so this ship has already broken me, and we've only just begun.
WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE PARIS, AND OTHER SELECTED BULLSHIT pg-13
Their generation is the hardy sort, born in the dying throes of a war and living through another in a drunken haze of jazz clubs and American fighter pilots.
She joins the Paris bureau two weeks after VE day. It is a shaken city, moreso than London ever was, even in the summer of 1940, when the chandeliers would shudder above the dance-floors and the boys back on leave would hold their glasses until their knuckles popped white.
His name is Randall Brown and his glasses are too big for his face.
“This is not our city to rebuild,” she becomes fond of saying.
Randall laughs, “Teach a man to fish-” he starts, and she’s fairly certain he’s laughing at her rather than with her. What’s more, she’s not sure she likes it.
“You know,” she rounds on him, and to his credit he has the good grace to look scared, “I think that Jesus chap might have been onto something with that, yes.”
He’s a lithe man, sharply tailored and a little stiff in the shoulders. He’s seen service, that she is sure enough of, but he is not a war hero, and certainly not a decorated one.
He asks her out to dinner. She accepts, her mother’s voice in her ear: you’re nearly thirty, darling, people are talking.
She’s still in her work clothes when she arrives, an additional slick of lipstick the only indication that this is perhaps something more than friends meeting for The Left Bank’s finest moules mariniere, and even that slides off quickly enough on the rim of her wine glass.
His French is good, better than hers by a shade, and when she compliments him on it he blushes a fraction. “Merci, beaucoup.”
Her laugh tinkles girlish, “Très bon," comes her reply, just mocking enough to be witty, she hopes.
Of course, he knows she’s not an ingénue better than anyone, but he’s game enough to play along when the maître d’ jostles them, playfully nudges Randall’s shoulder and calls her a catch. He nods, earnest, “Oui, oui,” he says, and tips a little too generously.
The sun slips down, the wine bottle gets lighter and her laugh turns more raucous. Welcome to Paris, 1945.
His sofa creaks when she settles herself into the corner of it, runs a hand across the faded yellow damask. She considers folding her feet beneath her for a second, thinks better of it, a residual knot of propriety.
He sits neatly beside her, passes her a whiskey. “Didn’t I see you in Tatler?”
She sighs, “A long long time ago, perhaps.”
When he kisses her he tastes like scotch and not a great deal else.
It goes without saying: her mother does not approve. “You might as well marry a gardener, darling.” Mrs Storm says over luncheon.
Her head ducks, “He’s a journalist, Mother, and a terribly well-respected one, at that.”
“I know, dear.” The twinkle of silver on china, “I only mean: think of your prospects.”
Don’t you see? I am, she doesn’t say.
Time passes: his bed becomes her bed, and in the background Paris slowly puts itself back together again. The taste of scotch rolling around her mouth grows familiar, then comforting, and finally it feels like nothing less than bliss.
They lie side by side, his arm thrown across her torso as they gaze out of the window to the street below. She feels as though she should say something profound, can’t quite grasp at anything.
Is this growing old? Or only growing up? She hardly knows.
There is a ring. Of course there is a ring. Randall Brown, let us not forget, is a gentleman.
“No.”
His eyes flick to hers, the smoke of her cigarette wisping obscuring their lines of sight and it’s somehow poetic and pathetic all at once.
“I’m sorry - but - I’m thinking of my prospects,” she says, studied and calm as though she’s back in latin recital, the rap of a ruler across of knuckles. “All this,” her hands rise and fall, gesturing to her office; the walls, the desk, the half-written copy for the six o’clock bulletin, “this can’t all be for nothing.”
He sets the ring on the desk. “I understand.” He says, and it’s almost as though he really does.
The irony is: this may have been the first and only time she’s ever listened to her mother.
Your Lix just breaks me here, the way she sees Randall and how she thinks things have to end. I love the detail in this as well, the moules marinere and Randall being a gentleman and the sound of silver on china for Lix's mother.
It is a shaken city, moreso than London ever was, even in the summer of 1940, when the chandeliers would shudder above the dance-floors and the boys back on leave would hold their glasses until their knuckles popped white.
