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maevefiction · 6 years

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Your Light in the Mist - One Shot, Been Shopping

As we munched our Kung Po chicken (Chinese food was a Thursday tradition at the office, I was informed by Gavin, whose face was bright red and sweating from the intensely spicy concoction) I remembered I’d yet to inquire as to what I was expected to turn up in for Phaedra’s event at the Cube Gallery the following evening. Simon’s chopsticks fell from his fingers, mouth agape.

“Do you always wait until the very last moment for this sort of thing, Maude? I thought New York was just a fluke because you had no idea you were going to Daniel…is this a pattern? I am tres disappointed.”

Using my entire hand, fingers spread, I pointed at the worn Lord of the Rings T-shirt I’d thrown on that morning. “Dude, does it LOOK like I put a shitload of thought into what I wear most of the time?”

He peeked under the table. “You wore those shorts Tuesday, didn’t you?”

I nodded emphatically, brows raised. “NOW you’re getting it.”

Shrugging, he swallowed another bit of chicken. “No, I’m not. Because you weren’t a total slob in HAWAII.” I kicked him under the table. “OW. Bitch. I meant that whenever we went out you looked beautiful…”

Leaning back in my chair, eyes closed, I took a deep breath, then spoke, softly at first, my voice rising as I made my point. “That’s why I’m ASKING. So I can make a valiant attempt at looking DECENT. And since it’s so LAST MINUTE, can you just maybe please, oh, I don’t know, TELL ME WHAT THE DRESS CODE IS ALREADY?”

Luke was smirking, looking back and forth between us as if he was watching a rousing tennis match. “Suit and tie, Maude. With plenty of leeway for artistic expression. My mother’s friends are…interesting.”

“Thank you, Luke. I’m sure I brought something with me that’ll work.”

Simon pushed himself up off the cushioned bench seat and reached out his hand to me. “Come on.” I remained motionless, looking up at him as if he was an alien creature about to attack. His head tipped back, eyes rolling. “We are going up to your flat. I will peer into your closet. I will determine if any of it ‘works’.”

I shot Luke a ‘what the fuck’ look, his half smile and shrug clearly indicating that my life would be simpler if I just went with it. I stood, reluctantly, gazing longingly at the remains of my lunch.

“Fine. But I just thought of the perfect dress…”

He crossed his arms. “That brown galaxy print?” I nodded, my turn to gape. Simon shook his head. “Yeah, no.”

“Why not? And what the hell, Simon? This is starting to piss me off…”

Both of his hands found my shoulders and settled there. “You already WORE that one. Maude? You do realize that this is a widely publicized event? And that somehow, someone…” He whipped his head around to the other staff table. “SOMEONE mentioned online that one Mr. Hiddleston would be in attendance.”

My head tilted to the side. Simon sighed. “Maude. This is, like, your LONDON DEBUT as a COUPLE. There will be press. There will be paps. There will be fans.”

“OOOHHHHHH. So you’re going all PR on my ass is what’s happening here.” I grinned. “Well, I’m glad someone’s paying attention. Tom’s woefully inadequate Social Media Director didn’t even notice it circulating on them there interwebs.”

Luke chuckled. “She’s not woefully inadequate.”

I sighed. “I can’t chastise you because you’re my boss. But I’m certain you sense my displeasure.”

We all laughed, and Luke stood. “I’m sure that after our conversation yesterday afternoon your mind is focused on other things.”

“Do you mean the quadrupled workload I managed to dump into my own lap because I had an idea? No. I’m not obsessing over that at all. Wait. You said focused. I’m not focusing on that at all.”

Simon took my hand and pointed at Luke. “Sorry, boss man. I’m kidnapping her for the rest of the afternoon.”

My head shook vehemently. “No you are not. I have SO many phone calls to make and hopefully interviews to arrange and why I am I suddenly not capable of dressing myself?”

“Maude, honey, you’re in a strange city. Our customs are unfamiliar to you. Let’s skip the closet part and just GO SHOPPING.” His brows rose as he finished his sentence, face leaning in towards mine and I realized he probably had an ulterior motive.

“Fine, Simon. FINE. Shopping.” I turned to Luke. “Is this really okay with you?”

He laughed. “I have to live with the man. A-okay.”

As we walked up the stairs Simon whispered in my ear. “Sorry, love. I saw an opportunity and went for it. Glad you finally caught on there at the end.”

I snorted. “I have no idea what the fuck I caught on to, but you SHOULD be glad because I was ready to kick your ass for insulting my fashion sense. Do I like to bum around when I can? Absofuckingloutely. When the occasion demands do I clean up well? Also absofuckingloutely.”

He shushed me as we reached the door to the main level. I grabbed my bag from my office, pulling my phone out as we walked passed a confused Lyssa. Simon went all Monty Python and yelled ‘You been shopping? No, I been shopping!’ as we headed through the door.

As I rang Tom’s phone he rolled his eyes. “God, do you have to tell him EVERYTHING?”

I smacked his arm. “Shut the fuck up.” Tom, of course, picked up just as the words came out of my mouth. “Shit. Hi. That was for Simon, not you. So. Hey. How are you?”

His throaty chuckle at my awkwardness made me blush. Stupid schoolgirl Maude strikes again. “Hi to you too. What’s up?”

“You know, I’m not really sure but it would appear that Simon is dragging me out shopping so I can find a dress for tomorrow night. At least that’s what he told Luke…”

Simon grabbed the phone away from my ear via my wrist, walking me away from the office door, stopping near the stairs closest to Tom’s and my flat and speaking as it remained in my hand. “Thomas. I believe have found the perfect dress for my maid of honor and I am taking her to try it on. DO NOT, under any circumstances, tell Luke. I want every little detail to be in place before he sees ANY of what I’m planning.”

I frowned. “So…I’m NOT getting a dress for tomorrow night?”

“Yes, yes, we’re going to find a dress for you. And some coffee because you are like…DUH.”

Wriggling away from him I pressed the phone back to my ear. “So there you have it. We are now participants in a wedding conspiracy. Apparently. I don’t suppose you want to come with us?”

I could picture his head shaking back and forth slowly as he spoke. “No, no…the two of you go have some fun. I’ll just stay…here…enjoying the peace…and the quiet…”

“How rude. So, shall I send you some pics…”

“Dressing room pics? God yes. Please.” A sharp inhale. “I don’t suppose you have five minutes to spare before you leave? Maybe Simon needs to put more gel in his hair or something?”

Simon shouted ‘I heard that you bloody bastard’ as I bit into my bottom lip. “I meant pictures of the prospective dresses for tomorrow. Just so you know.” The air in the lobby seemed stiflingly hot. “Fuck, is the air conditioning not working in here or something?”

Tom snorted. “Funny, I was wondering the same thing. One particular part of me is decidedly warmer than the rest, though…”

“Okay. On that note, we should get going. Because…”

He uttered a delicate groan. “Oh my, it got all HARD when I touched it…”

“Nuh-uh. Going now. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Simon made gagging noises and pretended to vomit on the carpet as I put my phone away, and I hoped beyond hope he’d ACTUALLY vomit all over his two-tone striped grey John Varvatos Mykanos Venetian loafers. Paired with white to-the-knee shorts and a grey polo that matched the darker stripe of the shoes perfectly, he looked as if he’d just stepped off his yacht and was in search of the nearest appropriately upscale men’s club. As I looked down at my own clothes, I came to terms with the fact that even if he’d used it as a ruse to sneak around behind Luke’s back, the man had a point about my attire. Just like Veronica had in New York. Shaking my head, I muttered something along the lines of needing to find some less fashion-forward friends who wouldn’t be so focused on my clothing choices and thus I’d be allowed to live a normal life wherein wearing the same shorts twice in week wasn’t a scandal.

“MAUDE, I heard that!”

“Good. Have you ever, you know, thought of dressing DOWN?”

He gasped. “And break rule number sixty four under section eight of the Exceedingly Handsome Homosexual Male’s Handbook? NEVER.”

My eyes narrowed as I suppressed a huge grin. “Well played, Mr. Ahlberg. Well played.”

He reached for my hand, squeezing it gently, his own baby-soft and warm with an underlying strength that somehow surprised me. “Come on, gimpy. You can make it to the parking garage, can’t you?”

“Yes, asshat. Let’s motor.”

We walked down the street hand in hand, our arms swing as he sang a little song about having me all to himself for an entire afternoon. I spotted Tom’s Jaguar, and totally lost my shit when Simon’s key fob disarmed a Fiat 500 L two cars down from it, its paint an eye-assaulting robin’s egg blue.

