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. )
"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 director extraordinaire." One hand palm scrolled through the air between them, a grand invisible marquee, like he was putting her name in lights.
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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 no mistaking it.
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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 money at them."
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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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"Something along those lines," she replied sarcastically with another roll of her eyes. A memory of one of his recent entries in the compendiums came to her mind, all laid out like a photograph and she tilted her head curiously. "So just hoping that the Wednesdays are better in New York then?" she asked lightly. She normally considered herself above prying into the personal matters of others, but frankly Perry tended to inspire all manner of out-of-sorts behavior in her.
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