Émilie, part 1/?
Title: Émilie, 1/?
Pairing: Ana/Other, AETR
Rating: 15
Spoilers: None, it’s a prequel.
Author’s Note - this story is written entirely from Ana’s point of view. In my opinion, Ana was too comfortable in her feelings for Teresa to have never had any experience with another woman. Considering the times and political climate, I just can't see her acceptance as being the first time and based on pure philosophy on the subject.
Cannon is that Ana studied in England before she came back to work for her father. I don’t remember if the school was mentioned, but I chose LSE for the story. Since it’s off cannon, or speculative, I guess it could be called AU.
Warning: Without giving too much away, war references in some chapters, but not in this chapter.
Links: part 1, part 2
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or claim to own them. I make no profit or claim to make any profit, no infringement intended, etc., etc. standard disclaimer stuff.
Please ask before archiving elsewhere. Thank you! :)
Émilie, Part 1
London School of Economics, London, England, 1947.
(Ana)
Slightly intimidated by the cavernous lecture hall, I looked round for what seemed like several minutes before finally choosing a seat in the far back, beside a curly-blonde haired young woman who looked up and quickly smiled at me warmly before turning back to her books. She looked to be in her early twenties, but slightly older students were the norm right now, especially amongst the boys, who’d had their educations interrupted by the European War. I took my seat quietly and began to arrange my books and papers and dug through my bag for a pen with which to take notes. I tried to remember that the English often called it a biro in case I’d forgotten mine and needed to ask for one to borrow.
It was the second term of my first year in London and I was 18 years old, enrolled in a business course. My father had encouraged me to come here to London, noting that with the outcome of the war especially, English was going to be the language of the future in business.
I’d had a difficult time adjusting, not just because I’d begun in the winter term instead of autumn. My father hadn’t wanted to me to live in the dormitories, so he had hired me a flat nearby. It was a nice flat, with a private bath and sitting room, luxurious and rare accommodation compared to the hovels many of the students were forced to occupy, or the dormitories with their noise and crowds. Being apart, did, however, affect my social life, and while I was a serious student and not interested in nightly parties, the lack of interaction didn’t help to improve my English much, though it was passable enough.
As students began to file in, or rather rush in, in a mad crush, the hall filled with noise. There were a few other women in the course, but the majority of the students were male. The professor, an older gentleman with a rough beard and a fusty, disengaged air about him, and carrying a worn, overstuffed leather briefcase, trod in and the noise level dulled to a very low whisper.
Class began. It was the first day but the professor dispensed with an introduction and launched into a lecture on methods of business administration under war occupation conditions. At least, that was what I thought the lecture was about. He spoke quickly and though I usually tried to take my notes in English, I quickly switched to Spanish. It allowed me to write faster, but I was still feeling behind, which I found very annoying, as I prided myself on being a good student.
Eventually, there came an important point I felt I’d missed and I leant next to me to the pretty blonde girl who was diligently scribbling away in her own notebook. “He speaks so quickly!” I whispered, “What did he say?”
She looked at me and gave a smile and a slight shrug. “I’m not sure,” she whispered back, in an accented voice I couldn’t place at that volume, “I think I missed it too.”
This girl was much bolder than I, and her hand immediately shot into the air, eventually catching the professor’s eye.
“Yes miss, you have a question?” He asked.
“I’m sorry professor,” the young woman said, her accent now revealing her to clearly be French, “but would you be able to speak a little more slowly please?”
“Of course, of course,” he mumbled, slowed down for about three minutes and then resumed his breakneck pace.
The girl and I turned to each other and she shrugged with a smile. “Sorry,” she whispered,” I tried. Maybe we can compare notes after?”
I returned her smile and nodded in response, noting, in passing, that she had the most beautiful green eyes I’d ever seen.
***
We met outside the lecture hall in the dark wood panelled corridor after the class had ended.
“I’m Ana,” I said, holding my hand out.
“Emilie,” she replied, taking my hand.
“Encantada.”
She looked at me quizzically.
“Pleased to meet you, I mean,” I laughed.
“The same,” she answered. “Aren’t you in my economics lecture as well?”
“Am I?” I asked, “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you.”
“I noticed you when you came into the hall the other day. You were late and sat in the front,” she reminded me, “I was in the back.”
I blushed. “I was lost.” I admitted. “It’s only my second term, and I haven’t had lectures in this building before.”
That day, I’d wasted a good 20 minutes wandering its labyrinth before accidentally stumbling on where I was supposed to be and slipping, embarrassed, into the hall.
The conversation stalled slightly after that and we looked at each other for what seemed to me like a very long moment.
I broke the silence by repeating what I’d whispered to Emilie in class. “The professor speaks so quickly. I understand most of it, but sometimes I have a difficult time keeping up. Maybe I need more practice with my English.”