“Simon. My god. That’s…fuck…it’s so…YOU it’s not even funny.”

He opened the passenger door for me, one hand on his hip. “So why are you laughing?”

Which of course made me laugh even harder, and he finally had to come get me and practically stuff me in the vehicle, rolling his eyes the entire time.

We sat until I assured him I wasn’t going to pee my pants, then he put the Fiat in gear and exited the garage. Once on the road, he turned on the stereo and Alice in Chains began blaring…Grind, one of my favorites.

“Holy shit, Alice in Chains! Color me impressed, Simon.”

“Yes, my musical tastes expand beyond Rick Astley and Gloria Gaynor.”

I chuckled. “What’s the handbook say about THAT?”

“God. Why don’t you shut up and sing with me?”

It was shocking how well our voices harmonized, and as the song ended with both said in unison ‘oh my god, duet’ and discussed what might be appropriate for Emma’s HeForShe talent show until Simon drove past a huge building bearing the name ‘Vogue House’, then parked one street down.

I felt my body go cold and twisted around to face him. “Um, Simon? That Vogue bit…that’s not, like, VOGUE vogue, is it?”

A fiendish grin spread across his face. “If you mean Conde Nast publications Vogue magazine, then yes. Big giant fucking YES. But we’re actually going to see someone at Glamour, an old friend from college. Elaine Casemuir. We’re really just casual acquaintances at this point, but she used to come in to the Dorchester and I’d make sure she always had a great table, so this is payback. This dress…it’s just…perfect. I managed to score the Gherkin for the ceremony and reception…there may have been some blackmail involved, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Here, look.”

He handed me his phone, and my reaction as I scrolled the photos went from oh, nice to fuck me that is the coolest place EVER. According to their website, weddings and receptions were held on the top two floors of the most incredible steel and glass, phallic building I’d ever laid eyes on. I hazarded a guess that the Gherkin was a pickle reference, which was probably what most non-horny 24/7 people saw when they looked at. 360 degree panoramic views of the London cityscape, totally modern interior…glorious.

“Simon. Blackmail. WORTH IT. Not gonna ask, because…probably better not to know. And…”

“Oh please. You SO want to know. The guy who books events hangs around with us in clubs on occasion. He’s also sleeping with one of the waiters there who’s barely out of high school. His wife would NOT be amused if she knew about either of those things.”

“SIMON.”

“What?”

“You are so…so…WICKED. I’m impressed.” I patted his shoulder. “Luke is a very lucky man.”

He sniffled. “No, I’m the one who’s lucky. I want to make this so special, because it means so, so much to both of us…damn you, making me cry. Now my skin’s going to be all blotchy when we see Elaine and she’ll be all oh, Simon, your skin is horrid, darling and I’ll have to slap her. She’s a writer, by the way, and she also does a ton of photoshoot arranging. Which means access to designer lines. I saw the dress a week and a half ago and had her track it down that day, it’s a Valentino from the 2015 Spring/Summer collection…matches my color scheme of black and white and silver PERFECTLY…”

I raised a brow as I removed my hand from his shoulder. “Um, you ARE aware that I’m a double-D cup who barely fits in a size twelve, yes?”

Pinching my nose, he giggled before speaking. “I am indeed. It’s from the Ready-to-Wear line. And it’s a twelve. As for your boobs fitting…that’s why god made duct tape.”

“Oh, fuck that…I’m still recovering from body glue trauma…”

“AH AH AH, NO. Come on. Let’s go in.” He got out and came around to open my door, extending a hand to help me up and out.

I stood and closed the door behind me. “Yeah, yeah. Wait…you only asked me to be your maid of honor last Friday…”

He stared at the ground, toeing one foot across the pavement, then glanced up at me sheepishly. “Correct. I would have been heartbroken if you’d said no.”

Wrapping my arms around him, I kissed his cheek. “Aw. Simon.”

“Mainly because the dress was a fucking small fortune.”

“Whatever. Let’s go before I kill you.”

****************************************

Elaine’s office was at the rear of the building, within the main Glamour office itself. She squealed when she saw Simon, throwing herself at him, her stick-thin arms wrapping around him and pulling his head to her chest. Clad in a red micro-mini and white button down shirt, her straight black hair was impossibly shiny and just brushed her shoulders, the white patent leather heels she wore causing her to tower over Simon by at least three inches. Her gaze turned to me and though her face remained happy-happy I swore I could smell her disappointment as she took in my state of dress. When she spoke, I was stunned to hear an American accent.

“Hello there, Maude. Nice to meet you. I’m Elaine Casemuir” She thrust her hand out, and I shook it, hesitant to grab too tightly lest I break a bone on her.

“Nice to meet you as well, Elaine.”

Simon clapped excitedly. “Dress, Elaine. SHOW HER THE DRESS.”

She rolled her eyes and released my hand. “Simon, you have no chill. Follow me.”

We walked out of the office and down the rest of the hallway to a light blue metal door. She unlocked it, entered the room and indicated that we should join her inside. It was vast, racks upon racks of clothing and all sorts of accessories strewn about. She teetered on her heels three racks down, turned left, grunted several times, then shouted ‘victory’. When she rounded the corner and held up what she’d found, I immediately turned to Simon, grabbed his bicep and spoke using my terribly inappropriate for this particular setting outdoor voice.

“I. FUCKING. LOVE. IT.”

It was floor length, a filmy light grey, very transparent with appliquéd silver stars of varying size, a combination of some resembling starfish and others the traditional five point star formation covering both the lightly pleated, flowing skirt and form-fitting bodice. And my lord, that bodice…the sleeves were short and just the teensiest bit puffy with a little ruffle ring at the bottoms, and the neck was…a V. A V that extended to just an inch above the two-inch wide waistband, and unlike the skirt, there was no underlayment whatsoever and no way to wear a bra so it was totally HELLO NIPPLES.

He grinned widely. “I knew you’d love it. You have no shame.”

I pointed my index finger in his face. “Mmm hmm. Let’s remember this is for your WEDDING. What are YOU wearing? Assless chaps?”

“Don’t think it didn’t cross my mind, Maude. My ass is spectacular and deserves accolades. But our mothers will be there, so…no.”

“Your mother will be there? I’m…shit, I’m shocked, actually.”

He sighed. “We can’t all be lucky enough to have them check out on us early, honey.” He paused, taking stock of what he’d just said, then frowning. “Damn. Too soon?”

My head shook as I bit back a roar of laughter, suddenly conscious of Elaine’s presence. She cleared her throat and pointed left, handing off the dress to Simon.

“Changing area is that way, and my assistant Diandra will help pin you up once you’re in it if it needs altering. If it does, just leave it and I’ll call when it’s ready. If not, take it with. I’ve got a conference call in ten, so I probably won’t see you. Lovely meeting you, Maude. Simon, you better invite me to this shindig or I’m going to feature you in the fashion don’ts column online.”

His hand flew to his chest in mock horror. Or at least I thought it was mock. “You wouldn’t dare.”

She smirked. “Try me.”

Eyes rolling, he draped the dress over his right arm and put his left hand on his hip, pouting. “Fine, you’ll get an invite. But bring someone interesting. You know, not your USUAL date type.”

“Simon, baby…it’s New Years Eve. I’m flying solo and finding someone at the reception to lock lips with at the stroke of midnight. Gay wedding, lots of straight friends, I’m bi…statistically, I can’t lose.”

She waved goodbye and tottered back toward her office, and Simon and I made our way down to the changing area. Though all the way at the rear of the left side of the room, it was wide open to the rest of the space. There were built in wooden benches littered with shoes and gloves and scarves, and the entire back wall was mirrored. We were greeted by a gorgeous woman with dark brown, luminous skin, huge hazel eyes and a smile that rivaled Tom’s mega-watt one. She was wearing a chevron print tank dress in varying shades of chartreuse, shoes that matched the darkest chevrons, and her hair was piled neatly on top of her head and wound with a silk light green scarf. She greeted us first, her Caribbean accent melodic, making even the simplest of words seem important and joyful.

“Hello you two…make yourselves at home, and if you need anything, I’ll be playing in the stacks. Such beautiful clothes…fashion paradise, right here and now!” She laughed, then began searching and sorting. I shimmied out of my shorts and yanked my T-shirt up over my head without fanfare, catching Simon side-eyeing me in the mirror.

“Problem, Simon?”

He snickered. “Oh no, no problem. Just admiring your speed and technique. You could use a little more finesse, though. I had to take points off for that.”

I reached around my back to unhook my bra. “Well, if you don’t want a good, long look at my tits you should probably turn around. Or close your eyes. Something.”

