Meeting Monet.
The lounge is graced this fine evening by a small social gathering. It is not a party proper, but indeed, there are enough people around talking and posturing and drinking to make for an active scene. Certainly active enough to draw Monet St. Croix in, to flit about the room clad in casual clothes, largely sharing with those who will lend her an ear the innumerable ways in which she is better than they. Monet is simply being Monet.
Weaving in and out of the crowd like a polite, jovial shadow, Trevor is simply being Trevor. Fake. The small collection of friends he had been currently chatting with receives a warm chuckle before he excuses himself and slips away, almost running head-first into Monet. "Oh! Good evening, miss." He starts with a polite smile, half-bowing and raising his glass in the process.
There is no attempt made on the part of the young lady to conceal her eyes sweeping down Trevor's form, a tiny glimmer of a smile tugging at the corner of her lightly pursed lips. "Good evening, indeed. I don't believe I've yet had the pleasure," she says, a hand raising to be offered, palm down, toward him.
"Nor, I fear, have I." Trevor replies, his own lecherous glances concealed behind a flawless ivory smile. "Trevor Fitzroy. And you, mademoiselle?" He asks in a light coo, gingerly taking the hand into his and bending for a light kiss across the back.
Monet's smile turns into a bright, delighted thing. "Monet St. Croix, and I am delighted, Monsieur Fitzroy." The fingers of her kissed hand are lightly brushed across his as she retracts it. "Do tell me about yourself," she encourages in honey-coated tones. "It is always a pleasure to meet a man who possesses both manners /and/ looks."
"You flatter me, Miss St. Croix." Trevor replies, withdrawing his hand to rest with the other in the small of his back and tilting his head to lock his eyes on Monet's. "It is simply baffling, though, that such an attractive young woman would be arrive unattended. An absolute anomaly."
The laugh that rises up from Monet is a musical, perfectly measured, intentional sound. The product of practice. "Perhaps the suitors have been chased away by my recently acquired fame. There were, after all, images of me in the news from shortly after my rescue." She speaks of this with a tone that implies that Trevor should know what she means. It is, after all, the duty of every available male in the civilized world to keep up on her current events.
"Oh dear. I am afraid some current events have been slipping away from me." Trevor responds, mildly horrified at this infraction. Externally. "I am new to this locale, you see. Would it be in poor taste to inquire upon the incident?"
Eyes roll and Monet looks up and away, a hand dismissively waving his concerns away. "You /must/ be a busy man to have missed the saturaton of media coverage." The snap to that word betrays the disappointment at her celebrity not having reached this man's ears. "I was involved in a plane crash a handful of months ago. Myself and a few other survivors were stranded upon a desert island for something nearing a month."
"Oh heavens. /That/ plane crash?" Trevor remarks, raising a hand just long enough to slide a strand of hair behind his ear. Familiarity dawns upon the man's features as his lips purse and several fingertips slide to caress past her forearm. "That must have been awful." He says, hands returning as his 'emotions' recede. The physical contact was natural, see?
The contact is given nothing more than a tiny glance down toward her arm and a slight turn of her arm outward, encouraging without being openly accepting of it, natural or not. "It truly was, but thankfully, I have been able to turn it into some good. A charitable organization for the families of those who did not survive." Her smile is more gentle here, perhaps a hint of something genuine behind the facade.
The ripple in Monet's shell is noted and tackled like a wounded gazelle. "I would imagine the news would be less for them..." Trevor replies somberly, allowing a moment to pass before his eyes, so touched, rise once more. "It is so easy to forget trouble, is it not Miss St. Croix? How many had not returned from that flight?"
There is a subtle shift in her posture when Trevor latches onto the opening. A shift of her hip, an arm crossing casually over her front to hold onto the opposite elbow. "It is not so easy to forget walking away where three-hundred and sixty didn't." Her smile gutters like a candle and she looks off to their side. Monet is not so pleased with being the prey. "Enough of that. What do you do, Monseiur Fiztroy?"
Failure. Shift your tactics. "I attempt to guide my company along the correct course." He replies, quirking his mouth aside as he studies the change in posture with inward agitation. "As of recently, this course has led me to New York. There is little else of merit, I am afraid. What of you, mademoiselle? When you are not fighting for your cause, what do you do?"