“Your English is fine,” Emilie said, “He races along. No one could write that fast. But if you want to compare notes or practice, I’d be happy to help.”
“Honestly, it would help me too.” She added.
“I’d like that,” I said. “The first exam is in two weeks. We could work together a little. I’m sure it would help.”
“There’s a little café around the corner, near the Curiosity Shop, you know, the one from the Dickens novel?”
I didn’t know it, but I nodded anyway.
“I’m free Wednesday evening, and Thursday. Would you like to meet for tea with our notes?
“Either is fine,” I responded, “How about Wednesday, 7 o’clock?”
“I’ll see you there then,” Emilie smiled at me. “I’ll look forward to it.” She smiled, turned, and walked off, her high heels echoing in the now near deserted corridor.
It was Monday. I wondered how I might last until Wednesday. For some reason I couldn’t explain, my heart had started to beat very quickly in anticipation of the meeting. ‘How silly,’ I thought to myself. ‘It’s just tea with a girl from lecture. What’s wrong with me?’
***
Wednesday did not come soon enough and I daydreamed my way through the next two days. I couldn’t get Emilie out of my mind, her lilting French accent, the thick blonde hair that hung in heavy curls to just below her shoulders, the delicacy of the bone structure in her hand when she’d reached out to greet me. It was disconcerting to me to say the least. Occasionally, a little flip hit my stomach, butterflies. I knew I was acting like a 12-year-old schoolgirl with a crush, not a grown woman.
On Wednesday evening, I left my flat at 15 minutes to 7. I’d made sure to pass the café the day before so that I knew the way and wouldn’t be late. I tried not to rush and I made my way to the café, trying to enjoy the fresh air of the brisk autumn evening. I arrived just as the clock on the wall said 7. ‘Good,’ I thought, ‘Not so early as to look eager, and not late’.
Emilie was already there, at a table near the window. The café was dimmed for the evening crowd, but the light was still bright enough that we could work, and it wasn’t overly noisy. We ordered tea and I took my notes out of the portfolio I was carrying and lay them on the table in front of me.
Emilie dug through her satchel to collect hers. I noticed the satchel was an old one, but made of fine leather. I didn’t know Emilie’s surname, but there was no E on it, so I know the initials on the bag, embossed in a man’s style, weren’t hers.
Emilie pulled out her notes, placed them in a neat stack in front of her, and looked up at me. We smiled and traded, silently sliding our respective stacks of notes toward each other on the table, then flipping them to face the correct direction.
We each looked down at the notes for a moment, then looked up at each other and began to laugh, little giggles turning into masses of full blown laughter. Other patrons turned momentarily to notice us, and since the English didn’t take to display, then politely looked away.
Emilie’s notes were all in French.
Mine were all in Spanish.
“This could be a problem,” Emilie choked out, when she gained enough control over her laughter to speak.
“I never thought of it at all!” I giggled back.
We traded back our notes and looked at each other. “Well,” she said, “we’ll just have to translate them into English together and compare. Then we can make a congregate version and revise from that.”
“Congregate?” I asked. My confidence in my English skills took a nosedive.
Emilie went back to her satchel and pulled out a tattered little book, which I quickly realised was a French-Spanish dictionary.
“con..gre…garce…?” It was the verb and not the noun, but I understood what she meant. “Or….recop..í…lacion?”
The words were both comical and adorable in her accent. Neither word was significantly different in English, but the accent had thrown me off. I was less worried about my lack of word recognition at that point, however, than I was amazed that she had clearly gone out and found this book to help talk to me. Who would randomly have or carry around a French-Spanish dictionary while at an English school? Another of those unexpected little flips hit my stomach.
Emilie blushed, “I’m sure I said that all wrong. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I laughed. “I understand. Anyway, what we mean is that we need to mix them together and come up with a single version.”
“Yes! How silly of me. That’s an easier way to explain it.”
“Where did you get the book?” I asked
“A used bookstall in Charing Cross. I was there yesterday and when I saw it I thought it might be useful if we were working together.”
“That was sweet to think of,” I said, immediately mortified at myself. Sweet? Why had I not said good idea, or simple agreed it would be useful. I felt the blood rushing to my own cheeks and quickly lifted my cup for a sip of tea to try to hide it.
Emilie, was either not noticing my nervousness or, to her credit, ignoring it, because she said nothing.
“Listen,” she said, “We have weeks before our first examination. Let’s just enjoy our tea tonight. Can you meet again in a few days? We can work on the notes then.”
“Yes,” I said, “I can meet again.”
I held up the cup of tea in front of my face to hide the fact that I was biting my lip and blushing again.
***
End of Part One
link to part 2