He turned around, then looked down as he passed me the dress when I was ready to attempt to wriggle into it. “You know, you could have left the bra ON. I was joking about the no shame bit.”

“No, I couldn’t have. I’m not going to be able to wear one with it later, so I need to know how it fits without. I see silver star shaped pasties in my future, though. Or maybe nude ones would be better…forgot about the parent factor.”

“Roland’s going to be in the wedding party, too. He’s Luke’s best man. I think he’d probably like the star pasties better, but I suppose I need to exercise some parental moral responsibility at some point, so nude is probably the right choice. Of course I thought of none of this when I saw the dress initially. I was captivated by the shiny.”

Laughing as I lifted the gathered fabric over my head, I had to pause to stop myself from turning around to talk to him. “You? Captivated by shiny? Nope, not possible.” I worked my hand through the armholes and dropped the dress into place. Or tried to. It got stuck on my boobs. “And did you say Roland is Luke’s best man? That is…the sweetest thing ever.”

Simon’s voice was thick with emotion when he replied, as it usually was whenever he mentioned anything Luke and love related. “It is. Totally Luke’s idea, too. I wanted him to be my best man, but Luke thought it would make him feel more…accepted, I guess, if it was the other way around. Worked, too. He was over the moon. They get along so well…it’s just…”

I swiveled my head around when I heard him sniffing. “Simon, don’t you dare cry because then I’ll cry and THE DRESS, dude, THE DRESS.” Carefully, every so carefully, I pulled and slid and tugged until the waist was where it belonged, reached behind me to zip it up, then tucked the girls into place before I looked in the mirror. Though a bit snug in the chest, it was essentially a perfect fit. I didn’t even think it would need hemming if I wore a two inch heel. A nice, chunky heel. Preferably boots with heels. I stared at my reflection, feeling like a princess from some sort of fractured fairytale for I don’t know how long, finally interrupted by the click of a phone camera. Looking up, I saw Simon behind me, taking shot after shot.

“SIMON.” I spun around to face him, any modesty, which had been purely for his benefit because I really DID have no shame, cast completely aside since he’d already seen my nipples, even if it was only technically a reflection of them. “The fuck are you doing?”

He grinned. “Just sending some pictures to your boyfriend. No biggie. You’ll thank me later.”

“You know Simon, I HAVE ENOUGH PROBLEMS ALREADY …” My phone dinged, and I bent over to rummage through my shorts pockets to find it. Text from Tom. Of course.

WOMAN, YOU NEED TO COME HOME RIGHT NOW. – T

Another arrived right after, before I had time to reply.

Okay. I counted backwards from ten and some of the blood that was elsewhere returned to my brain. You look so, SO beautiful. My lord. Just…a vision of loveliness. All that, plus intelligence, humor, everything…my Maude. I am a lucky, lucky man. – T

Thomas, you’re making me blush. And Simon is SO going to bust my balls for it. :P –M

Fucking hell I just zoomed and…nipples…we’re now back to WOMAN, YOU NEED TO COME HOME RIGHT NOW. – T

They will be covered on the night of the wedding, I assure you. :P – M

Well that’s disappointing. :P So, when ARE you coming home? LOL –T

Still have to get dress for tomorrow. Probably two hours, maybe? I need to get this one off because for SOME reason I’m, like, all hot and starting to SWEAT. –M

If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go recite the Serenity Prayer a thousand times now. – T

Actually, though, I thought I’d go to the market and get what we need for the weekend. Mum and Emma can’t make dinner tomorrow, so they’ll just meet us here and then we’ll all head to the gallery, then come back after to talk and such. Anything in particular you want or need while I’m out? – T

Ice cream. Chips and dip. Onion dip, preferably. And is there somewhere you can stop and pick me up an ankle support? I think it’s time to start leaving the boot off as much as I can tolerate…putting weight on the ankle helps it heal faster. Or so they say. Thanks. – M

Will do. Love you. – T

Love you too. I’ll try to stop Simon from sending more pics so you don’t get a stiffy in public. :P –M

Don’t need pics for that, love. All I have to do is think of you and…whoomp, there it is. :P –T

Now that fucking song is going to be stuck in my head. Thanks for that. –M

J You’re welcome. See you soon. –T

Simon was tapping his foot, patience wearing thin. “Christ. Remind me not to do THAT again. So. Get that off. We need to get to Anna and Browns before they close.”

I stripped and put my clothes back on while Simon requested a garment bag from Diandra, and she insisted on zipping it up herself once the dress was in place to ensure nothing snagged. When we reached the car, he carefully laid the bag across the backseat before coming around to open my door. I commented on his backwards priorities, and he told me to shut my pretty mouth and with that, it was off to Anna, which Simon said was in the opposite direction but closed earlier so that was where we need to go first.

Located nearly right across from Regent’s Park, Anna was a two story boutique featuring unique designer clothing…their words, not mine. Simon refused help from a stylist, opting instead to let me browse around like a cow grazing in an open field. Most of the stock was entirely not my taste, but I did manage to find a funky grey tie-dyed pattern long-sleeve T-shirt style dress, and Simon brought me a white sweater dress with black horizontal stripes. There was no way I was ever wearing it in public, but I agreed to try it on. Both wound up being meh at best, so we wrote them off, cut our losses and drove to Browns.

The Browns Flagship store was vast, taking up five repurposed interconnecting townhouses, offering all styles and types of designer fashions as well as accessories. Simon had to drag me away from the first shoe display we came across and into the racks…and there were so many racks. SO. MANY. After narrowing it down to three dresses, we traversed to the fitting room, where Simon waited outside for me after the counter girl cleared her throat when he attempted to follow me inside.

First I tried on a Givenchey short sleeve wrap-style dress, black satin, and as soon as I saw how the bunched material made my boobs look lopsided as all get out, off it came. Next was a Christopher Kane sleeveless bandage dress, totally funky, the dress medium grey, horizontal piping of the same color, with a black and white zipper running up the entire length of its front. The hem reached to four or five inches above my knee, and it was…tight. But in a good way, though I questioned if it made my ass look huge. Simon’s reaction shot down that theory when I walked out of the fitting room.

“That’s the one. That’s it. Turn. Your tushie looks fantastic. Woo! Now you just need shoes…”

“Hold on, cowboy. There’s one more to try on and it’s my favorite.”

He sighed. “But this one is perfect.”

I flipped him off and went back into my cubicle, hung the bandage dress back on its hanger, then tried on the Balenciaga black leather and silk dress that had screamed BUY ME from the second I saw it. The structured bodice was spaghetti-strap halter style, leather, with a sweetheart neckline and a silver zipper that ran from the top to the waist of the dress. The skirt was silk, airy, and lightly pleated, creating a gentle wave effect at the hemline. It was a bitch to get into, and I yet again had to remove my bra, but once I zipped it and adjusted the décolletage was unbelievably impressive. The skirt brushed the very top of my shins, just below my knee, and it felt like…ME. Though after San Diego I thought I’d never consider wearing them again, I knew it would look amazing with my Diva Darcies. I marched out to meet Simon, though it was really only half marching/half something awkward and strange because of the boot, and he gasped.

“Holy fuckamoley, you look like…like…I don’t know. Goth biker chick? Bad ass motherfucker? Dominatrix? All of that? I still think the bandage dress is better for tomorrow, but you NEED to buy this one too. It screams ‘dance all night long with Simon at Studio 338’. When you CAN dance again, we are SO going.” He frowned. “When’s that heinous ankle contraption coming off, anyway? It’s not adding anything to either dress, if you know what I mean.”

I rolled my eyes. “I am AWARE. And I have it covered, I think. It’s much better than it was, surprisingly so since it’s only been a week. Way I figure, if I can find a nice sturdy pair of boots to wear and combine it with the ankle support Tom’s picking up for me, maybe, just MAYBE I can get away without it tomorrow night. But…buy both? This one’s seventeen hundred bucks, the other is eleven hundred. How do I justify spending that on…two dresses? That’s insane.”

He tilted his head and pointed at me. “Um, honey, your man is famous. Wait until it’s red carpet time.”

Raising a brow, I shifted my hips back and forth, regaling in the feel of the silk against my legs. “Simon. Bullshit. Have you forgotten what I’ve done for a living? I’m not a total newb. Those are usually LOANERS.”

“Fine. I was just trying to make you feel justified. SO unappreciative, Maude.”

I snorted, then returned to the fitting room to change back into my street clothes. Simon was my dress donkey for this mission, snarking on the occasional pair of shoes as I perused the available selection.