Ahhh, the imagery of that is just so perfect! All of this was! I love all the details you have created here to comprise their backstory, and the way you've writtten Lix (and her mother!) and The Gentleman That Is Randall Brown -- it's all so, so good. Thank you so much for writing this!
WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE PARIS, AND OTHER SELECTED BULLSHIT
pg-13
Their generation is the hardy sort, born in the dying throes of a war and living through another in a drunken haze of jazz clubs and American fighter pilots.
She joins the Paris bureau two weeks after VE day. It is a shaken city, moreso than London ever was, even in the summer of 1940, when the chandeliers would shudder above the dance-floors and the boys back on leave would hold their glasses until their knuckles popped white.
His name is Randall Brown and his glasses are too big for his face.
“This is not our city to rebuild,” she becomes fond of saying.
Randall laughs, “Teach a man to fish-” he starts, and she’s fairly certain he’s laughing at her rather than with her. What’s more, she’s not sure she likes it.
“You know,” she rounds on him, and to his credit he has the good grace to look scared, “I think that Jesus chap might have been onto something with that, yes.”
He’s a lithe man, sharply tailored and a little stiff in the shoulders. He’s seen service, that she is sure enough of, but he is not a war hero, and certainly not a decorated one.
He asks her out to dinner. She accepts, her mother’s voice in her ear: you’re nearly thirty, darling, people are talking.
She’s still in her work clothes when she arrives, an additional slick of lipstick the only indication that this is perhaps something more than friends meeting for The Left Bank’s finest moules mariniere, and even that slides off quickly enough on the rim of her wine glass.
His French is good, better than hers by a shade, and when she compliments him on it he blushes a fraction. “Merci, beaucoup.”
Her laugh tinkles girlish, “Très bon," comes her reply, just mocking enough to be witty, she hopes.
Of course, he knows she’s not an ingénue better than anyone, but he’s game enough to play along when the maître d’ jostles them, playfully nudges Randall’s shoulder and calls her a catch. He nods, earnest, “Oui, oui,” he says, and tips a little too generously.
The sun slips down, the wine bottle gets lighter and her laugh turns more raucous. Welcome to Paris, 1945.
His sofa creaks when she settles herself into the corner of it, runs a hand across the faded yellow damask. She considers folding her feet beneath her for a second, thinks better of it, a residual knot of propriety.
He sits neatly beside her, passes her a whiskey. “Didn’t I see you in Tatler?”
She sighs, “A long long time ago, perhaps.”
When he kisses her he tastes like scotch and not a great deal else.
It goes without saying: her mother does not approve. “You might as well marry a gardener, darling.” Mrs Storm says over luncheon.
Her head ducks, “He’s a journalist, Mother, and a terribly well-respected one, at that.”
“I know, dear.” The twinkle of silver on china, “I only mean: think of your prospects.”
Don’t you see? I am, she doesn’t say.
Time passes: his bed becomes her bed, and in the background Paris slowly puts itself back together again. The taste of scotch rolling around her mouth grows familiar, then comforting, and finally it feels like nothing less than bliss.
They lie side by side, his arm thrown across her torso as they gaze out of the window to the street below. She feels as though she should say something profound, can’t quite grasp at anything.
Is this growing old? Or only growing up? She hardly knows.
There is a ring. Of course there is a ring. Randall Brown, let us not forget, is a gentleman.
“No.”
His eyes flick to hers, the smoke of her cigarette wisping obscuring their lines of sight and it’s somehow poetic and pathetic all at once.
“I’m sorry - but - I’m thinking of my prospects,” she says, studied and calm as though she’s back in latin recital, the rap of a ruler across of knuckles. “All this,” her hands rise and fall, gesturing to her office; the walls, the desk, the half-written copy for the six o’clock bulletin, “this can’t all be for nothing.”
He sets the ring on the desk. “I understand.” He says, and it’s almost as though he really does.
The irony is: this may have been the first and only time she’s ever listened to her mother.
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Ahhh, the imagery of that is just so perfect! All of this was! I love all the details you have created here to comprise their backstory, and the way you've writtten Lix (and her mother!) and The Gentleman That Is Randall Brown -- it's all so, so good. Thank you so much for writing this!
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