"Until recently," Monet shares, "I was in college business courses, preparing myself for a similar sort of a career." The smile is beginning to return, clambering it's way to the top along her ambition. "Aside from that, I fear I am one of the much maligned daughters of old money that frequent these sorts of social gatherings."
"You were? Certainly, you can continue along these courses?" Trevor asks with genuine curiosity, lifting his dark brow thoughtfully. "Surely, you would be able to accomplish both?" He poses, making sure it is obvious he is searching for something. "Pardone, madmoiselle. Would you care for a drink?"
"I missed the end of the last semester and so I have elected to take a period of time off," Monet explains. A smirk tugs her lips sideways slightly. "To prepare myself for the humiliation of being forced to repeat the classes that my 'vacation' forced me to fail." The offer of a drink is met with a nod of her head, "I do think I would appreciate that, yes, thank you."
"But of course." Trevor says, turning on a heel to lead the woman towards the open bar. "It is not so strange for people to take courses at different times. Were you attending classes in a local institution?" He asks, holding a finger up towards the smartly dressed bartender and sending an expectant gaze towards the woman. "What would you desire?"
"Oh, do pick for me," Monet bids him, her lips pursed in a tiny smile into his gaze. "It speaks volumes of a man's heart in what he would pick for a woman in his company to drink." The smile spreads slightly at outlining the rules of her game. "And yes, I was studying locally. Perhaps when I return to classes I will find a finer institution."
Blast. Trevor's eyes shimmer thoughtfully as he turns towards the bartender with a smile and raps a knuckle against the table. "A simple glass of Cremant du Luxembourg for myself and the lady, if you please." He replies, taking the first glass of wine and carefully offering it to Monet before taking his own. "Thank you." He offers, turning his attention and a smile back. "I am certain a suitable university will dawn itself upon you."
Monet takes the glass delicately, though instead of taking an immediate drink from it or anything so callous, she simply hold it in hand. "I am certain. It was something of a scandal when I eschewed Harvard in favor of Emerson, frankly." A chuckle bubbles delicately out of her, some emulation of the wine in hand. "You have your own company, perhaps you should share recommendations with me."
"You have a world of opportunity open to you, mademoiselle St. Croix." Trevor begins, allowing a lazy swirl and sniff of bubbly before taking a light sip. "If you desire to attend Emerson so, I would recommend you follow your desire. You have /already/ had a scandal, have you not?"
Lazily, disinterestedly, oh-so-forcedly, Monet takes a glance down at the glass in her hand. She still refrains from drinking. "So true. I believe I have become somewhat impervious to scandal. Someday, perhaps, I will reach a level such as one Emma Frost, where I am immune to silicone poisoning as well."
Ahem. Trevor fights back his body's natural attempt at spitting the wine out his nose and swallows it in one burning gulp. "Miss Frost is certainly...a hospitable woman." He remarks vaguely, leaving the phrase as open to interpretation as it need be. His smile, of course, makes it clear that he is fine with this line of jest.
Slender fingers dance airily in front of Monet, as a means of dispelling the venom she had let slip. "I do not mean, of course, that she is a terrible woman. Far from it," she says. "I do so tire of the unrealistic sort of body that women like her encourage as attractive." There is a turn of her hips, a inhalation to swell her chest. Subtle.
Noted. "She has advantages she is keen on taking advantage of. It is not unheard of for women in the business world." Trevor replies solemnly. Diplomatically. His mouth hooks into a thin smile as he regards Monet. "I am afraid I must excuse myself, though. Time draws thin and I would do well to return home."
Monet's smile turns sugary sweet and she raises her glass to Trevor. "I do so hope I'll see you again at some point, Monseiur Fitzroy. Will you be in New York long?"
"I am sure we will, I should be in the city for some time." Trevor offers, taking a final sip of his glass and setting it on the bar. "It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle St. Croix." He remarks in a half bow before whirling about and heading towards the door.
Monet continues smiling as she watches Trevor go. Once he is near the door, she casually places his drink her purchased for her down upon the table and walks away from it. There is more socializing to do, after all.