“Yuck. Open toe, yet not open toe.” He held up a pair of peek-a-boo sandals. “MAKE A CHOICE, PEOPLE.”

All the boots were ordinary, leather, fold over cuffs, zippers…nothing caught my eye. Around the corner was another display, and I finally saw a pair that got me all ‘grabby hands shut up and take my money’. They were black, moderately shiny, semi-slouchy with eleven black metal round rivet-like buttons up the outer sides, zippers on the inside for easy on and off. The brand was Miz Mooz, the style Bloom. The clerk located my size within the space of five minutes, and when I tried the left one on I was pleased to see that they came all the way up to my knees. Simon nodded his approval, I took of the ped I’d been given, put my sandal back on and three thousand dollars later we were out the door and headed home. Simon insisted on stopping for coffee at Kaffeine, and though it was against my better judgement I ordered an espresso to put an end to his incessant whining about how I was so much less fun that he’d thought. When he chided me for putting sugar in it, I responded by adding more. It hit me just as we pulled into his spot in the parking garage, and by the time we got to our floor he was quite contented to pass off all the bags to Tom and run for his own flat as he yelled ‘good luck with her, honey’.

Tom placed the dresses on the back of the couch and the boot box on the floor as I followed him like a puppy, trying to skip but failing miserably. He turned to me, arms crossed.

“What did he mean by that?”

I speed shrugged. “Well, could be he’s fed up with shopping because I don’t really like what he likes, though the maid of honor dress, that’s, wow, but, like he picked out this stripey thing and I felt like Sailor Moon when I put it on but wait, she wears a pinafore or something so maybe it’s Twiggy, the model, yeah, it was really late sixties and though wow I’m SO not Twiggy at all but you know what I mean OR it could have something to do with…the espresso. Probably the espresso. Espresso.”

He smirked as he uncrossed his arms and closed the distance between us. “What on earth possessed him to let you drink espresso?”

Speed shrugging again, I reached out and began fiddling with the waistband of his jeans, untucking his white T-shirt from them. “I don’t KNOW. I told him already like three times that coffee and I are like NO, NOT COMPATIBLE, yet he was all ESPRESSO, you have to have some because if you don’t, so BORING and then he made fun of me for putting sugar in it but fucking A it was bitter and WHY do people drink it like that it’s NASTY…” I’d unbuttoned his jeans and had begun to unzip them when his hands covered mine. I looked up at him. “Wow, how did THAT happen? Seriously, I have no idea it’s just you’re there and that white T-shirt and do you want to fuck me because I really need you to fuck me, like, right now because all day long I’ve been thinking about you touching yourself and…”

His lips met mine, and I responded aggressively, biting down on his lip, then searching for his tongue and sucking on it vigorously, pulling away to stare at him. “Thomas. I love your mouth. The way you taste. Your lips, your tongue, what they do to me…” I dove back in, and his own response was first a gasp, then a moan, followed by his lip sucking trick that made me come instantly every single time, this one no exception.

“Wow, oh my god, Tom, I so wasn’t ready for that yet but I guess I WAS ready, ha, right? Will you do it again? Do it again.”

Three of my orgasms later, he was shaking with his own pent up desire, looking over his shoulder at the couch, then over mine into the kitchen. He turned me around, propelling me past the dining table with his hands on my shoulders while growling in my ear.

“I’m going to fuck you on the counter. Is that all right? Fucking you on the counter?”

I tilted my head to the left. “Fucking me on the counter. Yes. Yes please. I would like you to fuck me on the counter. SO totally all right. Totally.”

As soon as we rounded the corner he yanked my shorts and underwear down, and I kicked them to the side as he lifted me up and plopped me on the cold stone, my back to the living room, one hand on my jaw to keep me focused on his face, my eyes locked on his.

“Now. I have to run upstairs for just one very brief moment. You’ll stay right here and wait for me, won’t you?”

Nodding six times, I began swinging my legs back and forth as he bolted from the kitchen. “I’m still right here, Tom. But my poor, poor pussy…she’s very lonely, soaking wet, all excited but there’s no one to play with her…”

There was a loud crash from upstairs, followed by a litany of fucks and shits, then his rapid footfalls as he raced down the stairs, appearing in front of me with the ankle brace I’d requested and a chair from the dining room. He sat in the chair and began unbuckling the walking boot, slipping it off carefully as he met my gaze.

“Sorry, love. Your pussy is a meal that demands to be savored, and I can’t very well have that boot digging into my shoulders while I enjoy my feast, can I?”

“Well I was under the impression that you’d be fucking me, like really, really HARD and right NOW but…” I reached down and grabbed his head with both hands, pushing it towards my crotch. He pulled away, smirking.

“Ah ah ah, we’ve got to put the brace on first.” He pulled it over my foot, and as my ankle rolled sideways I felt a stab of fire within the joint that made me suck in a quick breath. “Sorry, love. Almost there.”

Both my hands gripped the edge of the countertop. “It’s fine. Totally fine. Do it. Just do it. Worth the pain. Worth it. Make it worth it.”

He tugged it into place, pulled the chair in closer, situated himself precisely, then placed my feet on his shoulders. His head was as the perfect height, face still visible to me yet strategically placed for…going down. As his hands pulled my ass closer to the edge and spread me open, his long, pink tongue unfurling, I realized that from my own angle, I’d be able to see…everything. He began at my taint, running his tongue up the middle, it dipping into my entrance just enough to make me push down on his shoulders with my feet and thrust my hips forward, then abandoning that particular ship in order to circle my clit, which he took between his teeth, then sucked into his mouth, staring at me the entire time.

“Tom. Tom. TOM. Mygodmygodmygod. Suck harder. Come on. Harder.” He ignored me at first, but I kept repeating it louder and louder until he complied, and I could tell by his eyes that he was extremely entertained by my insistence. I was not entertained when he stopped abruptly, though before I could protest I watched him stiffen his tongue and ease it inside me and suddenly, I forgot about everything else as my brain tried to process the visual of it moving in and out of me in conjunction with the way it made me FEEL. The moment his thumb touched my clit I began humping his face, him rubbing and thrusting furiously at the same time, and as the index finger of his other hand slid inside my ass I came, loudly chanting for him to fuck my ass harder and get that tongue DEEPER. It seemed I closed my eyes only for a second when I felt my legs moving upward, feet dangling over something until the backs of my knees hit solidity, hands on my shoulder blades and arms against my ribcage.

I opened them to find his eyes inches from mine, wild, pupils blown wide, my juices coating his countenance and dripping down his chin, his lips glossy with it. He grinned, the salaciousness of it making me shiver, and settled the head of his cock at my entrance.

“Now, Maude. NOW I’m going to fuck you. Really, really hard.”

His hips thrust forward as he sheathed himself fully, then began bucking frenziedly. I hung like a rag doll in his grasp, still limp from orgasm, allowing his pounding to move me until he froze, asking me to hold myself up for a moment as he first removed his shirt, then my own, as well as my bra. My legs still over his shoulders, he leaned forward, bending me almost completely in half in order to press his chest to mine, arms behind me and holding me up once again. His thrusting resumed and grew ever desperate, his eyes never leaving mine. I could feel myself nearing the top of another peak, the tension in my belly becoming too powerful to ignore, and I clamped down on him.

His eyes closed for a second, then opened as he fought to keep himself from coming. “Is your pussy still lonely, Maude?”

I shook my head, my hands reaching up to touch his face, his cheekbones under my fingertips, then his jaw, and his still moist lips. “No. Nope. Not. Happy. Full. She’s very, very full…but there’s still a little bit of room in there if you have, you know, a little something ELSE for her.” I released, then squeezed again, and again. His balls slapped against me noisily as he resumed his onslaught, grunting and groaning and gasping.

“Oh, I have some…some…something…for…ohgodohgod…fuck me, I’m coming, I’m COMING and COMING…”

I came as well as his warmth coated my shuddering walls, and he was so lost in pleasure that he let go of me, and I found myself looking at an upside-down dining table as my head and neck sprawled backward over the countertop. I could hear his usual post-orgasm noises, tiny gasps and chirps and moans, and as the blood rushed to my head I thought perhaps I should mention my precarious position but he took notice before I was able to form the words.

“Oh, fuck, Maude, my god, I’m SO sorry are you all right?” He put one arm around my upper shoulders, bracing me as he pulled out and eased my legs off his shoulders, then peered behind me to see if I’d hurt myself on the edge of the counter. “Christ, what a tit I am…are you okay?” He felt around with his fingers, and when I didn’t flinch he pulled me up so I was sitting, dribbling cum all over the orange surface beneath me.

