(no subject)
when she sends him a ticket to paris by email it is a huge step into metaphorical open air that she regrets almost instantly. e-mail isn't something craig checks as frequently as she does, regardless of if her phone has alerted her to a new message or not. it is a wild shot in the dark, a pipe dream, and even when she is bracing herself for it, she watches the caller ID on her international line blink craig craig craig and she lets it go to voicemail. part of her is holding its breath. his voice floats eerily through her empty flat as she sprawls on the couch, pressing a pillow to her face as if that will make this not be happening.
"... and with next week being easter i can't," he's saying, and he sounds genuinely sorry, something so rare, and she presses the pillow down harder, "you know i would if i could, baby."
she spends the rest of the day sulking, floating in the bath until the water goes cold. around 9 o'clock she gets dressed and goes out only to come home with a new dress. danae and elisa come over, bringing old records with them, and they smoke too many cigarettes while they shiver on her tiny balcony, talking over cole porter.
she adopts a siamese kitten more entitled than she is, names him john paul, after the pope, and knowingly spoils him. her once bare central paris flat, small and a relic in its own right, begins to fill. books cover most surfaces, posters and paintings go up on the walls, billy joel and matisse sharing wall-space. she rereads lolita in russian, 1984, and east of eden in english, speeds through french editions of the memoirs of sherlock holmes, and tinker, tailor, soldier, spy. the louvre runs an exhibition on thomas cole through april and she spends too much time there, head tilted, basking. an american (obvious from his shirt, his shoes, the way he combs his hair) watches her more closely than the landscapes, and he is there when she returns the next day in kitten heels and white kid gloves like a girl out of time and it is too much fun to play with him like this. he's easy to read; it's not hard for her to figure out what he likes.
he introduces himself - jonathan - and she learns he's thirty-one, only three years older than she is, a junior curator traveling with the thomas cole exhibit. his accent is terrible but his vocabulary is decent. he's far too nice for his own good, too swept up in the idea of paris and being in the louvre and daubs of paint, but that's okay. he likes cats - spends too many evenings with john paul curled in his lap, many more mornings waking up with the kitten on his chest. he is eager, good with his hands. he doesn't swear at her and apologizes when he pulls her hair and calls her beautiful instead of sexy. when he goes back to the states in the middle of april, she kisses him goodbye on the sidewalk outside her flat and watches him climb in the cab that will take him to the airport. she waves until he is out of sight, and then deletes his contact information from her phone. the rest of april passes without much incident.
john paul gets neutered in may and spends the rest of the month sulking.
in june, audrey finds herself with a legitimate sponsor, some parliamentary bigwig, and a new pair of jimmy choo's. it's starting to get warmer. she sends craig another ticket for the end of july. she doesn't get her hopes up.
when he calls a week later, she's in the middle of painting her toenails and she hardly gives the phone a glance. she leans over and jabs the button that sends the call straight to voice-mail and he's laughing at her. ("don't be a bitch. pick it up.") with a sigh, she puts it on speaker.
"oui?"
"through philly, seriously?" he doesn't miss a beat. "you hate me."
she grins, giving her bottle of polish a shake and the kitten bats at her hand. "non, whatever gave you this idea?"
"and then philadelphia to toronto. is this real? are you serious? toronto is in canada, do you know how fucking cold it is up there?"
"you don't have to leave the airport. shut up."
"for eight hours?" he laughs, a loud unbearable ha!, "stuck in canada for eight fucking hours."
"read a book. take a nap. you won't die."
"i will. of boredom. they'll ship me back home in a casket."
"oh, pauvre vous," she rolls her eyes, pushes the kitten away as she stands and stretches, "are you going to come or not?"
"yeah, yeah. i'll be there."
the grin on her face is undoubtedly audible. "good. see you on the 28th."
"don't be late!" he barks, just as she lifts the receiver and jams her finger down on the switch hook.
john paul digs his claws into her ankle and she swears, barely keeping her reflexes in check so that she doesn't kick the little beast across the room. the instant she picks him up he begins to purr, butting against her hand. "you're terrible," she coos against the top of his head, and he squeaks in reply, "don't learn any more bad habits from him."
craig flies in on the morning of the 28th and audrey waits for him in a cafe outside the baggage carousels. it's 8am and she's still a little bleary eyed, sipping at her latte, her chocolate croissant picked to pieces by her restless fingers. she worries - perhaps needlessly, but worries all the same - about her hair (longer than when he'd showed up in Spain, but she has bangs now and it's air drying a little wild), her clothing (she's wearing jeans for once, even if they are paired with heels). she doesn't know anything about anna, nothing but her name, and she doesn't want to know. she just wants to be enough, if only for a week.
she sees him step out of the concourse before he can see her, and for a moment she feels sick to her stomach. she pays at the cafe till and watches him. he looks exhausted - rubbing at a days worth of stubble, with his hair loose and swept over his shoulder - and wonderful. his ratty old army duffel hangs heavy from one hand. she wonders, briefly, if this is what he looks like out of his element, without a single connection established, or if it's even really possible and not just a trick of the light. it was her choice to bring him here. she's not sure if she regrets it, or regrets not doing it sooner.
he looks up, right at her, as she's weaving her way through cafe patrons at their tables and she nearly stumbles, foot coming up out of her heel and she kicks the other one off. she's mentally chanting don't cry don't cry don't cry as she flings herself at him and he just grins, scoops her up and laughs when she loses her zen with a quiet shuddering sound. on the absolute tips of her toes, he is holding most of her weight, his arms tight around her middle as she clings to his neck.
