There are two people sitting at a table nearby. A woman and a man, both with dark hair and the same feel to them - rich family.
The man is considerably more uptight than the woman - she seems used to accepting whatever he decides upon, shoulders relaxed, polite smile on her features.
They're talking quietly, sitting close together, but not too close.
The man cuts the woman off, voice soft but with a no-questions-asked lilt that Camille might find familiar.
Tucking a strand of hair behind an ear (the light glints from her engagment ring and the simple wedding one), she meets his gaze with slightly narrowed eyes.
Paperwork. 99 would never be caught dead doing paperwork anywhere outside her office in CONTROL. It's not just unsightly, it's telling. What with her cover as your average glamor girl on the street, the amount of paperwork she handles at headquarters would stick out like a sore thumb.
Still, she can't hide that hint of sympathy as she looks over at Camille's table, quietly wondering what the mess is about.
There are advantages to being the wife of a jet-setting businessman, apparently. Beyond the obvious.
Still, her expression when she mets 99's gaze is a touch rueful - she has, after all (and as Dominic has pointed out more than once) brought this on herself.
The manilla folder is still open, and there are pages and pages of writing - some Russian, some Spanish, some English, and some of it in various shades of pen. There is also a black-and-white photograph of a woman standing on a stage, ballarina shoes being put to good use and posture perfect.
She'd been looking at the photograph when Anne-Sophie approached, but now she blinks and looks up.
"Jacques seems to have passed down a great many things," Camille says in a tone both bland and wry. "But, no, please do. If you don't mind the mess-" and she reaches across to start gathering things again.
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"Good book?"
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The man is considerably more uptight than the woman - she seems used to accepting whatever he decides upon, shoulders relaxed, polite smile on her features.
They're talking quietly, sitting close together, but not too close.
The man cuts the woman off, voice soft but with a no-questions-asked lilt that Camille might find familiar.
"Anne-Sophie, je m'en fiche."
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And it's familiar enough that the name spoken - the woman's name, and there is something about her features... - makes her stare.
(she always had an excellent memory, even for names only read in files)
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"Pardon, Ja--" "Bien sûr."
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Anne-Sophie.
Speaking French, accent more Swiss than not.
Tucking a strand of hair behind an ear (the light glints from her engagment ring and the simple wedding one), she meets his gaze with slightly narrowed eyes.
For once, she really hopes she is wrong.
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Still, she can't hide that hint of sympathy as she looks over at Camille's table, quietly wondering what the mess is about.
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Still, her expression when she mets 99's gaze is a touch rueful - she has, after all (and as Dominic has pointed out more than once) brought this on herself.
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"I guess that's not for work."
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qu'est-ce qu'il y a, maman? papa --
ça ne fait rien, ma chérie.
Jacques has retired to their room upstairs. Anne-Sophie, under the pretense of getting a bite to eat, has come downstairs to, well.
To find her daughter-in-law.
An afghan wrapped around her shoulders, she approaches with a quick duck of her head in greeting.
A little hesitantly: "Bonsoir, Camille."
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She'd been looking at the photograph when Anne-Sophie approached, but now she blinks and looks up.
"Buenas tardes."
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She shrugs.
"Um. Would you mind if I sit?"
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