“I. Am. Fine. Fine. And I think…I think the espresso might be wearing off. I’m actually a little…tired.” I snickered. “Could just be the blood draining back into my body, though.”

His head hung down, shaking back and forth, then lifted to pepper my face with kisses. “I’m so, so sorry about that. I just…I came so hard I couldn’t…I couldn’t see, really.” It was his turn to snicker. “Thanks for that. Maude Gallagher, supplier of orgasms so powerful that she jeopardizes her own personal safety in the process.”

I kissed him, tasting myself on his lips. “I blame the espresso. And Simon.” He laughed, and I paused, reviewing my vocalizations. “I was loud, wasn’t I?” He nodded. “I hope they heard me. That’ll teach him a lesson he won’t soon forget.”

Tom chuckled. “Love, I’m afraid the neighbors two houses down may have heard you. And anyone walking by on the street. And people in their cars with the windows up…”

“Yeah. Well. They should probably, you know, get used to it.”

He initiated the kiss this time, his tongue thrusting in to massage mine. “They’d better. Because I love making you scream. Maybe more than Shakespeare, even.”

“Thomas. Be serious.”

He grinned. “I AM being serious. And I’ve decided that I do, in fact, love it more than Shakespeare. Without a doubt.”

I sat, motionless and wordless, for a few moments. “How am I supposed to respond to that kind of compliment?”

He licked me, tongue starting at my clavicle, moving up my neck, across my jaw and up to my temple. “Let me make you scream again?”

My head tilted as I looked up at the ceiling, pretending to ponder. “You know what? That totally works for me.”

#your light in the mist #one shot #been shopping

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worryinglyinnocent · 7 years

Text

Fic: A Beginning, Of Sorts

Summary: You know, I can’t even remember where this prompt came from but it cropped up in conversation after this fic involving Nick and Gloria roleplaying an escort and client. Some of us were talking about how terrible Rush would be as an escort, and someone else ( @woodelf68 perhaps?) said that they could actually see it working as a method for him to fund himself through college – minimal investment of time for maximum financial return.

Anyway, wherever it came from, this is the finished product. Nicholas Rush meets Gloria when she hires him as to escort her to a fancy party one evening…

Rated: M – fade to black, but adult themes.

=====

A Beginning, Of Sorts

Nick sighs, pushes his glasses down his nose to be able to rub the bridge, and readjusts them before looking again at the paperwork spread out in front of him, trying to make sense of it all.

PhD’s are fucking hard work. He loves maths, he loves physics, he honestly does, but right now there are numbers swimming in front of his eyes and he really doesn’t think that he’s going to get anything vaguely useful out of it tonight. With a grunt of pain from the ache in his neck, he leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, wondering whether to get some more coffee and try and plough on with it, or give it up as a bad job. He’s worked twice this week already so he thinks that he’s allowed to be knackered.

The phone, shrill and urgent and unrelenting, bursts into angry life and Nick rolls his shoulders before going to answer it. There’s only one person who’d be calling this number at this time, and he’s not entirely sure he wants to answer. Maybe he should let it go to answerphone and he’ll pick it up in the morning when he’s less tired. Maybe he should just pretend to be out, but unfortunately he’s not exactly known for being a social butterfly. Pushing these other welcome notions aside, he grabs the receiver.

“Rush.”

“Hey Nick, it’s Liz.”

He knew that it was going to be Liz. She sounds even more tired than he does. Liz isn’t her real name, he knows that much, but he’s never pried into what her name actually is.

“Hi Liz.”

“Diary says you’re available Saturday night, is that still the case?”

Nick looks down at his paperwork. Of course he’s available Saturday night, it’s not like he has a hot date with anyone except these equations, and they’re not exactly the best company. True, they’re quiet and they share all his own interests, as far as theoretical physics is concerned, but they don’t really make small talk and you can’t really wine and dine a sheaf of papers. On the other hand… He rolls his neck again, feeling the catch. He’s just so damned tired at the moment.

Still, any work is good work, and even scholarship students need to eat and sleep.

“Yeah, I’m still available.”

“Great. I’ve got a job for you.”

“When, where, who.” He doesn’t really waste on small talk with Liz. She’s calling to give him an appointment, and anything else in their interaction is somewhat awkward.

“Saturday night at seven-thirty, a young lady by the name of Gloria Miller. She wants to meet you at the Palace Hotel bar for a chat but then you’ll be going elsewhere, she wants an escort to a fancy family party out of town. Play at being the boyfriend, you know.”

Nick raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t usually get escorting jobs that involve actual escorting. He’s really not the most social person in the world, and he’s really not the most social person on Liz’s books. Sex he can do – very well even if he does say so himself. Interacting with other people… Not so great.

“Are you sure I’m the right person for this one?” he asks.

“Well, the only other guy I have available on Saturday is Danny and he’s even more of a no-go for social events than you are. Besides, she sounded nervous and he’d send her running for the hills.”

Nick has to give a snort at that. Danny caters for rather more specialised tastes.

“I can trust you with this one, can’t I? I think she just needs someone to prop her up for an evening in the face of disapproving relatives. Just be polite and attentive and keep her drink topped up, and neatly deflect any questions about when the two of you are getting married and having kids.”

“Yeah, ok.” Well, that shouldn’t be too difficult. He wonders why Miss Miller has felt the need to hire company for the evening, but decides that it’s really none of his business and he’s not paid to think about those kind of things. “I’ll be there. Dress code?”

“Smart, but not super formal. Suit and tie.”

Nick wrinkles his nose. He hates wearing ties and tries to get away without one as much as humanly possible. He only ever wears them when he’s working and even then, if he can go without he will. Unfortunately, Liz can read his silence.

“You’re wearing a damn tie, Rush.”

“All right, all right. Saturday, half-seven at the Palace. How long?”

“She’s paid up till midnight, thinks the party will be breaking up by then.” There’s a long pause at the other end of the line. “I know I don’t have to tell you this but take condoms and lube just in case. You never know.”

“Of course, Liz.”

“Payment like usual. Have fun.”

“Thanks, Liz.”

They say their goodbyes and Nick puts down the phone, staring at it for a few minutes before getting up and padding through to the kitchenette to make a fresh mug of coffee. If he’s sacrificing Saturday night to the tune of getting paid, he’ll need to keep working on these equations tonight.

The Palace Hotel isn’t the most expensive place his client could have chosen, but it’s certainly not the cheapest, and he wonders how old she is and how she came to be blowing her savings on hiring an escort and buying ridiculously priced cocktails in this bar. Nick readjusts his tie and takes a good look around the room, eyeing up the possible clients. He picks her out straight away. She’s sitting at the bar with a Margarita that she’s not drinking, and she meets his eyes as soon as he walks in. She’s the only one here alone, and Nick takes a moment to study her from afar before he goes over.

She’s fairly young, mid-twenties at most; his own age. That’ll make selling the fake relationship a bit easier. Long legs and soft curves encased in a classy, well-fitting little black dress. Honey-blonde hair pinned up, and pale skin. She’s very pretty, and Nick wonders again why she needs an escort for the evening.

Still, nothing to be gained by staring at her from the doorway, so he goes over.

“Miss Miller?”

She nods. “Please, call me Gloria. You must be Hamish. Thanks for coming.”

Nick admits that Hamish probably isn’t the best professional alias he could have chosen for himself, but since he’s so obviously Scottish, as Liz reminds him frequently, he thought that the best thing to do would be to play up that Scottishness. As long as none of his clients ask him to wear a kilt because he doesn’t actually own one and the last time he wore one, he was told that he looked terrible in it. When he first started in the job he had a terrible fear of being asked to wear a kilt and nothing else, because romantic fiction and ridiculous novel covers have a lot to answer for when it comes to the unnecessary objectification of Scotsmen.

“My pleasure,” he replies. He really hates parties. He hates most social occasions in general, but since this pays the bills and is earning him his PhD, he’s going to have to give in with good grace and be on his best behaviour during this one. Unless, of course, Gloria wants him to play at being an absolute arse in order to get her family off her back, the objective being that after him they’ll be happy with whoever she ends up with. Some of the more experienced escorts have had that kind of a job before, with clients who aren’t out to their parents. On the other hand, that might well backfire and lead to the awkward situation of her being put under even more pressure to replace the highly inappropriate ‘boyfriend’ and take up with someone better.

“Can I get you a drink?” Gloria asks.

