready position.

"It' s been a long time for you." He does not wait for her to answer. She moves with him, her body counting at first, then surrendering to his movement, as if her body does not know any other sequence.

1-2-3-4. Music begins to fill her; she breathes in beats. 5-6-7-8. He is close, and he is far. In the precision of the moment, they can reach perfection.

Turn, turn, wait four, 5-6-7-8.

Her slip dress of dark rose hugs her outline, as its darker blue chiffon glides over it, in parallel to the partners. The rose clusters, almost subliminal at a stand-still, are a blur. Indecipherable.

They come to a halt, the sentient music ended.

"You're barely out of practice." Hans looks at her in a way which does not allow her catch her breath correctly.

Neither releases the other.

Her green-flecked eyes answer all his implications. "Does this mean you're here to escort me to the anniversary cast party?"

Never assume. "I'd be honored to bring you, though of course, you may have other plans. It's not as if you made this easy."

"You prefer a challenge." In her eyes, a spark.

"So I do." Zo I do.. A glint in his.

"Then--I will see you shortly." She cannot imagine what has made her dismiss this man, who minutes before had claimed her soul. She regrets her words immediately.

"Shortly," comes his reply, and with a graceful motion, he leaves the room.

With two long pulls of the brush through her hair, Renie faces the mirror for a final look . . .

Yes, Hans, it's been a while . . .
R, - Saturday, June 17, 2000 at 10:58:45 (PDT)

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