"shhh," he tries, smoothing her hair away from her face, "shhh. your makeup's running. audrey, baby, shut up."
her voice is high, wavering. "i thought you wouldn't come!"
he does his best to rub the wetness from her cheeks, tugs her up by the chin to kiss her. "i thought i told you i would." he kisses her again, and she presses up into him, starved. someone in the airport whistles.
"... and with next week being easter i can't," he's saying, and he sounds genuinely sorry, something so rare, and she presses the pillow down harder, "you know i would if i could, baby."
she spends the rest of the day sulking, floating in the bath until the water goes cold. around 9 o'clock she gets dressed and goes out only to come home with a new dress. danae and elisa come over, bringing old records with them, and they smoke too many cigarettes while they shiver on her tiny balcony, talking over cole porter.
she adopts a siamese kitten more entitled than she is, names him john paul, after the pope, and knowingly spoils him. her once bare central paris flat, small and a relic in its own right, begins to fill. books cover most surfaces, posters and paintings go up on the walls, billy joel and matisse sharing wall-space. she rereads lolita in russian, 1984, and east of eden in english, speeds through french editions of the memoirs of sherlock holmes, and tinker, tailor, soldier, spy. the louvre runs an exhibition on thomas cole through april and she spends too much time there, head tilted, basking. an american (obvious from his shirt, his shoes, the way he combs his hair) watches her more closely than the landscapes, and he is there when she returns the next day in kitten heels and white kid gloves like a girl out of time and it is too much fun to play with him like this. he's easy to read; it's not hard for her to figure out what he likes.
he introduces himself - jonathan - and she learns he's thirty-one, only three years older than she is, a junior curator traveling with the thomas cole exhibit. his accent is terrible but his vocabulary is decent. he's far too nice for his own good, too swept up in the idea of paris and being in the louvre and daubs of paint, but that's okay. he likes cats - spends too many evenings with john paul curled in his lap, many more mornings waking up with the kitten on his chest. he is eager, good with his hands. he doesn't swear at her and apologizes when he pulls her hair and calls her beautiful instead of sexy. when he goes back to the states in the middle of april, she kisses him goodbye on the sidewalk outside her flat and watches him climb in the cab that will take him to the airport. she waves until he is out of sight, and then deletes his contact information from her phone. the rest of april passes without much incident.
john paul gets neutered in may and spends the rest of the month sulking.
in june, audrey finds herself with a legitimate sponsor, some parliamentary bigwig, and a new pair of jimmy choo's. it's starting to get warmer. she sends craig another ticket for the end of july. she doesn't get her hopes up.
when he calls a week later, she's in the middle of painting her toenails and she hardly gives the phone a glance. she leans over and jabs the button that sends the call straight to voice-mail and he's laughing at her. ("don't be a bitch. pick it up.") with a sigh, she puts it on speaker.
"oui?"
"through philly, seriously?" he doesn't miss a beat. "you hate me."
she grins, giving her bottle of polish a shake and the kitten bats at her hand. "non, whatever gave you this idea?"
"and then philadelphia to toronto. is this real? are you serious? toronto is in canada, do you know how fucking cold it is up there?"
"you don't have to leave the airport. shut up."
"for eight hours?" he laughs, a loud unbearable ha!, "stuck in canada for eight fucking hours."
"read a book. take a nap. you won't die."
"i will. of boredom. they'll ship me back home in a casket."
"oh, pauvre vous," she rolls her eyes, pushes the kitten away as she stands and stretches, "are you going to come or not?"
"yeah, yeah. i'll be there."
the grin on her face is undoubtedly audible. "good. see you on the 28th."
"don't be late!" he barks, just as she lifts the receiver and jams her finger down on the switch hook.
john paul digs his claws into her ankle and she swears, barely keeping her reflexes in check so that she doesn't kick the little beast across the room. the instant she picks him up he begins to purr, butting against her hand. "you're terrible," she coos against the top of his head, and he squeaks in reply, "don't learn any more bad habits from him."
craig flies in on the morning of the 28th and audrey waits for him in a cafe outside the baggage carousels. it's 8am and she's still a little bleary eyed, sipping at her latte, her chocolate croissant picked to pieces by her restless fingers. she worries - perhaps needlessly, but worries all the same - about her hair (longer than when he'd showed up in Spain, but she has bangs now and it's air drying a little wild), her clothing (she's wearing jeans for once, even if they are paired with heels). she doesn't know anything about anna, nothing but her name, and she doesn't want to know. she just wants to be enough, if only for a week.
she sees him step out of the concourse before he can see her, and for a moment she feels sick to her stomach. she pays at the cafe till and watches him. he looks exhausted - rubbing at a days worth of stubble, with his hair loose and swept over his shoulder - and wonderful. his ratty old army duffel hangs heavy from one hand. she wonders, briefly, if this is what he looks like out of his element, without a single connection established, or if it's even really possible and not just a trick of the light. it was her choice to bring him here. she's not sure if she regrets it, or regrets not doing it sooner.
he looks up, right at her, as she's weaving her way through cafe patrons at their tables and she nearly stumbles, foot coming up out of her heel and she kicks the other one off. she's mentally chanting don't cry don't cry don't cry as she flings herself at him and he just grins, scoops her up and laughs when she loses her zen with a quiet shuddering sound. on the absolute tips of her toes, he is holding most of her weight, his arms tight around her middle as she clings to his neck.
"shhh," he tries, smoothing her hair away from her face, "shhh. your makeup's running. audrey, baby, shut up."
her voice is high, wavering. "i thought you wouldn't come!"
he does his best to rub the wetness from her cheeks, tugs her up by the chin to kiss her. "i thought i told you i would." he kisses her again, and she presses up into him, starved. someone in the airport whistles.