Nick shakes his head. He doesn’t like drinking too much when he’s working because he likes to be fully alert and aware of his surroundings, and although he’s not been to all that many swanky parties in his time, he knows that there’s likely to be a lot of alcohol once they get there.

“Did the woman at the agency tell you what I wanted?” Gloria continues. “About the party, I mean.”

“She told me that there was going to be a party, but she didn’t give me any details.”

“It’s my grandparents,” Gloria elucidates. “They live about seven miles out of the city. They have a big pre-Christmas party every year, loads of family, friends, influential business people.” Her voice hardens on the last few words. “And every year so far since I moved out, I’ve turned up without a date, and my grandmother tries to set me up with any number of godawful would-be suitors, as if I only exist to be married off and continue the family line, and…” She breaks off. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be saying all this.”

Nick just shrugs. “You can say whatever you like, it makes no difference to me. I’m here for you, not any of your relations.”

“At any rate, this year I was determined not to turn up on my own and that’s where you come in.” She pauses. “I wanted to meet you here before so we could work out a reasonable cover story. I’m doing my Education Masters at the university, we met there.”

Nick nods. “Yes, that’s easy enough.” He wonders if their paths have ever crossed before. “What was your Bachelor?”

“Music. I play the violin; my aim is to get into an orchestra. Teaching’s a backup in case that dream falls through. You? I don’t mean in real life, obviously.”

“PhD,” Nick replies. “Which is technically the truth. You can pick the subject. Just nothing involving foreign languages, or I’ll be fucked,” he adds.

There’s a lot less nervousness in Gloria’s features now, and as she smiles, taking a sip of her margarita, her face lights up.

“Maths,” she says eventually. “You look like the mathematical sort.” She cocks her head on one side and smiles. “Am I even close to being right?”

Nick quirks an eyebrow. “That would be telling. Anything else I need to know?”

“My grandpa made his money in antiques, my dad carried on from him, and all the women in my family are professional wives.” She snorts. “They really want me to settle down, so there’ll probably be a bunch of questions about when we’re going to get married and how many kids we’ll have. If I can say one thing for my family, they’re very… eager.”

Nick just laughs. He thinks he’s going to get on with Gloria. They’re more alike than he thought would be possible, considering their vastly disparate backgrounds, but despite her obvious privilege, she seems grounded enough. He’s met enough of the other sort during the course of his ‘career’. Burning Daddy’s money away and coasting along through their classes.

“We should probably get going,” Gloria says, draining the last of her drink. “They’ll be expecting us soon.” She pauses. “I think you should know, before we go, that a bit of me is just doing this to spite my dad. He gave me a ‘dress allowance’ and told me to go and get ‘something pretty for the party’. So I did.” She pauses. “Sorry, that’s horribly insensitive.”

Nick shrugs. “It’s true, in the most brutal sense of the word.” Her frankness is refreshing, and so is her apology.

“Yes, but it’s still not a very nice thing for me to have said.”

“We’ll say no more about it. I’m flattered that you think I’m pretty.”

“Oh, you’re very pretty.” She slips her arm through his and they leave the hotel bar; there’s a taxi waiting. The drive to her grandparents’ house is quiet and awkward, but Nick’s sure that once they’re there, the uncomfortable atmosphere will dissipate a little as it will no longer be just the two of them. He’s going to be completely out of his depth, of course, but that’s par for the course, and as the newcomer to the family, no-one’s going to expect him to be the life and soul of the party in a hurry. At least, he really hopes not. As they pull up to the drive, Gloria begins to speak again and with the taxi idling outside the door, they work out a few last minute details so that they don’t end up giving all the relatives two subtly different versions of the same story. They don’t need to know everything about each other, this fake relationship doesn’t have to have been going on very long. There’s no need to fake true love and wedding bells on the horizon, just enough of a familiarity not to be suspicious. Although, Nick thinks as they walk in through the front door and he sees the vast amounts of alcohol around the place, he doesn’t think that anyone’s going to be in a position to call attention to anything suspicious any time soon.

“I’ll try and keep you close as much as possible,” Gloria says. “It would be unfair to leave you to be mobbed by all my relatives.”

She introduces him to everyone in short order, and Nick knows that he hasn’t got a cat in hell’s chance of remembering any names, so he just decides to be the arm candy that he was hired to be, keeping his mouth shut as much as possible and listening politely to all the conversations going on that he really doesn’t understand. People are talking about investments and banking on one side and probing Gloria for information about her future plans on the other side, and Nick can quite see why she needed an ally for the evening. It must be incredibly daunting for anyone to come here alone and be met with such a barrage of information and questioning from well-meaning family members who don’t really mean all that well. The main person that he has to fend off is Gloria’s grandmother, who seems to have taken quite a shine to him. Then again, from what Gloria’s told him, she would probably take a shine to any man that Gloria turned up with for the simple reason that he has the ability to get her granddaughter pregnant and produce some great-grandchildren.

“I’ve tried telling her at least sixty times that I don’t want kids, at least not until I’m thirty,” she mutters once they finally manage to extricate themselves from Grandma Miller’s grasp and are hiding out of the way of everyone behind the grandfather clock in the hall. Gloria’s on her third glass of champagne already and she knocks back the dregs. “I really hate these things. But I’m very glad you’re here.”

“I haven’t exactly done much,” Nick points out. “I’m just quiet and respectable boyfriend Hamish.”

“I know, but you exist tangibly which is the main thing, and I can always talk to you and block out everyone else. And I can complain about all my relatives to you and you won’t be offended.”

Nick laughs. “No, although you might be if I share my opinions of some of them to you. It’s all right when you’re complaining about your own family but it’s a different thing if it’s someone else doing it. It’s a bit like Scotland, I suppose. We all make disparaging remarks about various bits of our culture but as soon as someone south of the border makes those same comments, well…”

Gloria smiles. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” She glances back towards the living room where most of the party is gathered, and she sags in her high heels a little. “Do we have to go back in?”

Nick shrugs. “It’s your party and your time,” he reminds her. “I’ll just go along with whatever you do.”

Gloria looks at him sideways, twirling the stem of her champagne flute between her fingers.

“You don’t like these events, do you?”

“Honestly? No. I’m not usually first choice for this kind of thing. But I’m here.”

“Yeah, we’re both here and we’re both miserable. Come on, let’s hide. We’re both consenting adults and apparently in love, I don’t think anyone’s going to come looking for us.”

Gloria grabs his hand and leads him up the stairs; from some of the noises coming from behind closed doors, they’re not the only ones who have decided to leave the party and get up to no good. Although, Nick reasons, he doesn’t know what this particular little excursion with Gloria is going to lead to. She takes him into a small bedroom, a little bleak and sparse, no personal touches in it.

“It’s my room when I stay over,” she explains, opening the window to let some cool night air in and sitting on the windowsill, rummaging around in her little clutch bag and taking out cigarettes and a fancy lighter. “Do you mind?”

Nick shakes his head. “Not at all. I brought my own.”

Gloria laughs and pats the windowsill across from her, offering her lighter, and Nick takes it. The first drag is just what he needs after the tension in the party downstairs.

“Your name’s not really Hamish, is it?” Gloria asks presently.

“No. But I’d rather not tell you what it really is.”

“Fair enough.”

This moment here, sitting smoking in a room lit only by moonlight, is the most comfortable and relaxed that Nick’s been with Gloria all evening, and the silence that settles between them isn’t awkward like it had been before. There’s an unspoken understanding between them; he’s not really sure where it came from but it’s there and it’s nice. It’ll make the rest of the time go easily.

Gloria finishes her cigarette and leans back in the window, looking out over the vast garden beyond, and occasionally glancing back at him, her head on one side, considering him. Nick raises an eyebrow.

“What’s up?”

“I’m wondering whether it would be bad form to kiss you,” Gloria says frankly, and whilst Nick wasn’t sure what he was expecting, he’s fairly certain it wasn’t that. “Because you’re not at all how I was expecting and you’re very handsome, and I’d like to kiss you.”

Nick certainly wouldn’t mind if she kissed him. She’s certainly very lovely and his feelings towards her are positive, rather than the usual neutrality he tends to maintain with clients. He likes her.

“I’d be up for that,” he admits.

“I’m glad.”

She’s firm in her kiss, she knows what she wants, and she tastes of smoke and alcohol like so many women do. She smells expensive, like so many women do. But she’s different somehow. There’s a realness to her, which is ironic considering that the entire time he’s been with her he’s been playing a role. But there’s no pretence to her now, not like the bright, smiling, perfect daughter she had been downstairs. He likes her, it’s as simple as that, and that makes this experience so much more enjoyable for all the many, many times he has done it.

