Who: Perry Holiday (THE GENIE OF THE LAMP) & Isabelle Prescott (THE SNAKE)
What: Pulling pigtails in a playground of the rich and famous. Because really, what else are an ex-wife's friends for?
Where: Swanky Manhattan bar
When: Thursday evening
Rating: TBA, but Perry.
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There he was: his back against the bar, shoulders casually slumped, tucking his trademark grin into the field of her vision. )
She instinctively bristled at the sudden presence of another body in her personal space and fixed a disdainful glare on her face as she looked to see just who was feeling the need to bother her now. As she was about to offer sarcastic commentary on the man's chances, she glanced up from the irritating elbow to see the face of none other but Perry Holiday - one of the last people she wanted to see ( ... )
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"Don't you love coincidences?" he asked, all fantastic smarm, fixing her with an equally broad, equally fake Olive Garden Commercial of a friendly smile. He wasn't sure what to make of the fact that he'd earned a facade--their dislike was easy and mutual. He chalked it up to the other people in the room; the act was for their benefit, that of the other patrons, not his. Maybe hers. It was usually easier to fake kindness than work up the energy for real bile, and if he wasn't much mistaken, Isabelle Prescott looked tired. He took a sip of his drink.
He dropped his eyes to her martini glass, then up at the face of its owner, curious and invasive. "I didn't think Puritans drank."
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"Please, now who's rehashing old material?" she quipped, her tone back to her normal blend of sarcasm and disdain as she picked up the swizzle stick from her glass and made a bit of a show out of biting the last olive off of it. "I drink. I simply do not get drunk. But I can imagine someone like you would have difficulty appreciating the difference ( ... )
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"For the record? Trying to play dumb really works much better when it's not already your natural state," she sneered. There were very few things that annoyed her more than being ignored or dismissed and damn if Perry didn't know how to push her buttons. And while she was attempting to maintain nonchalance, the way her shoulders were tensing and the fact that her posture was even more stiff than usual was hardly unnoticeable. When the bartender set their drinks down on the bar, Isabelle immediately picked ( ... )
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"Now that's no way to treat your target demographic," he clucked as he settled upon the bar stool and accepted his own drink. Mid-thirties, self-indulgent, wrapped in thick layers of expendable income; focus groups hyperventilated over men like Perry, and he knew it, and it wasn't something to be proud of but he enjoyed it. He enjoyed her tightened shoulders and the sour bite to his present beverage. Swiveling the chair so he faced the room at large, he took a sip. "So how are you. Really. What's new in the life of Isabelle Prescott, ad ( ... )
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But she really was not sure what to make of his apparent interest in conversation beyond their standard exchange of insults and quips. She assumed he was digging for information he could use against her at some point. Of course that was her standard assumption when it came to personal questions from anyone who was not a friend. She raised an eyebrow and took another sip of her drink before mustering up a mild degree of politeness to answer. "I'm quite well, thank you. Just as usual, convincing people to buy products they don't need. And you? Aren't you on the wrong coast?"
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A light laugh--his job was convincing people to cast actors they shouldn't necessarily, they were both the agents of something. "There's no such thing as a wrong coast, just colder ones," he drawled. "But, you know, I thought a change of scenery would be nice." In tone, thoughtful nod, and narrow sip of alcohol, everything in this act said, My younger girlfriend left me, and I already had a killer car. There was ( ... )
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Isabelle was nothing if not observant - her job demanded it, after all - and she easily picked up on the tone of dissatisfaction in Perry's voice. With someone who was normally so confident and cool, it was impossible to miss. And how could she not strike at it? "Ahh, the inevitable mid-life crisis," she replied with a slight smirk on her lips. "And here I thought, impotence aside, that you were still a bit young for that. Don't worry dear, I'm certain there are plenty of hot, young things in Manhattan who will be happy to look past your faults, provided you throw enough ( ... )
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"You're probably right," he nodded, like this was a genuine and comforting consolation, and it was generous of her to offer it to him. The appreciation was only feigned. Perry did like the hot young things who periodically crossed his field of vision, but that whole scene just wasn't as satisfying as it used to be. They were uniformly hair-straightened and short-skirted and there wasn't much spark. Still, he wasn't hankering to settle down, and nothing about a real relationship appealed to him so soon after his last. So he smirked. "God bless a free market economy, eh Prescott?"
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