So he keeps kissing her, and she keeps kissing him back, and there’s a champagne brightness in her eyes when she pulls away, a brightness that Nick recognises all too well. It’s a good job that Liz warned him to bring condoms just in case.

“We should probably get back to the party.”

They’re sitting in Gloria’s four-foot single bed, Nick at the head and Gloria leaning against the wall, propped up on pillows, the ashtray on the covers between them. He doesn’t really have any desire to move, and he knows that whatever time they get back to the party, people are going to be giving them looks that immediately say that they know what they got up to whilst they were absent, but Nick really couldn’t care less about that, and to all intents and purposes, Gloria doesn’t seem to care too much about it either. But the clock is ticking down, and soon he’ll have to leave because her payment will have run out.

“Aye, we probably should.”

It’s with obvious reluctance that Gloria gets out of the bed and puts her clothes back on without self-consciousness and Nick follows her lead. Once they get back down into the main party room, it’s clear that a lot of the guests have already left. They get the usual looks, a mixture of disapproval from some of the elderly relatives and indulgent ‘they’re hot-blooded young things’ sentiment from the others. Gloria’s mother chastises her for skipping out on so much of the party and Nick listens to her deflect the veiled barbs in a wonderful display of passive aggression that he couldn’t have bettered himself. Finally, she manages to get him out of the door and into a taxi that’ll take him back to the Palace.

“Thank you,” she says as they part. “For everything. I’ve had fun tonight. Well, the bits when we weren’t at the party were fun. And the party was less awful than usual. So thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The taxi slides quietly into the night, and Nick glances back over his shoulder through the rear window at Gloria standing in the driveway, and he wonders if he’ll ever bump into her again.

It’s a new year and a new term and a couple of months have passed with Nick trying very much not to think about Gloria when he sees her suddenly, and suddenly, everything changes and he has no idea what to do with himself because he’s walking in one direction with his coffee and she’s walking in the other direction with her violin case and it’s inevitable that they’re going to meet in the middle of the street. She recognises him just before they collide with each other and smiles.

“Hello. How are you?”

Nick’s still somewhat stunned but manages to answer.

“Fine, thanks. You?”

“I’m good. It’s been a little while, hasn’t it?”

No-one would know that they were talking about an escorting appointment, but either way, it’s clear that they remember each other and they have been thinking about each other in the interim. Nick’s not the best at small talk, something that Liz has despaired of in the past, but they chat for a couple of minutes.

“Do you maybe want to get a coffee later?” she asks presently.

“I…” He really doesn’t know what to say to that because he does want to, but at the same time… “You know what I do in my spare time,” he warns her.

Gloria nods. “I do. It’s how we met, remember.” She shrugs. “It’s just coffee.”

Just coffee. He can do just coffee. God, he spends so much of his working life around the opposite sex that one would think that he’d know what to say to them when he meets one he knows in the street. He nods.

“All right then. That sounds good. Tuesday night?”

“Great. Although there’s one thing. I know you’re not called Hamish, but can I maybe get your actual name before we meet again?”

Nick gives a snort of laughter. “It’s Nick.”

“Pleased to meet you, Nick. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

It’s a beginning of something, Nick’s pretty sure of that as they continue down the road on their separate ways. It’s a pretty strange beginning, and he’s not sure what it’s the beginning of yet, but it’s definitely a beginning.

#SGU fic #woodelf68 #NickxGloria #Dr Nicholas Rush #Gloria Rush

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getyourgossip0-blog · 6 years

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Now that's what I call a tracklist: how the compilation's 100th edition sells its history short

New Post has been published on http://getyourgossip.xyz/now-thats-what-i-call-a-tracklist-how-the-compilations-100th-edition-sells-its-history-short/

Now that's what I call a tracklist: how the compilation's 100th edition sells its history short

Released on 20 July, the 100th edition of Now That’s What I Call Music shifts from its regular programming: instead of summarising the last quarter in pop, the second disc condenses 35 years of Now into 80 minutes. It uses the biggest names – UB40, Phil Collins, Wet Wet Wet, Kylie, the Justins (Timberlake and Bieber), Coldplay – to tell its story, which rather misses the point. Now compilations are tamper-proof time capsules, where the most pleasure is found in one-hit wonders and sub-genres that were genuinely – but only briefly – popular. They are proof that history isn’t always written by the winners.

Here is how it could have looked. (Listen along below.)

The most significant sound of 1983 – for teenagers and the future of pop – was electro, represented on the first Now by the Rocksteady Crew with Hey You, which sounded like Peppermint Patty jumped ship from Peanuts while holidaying in the Bronx. Frankie Goes to Hollywood were huge in 84, and over by 85, but Propaganda (Dr Mabuse, Now 3) foreshadowed a new kind of European pop. Philip Oakey and Giorgio Moroder created a sad goodbye to the era (Together in Electric Dreams, Now 4) and British pop went into hibernation for much of the rest of the decade. US music became dominant on the dancefloor, with Prince’s success creating space for Cameo (Single Life, Now 6) and glorious one-offs such as Sly Fox’s Let’s Go All the Way (Now 7).

Not all was hopeless in mid-80s Britain. Stock, Aitken and Waterman, before they relied too heavily on pre-set buttons, gave us Mel and Kim’s weekend anthem Showing Out (Now 8), while mild experimentalism came via the Communards’ creepy So Cold the Night (Now 9), which used the bassoon as a rhythmic instrument. It wasn’t enough. Some turned to soft metal and the Brontëan passion of Heart’s Alone on Now 10, but the slick and tinny high-80s sound was dying by 1988; Johnny Hates Jazz’s puny but endearing Turn Back the Clock (Now 11) desperately attempting to stop the 90s from ever beginning.

1991’s biggest-selling singles act … the KLF perform at the 1992 Brit awards. Photograph: Richard Young/Rex Features

The rising sound of 1988 came from Chicago, and the media panic over acid house, but London played its part: the aerosol snare of Theme from S-Express (Now 12) signified an imminent DIY future for dance music. Soul II Soul (Back to Life, Now 15) instigated Paul Oakenfold’s Movement 98 and a tranche of early Ibiza-friendly 98bpm records (the Grid’s Floatation; JT & the Big Family’s Moments in Soul). By 1990, the primary colours of acid house and the frivolity of hip house resulted in Betty Boo (Where Are You Baby, Now 18) becoming a Smash Hits cover star. The major labels, iron-fisted in the 80s, had lost control of pop and in the chaos the KLF (3AM Eternal, Now 19) became 1991’s biggest selling singles act in Europe. The underground went overground – breakbeat-led hardcore (SL2’s On a Ragga Tip, Now 22) was the foundation stone of jungle, drum and bass, and genres yet to come.

Future thwarted … Tasmin Archer. Photograph: Mick Hutson/Redferns

Enough futurism – there was other stuff going on. Latin superstar Gloria Estefan was one of the biggest artists of the 90s never to have featured on a Now, but Jon Secada was her songwriter and backing singer, and the slippery, discomforting chords of his Just Another Day (Now 23) went Top 5 in 1992. A TV ad for the Soft Reggae compilation went with the bawled tagline “The softest reggae yet!” – as if L’Oréal had been trying to perfect a formula. UB40’s sound was inescapable in the early 90s, but Chaka Demus & Pliers’ Tease Me (Now 25), was soft, witty, and should be an oldies radio staple. The Brit awards saw the future in the form of Guiseley’s Tasmin Archer, (Sleeping Satellite, Now 26), named 1993’s best British breakthrough act – they were wrong.

Britpop’s year is remembered as 1995, but dance music was bigger, invigorated by happy hardcore (N-Trance’s Set You Free, Now 30), uplifting handbag house (Livin’ Joy’s Dreamer, Now 31) and whatever the Bucketheads’ joyous disco cut-up The Bomb was meant to be. Oasis aside, the most consistently successful UK act between 1993 and 1997 weren’t Pulp or Suede but Eternal (Power of a Woman, Now 32), whose run of homegrown, Topshop R&B singles – 12 Top 10 hits between 93 and 97, twice as many as Pulp, Shed Seven, Sleeper and Menswear combined – ran parallel to Britpop.

Spice Girls (Say You’ll Be There, Now 35) brought back a bubblegum sensibility in 1996 that dominated British chart pop for the rest of the nineties (All Saints’ I Know Where It’s At, Now 38; Steps’ Heartbeat, Now 41; Billie’s Honey to the Bee, Now 42). On Now 40, Aqua’s Doctor Jones – the second of three No 1s – was up against portentously titled post-Britpop items such as the Verve’s Sonnet and Legacy by Mansun.

A new golden age of R&B … Kelis. Photograph: Tim Roney/Getty Images

A new sound was needed for a new century. Still in demand in 2018 according to posters dotted around the North Circular, DJ Luck and MC Neat’s A Little Bit of Luck (Now 45) was urban, British, minimal and hard as nails, while So Solid Crew’s 21 Seconds (Now 50) was arguably the last time the media was scared by a No 1 single. British bubblegum was killed off by the more grownup, complex and beautifully baffling R&B emerging from the US at the turn of the century. Sisterhood may have suffered with the breakups of 90s R&B groups such as Jade, TLC and En Vogue, but solo singers produced a new golden age of R&B (Aaliyah’s More Than a Woman, Now 51; Ashanti’s Foolish, Now 52; Kelis’s Milkshake, Now 57). Previously a backroom songwriter, Christina Milian produced a masterpiece in Dip It Low (Now 58) – it’s a scandal of Vienna-type proportions that it was held off No 1 in 2004 by the tiresome Fuck It/F.U.R.B. (Fuck You Right Back) craze.

Almost undocumented by the music press but huge north of the Wash in the early 00s was the Blackburn-based All Around the World label, which provided donk-heavy foot fodder from acts such as N-Trance, Aquagen and Ultrabeat (Pretty Green Eyes, Now 56). Down south, 3 of a Kind were the ultimate one-hit wonder – one single, one No 1 hit in Babycakes, a last gasp of UK garage and one of its most endearing moments. Based in rural Kent, Britain’s Xenomania production team had scored their first No 1 in 2002 with Sugababes’ Round Round (Now 53) but by 2006 their main project, Girls Aloud (Biology, Now 62), had become broadsheet critical darlings. Girls Aloud were, of course, the product of the 2000s’ talent show craze. While you have to wade through a swamp of Sneddons to find anything else worthwhile, Shayne Ward’s Max Martin-produced gem No U Hang Up (Now 68) is worth a nod.

A brief flutter of excitement … Beth Ditto of Gossip. Photograph: Simone Joyner/Getty Images

Girls Aloud’s Something Kinda Ooooh and Justin Timberlake’s equally invigorating SexyBack fought drear like Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars and America by Razorlight on Now 65. The Magic Numbers (Forever Lost, Now 61) were physical and musical exceptions in a landfill indie landscape of identikit Wombats, Maccabees, Frays, Views and Hoosiers. There was a brief flutter of excitement as a bunch of exciting and excitable female-fronted guitar bands (CSS, New Young Pony Club, the Gossip) emerged in the mid ‘00s: the Gossip’s Standing in the Way of Control was on Now 66, alongside the first appearance by Calvin Harris who, along with David Guetta (Flames, Now 100), seems set to remain a Now regular until the apocalypse. Amerie’s Take Control (Now 67) provided a more imaginative way of using guitar riffs than any band in the UK could manage, though it presaged the oddly rock-heavy summer of 2008 (Sex on Fire, I Kissed a Girl, Pink’s So What).

The biggest country act of all time … Taylor Swift at BBC Radio 1’s 2012 Teen awards. Photograph: Brian Rasic/Brian Rasic/Getty Images

November 2008: in came Obama and, lo, a new lightness (Shakira’s She Wolf, Now 74), playfulness (Lady Gaga’s run of 2009 No 1s), and a sense of something regained (Alicia Keys’ Empire State of Mind, Now 75). This optimism soon bled into an over-ripe maximalism, and some of the scientifically loudest records ever made (Rihanna’s Only Girl (In the World), Now 77). Meanwhile, David Cameron’s Britain dabbled in the darker arts of loud but sombre stadium dubstep (Chase & Status’ Blind Faith, Now 78; Nero’s Guilt, Now 79). As Madonna and Britney Spears’ careers suddenly faded, a new heroine emerged from the world of country. There had been R&B/country crossovers before (Usher and Tim McGraw, Now 60) but adopting that internationalism made Taylor Swift (We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together, Now 83) the biggest country act of all time. She even had Obama on her side, with the president calling Kanye West a “jackass” after he invaded her prize acceptance at the 2009 MTV Video Music awards.

Foxes was an example of an emerging, less thrilling, 2010s British pop; her Let Go for Tonight (Now 87) was perfectly fine, but it represented a shift to a rather blank, home counties sound, as if Tim Henman had been appointed pop tsar. Sam Smith, Jess Glynne, Tom Odell, Ellie Goulding, and tousle-haired jack of all trades Ed “Hello Dave” Sheeran – this was chart pop as a career, in the way insurance or banking used to be, with a professional distance and a pre-rock attitude. At least Foxes had a proper stage name.

Stressed out … Drake. Photograph: Gabe Ginsberg/Getty Images

The charts were starting to become harder to read – in 2014, Oliver Heldens and Becky Hill’s Gecko (Overdrive) (Now 88) was the last UK No 1 to have made it on sales alone, as streaming became incorporated into the chart the following week. It was also becoming harder for outliers to break through, though Philip George’s Wish You Were Mine (Now 90) – deep house made in his bedroom – was an exception from a period when Robin S’s Show Me Love appeared to have been the most influential record ever made.

And so we enter the very recent past, the era of Trump, and some exceptionally good but also exceptionally mopey R&B. There was the new tough-but-weepy Bieber (Let Me Love You, Now 95), the Weeknd’s The Hills (Now 93) claimed “when I’m fucked up, that’s the real me”, while Drake bemoaned how “stressed out” he was as a Timmy Thomas sample played on Hotline Bling. Black British music had begun to dominate the second side of Nows (Stefflon Don’s Hurtin’ Me, Now 98; Dave’s No Words, Now 99). Indeed, the second disc of Now 99 was as exciting a sequence as Now had ever produced – Ramz, J Hus, B Young, Not3s, Mabel et al – at least until it weirdly petered out with Maroon 5, James Bay and U2.

The rather conservative “greatest hits” choices on Now 100 are therefore all the more disappointing, but no matter – the pop continuum is what counts with Now. I’m already looking forward to 35 years from today, and seeing the future of pop from the vantage point of Now 200.

Bob Stanley is a founding member of Saint Etienne and the author of Yeah Yeah Yeah: The Story of Modern Pop

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getyourgossip0-blog · 6 years

Text

Now that's what I call a tracklist: how the compilation's 100th edition sells its history short

New Post has been published on http://getyourgossip.xyz/now-thats-what-i-call-a-tracklist-how-the-compilations-100th-edition-sells-its-history-short/

Now that's what I call a tracklist: how the compilation's 100th edition sells its history short

Here is how it could have looked. (Listen along below.)

1991’s biggest-selling singles act … the KLF perform at the 1992 Brit awards. Photograph: Richard Young/Rex Features

Future thwarted … Tasmin Archer. Photograph: Mick Hutson/Redferns

A new golden age of R&B … Kelis. Photograph: Tim Roney/Getty Images

A brief flutter of excitement … Beth Ditto of Gossip. Photograph: Simone Joyner/Getty Images

The biggest country act of all time … Taylor Swift at BBC Radio 1’s 2012 Teen awards. Photograph: Brian Rasic/Brian Rasic/Getty Images

Stressed out … Drake. Photograph: Gabe Ginsberg/Getty Images

Bob Stanley is a founding member of Saint Etienne and the author of Yeah Yeah Yeah: The Story of Modern Pop

0 notes

getyourgossip0-blog · 6 years

Text

Now that's what I call a tracklist: how the compilation's 100th edition sells its history short

New Post has been published on http://getyourgossip.xyz/now-thats-what-i-call-a-tracklist-how-the-compilations-100th-edition-sells-its-history-short/

Now that's what I call a tracklist: how the compilation's 100th edition sells its history short

Here is how it could have looked. (Listen along below.)

1991’s biggest-selling singles act … the KLF perform at the 1992 Brit awards. Photograph: Richard Young/Rex Features

Future thwarted … Tasmin Archer. Photograph: Mick Hutson/Redferns

A new golden age of R&B … Kelis. Photograph: Tim Roney/Getty Images

A brief flutter of excitement … Beth Ditto of Gossip. Photograph: Simone Joyner/Getty Images

The biggest country act of all time … Taylor Swift at BBC Radio 1’s 2012 Teen awards. Photograph: Brian Rasic/Brian Rasic/Getty Images

Stressed out … Drake. Photograph: Gabe Ginsberg/Getty Images

Bob Stanley is a founding member of Saint Etienne and the author of Yeah Yeah Yeah: The Story of Modern Pop

0 notes