110 The Beast Within
Marguerite is using the last of her bubble bath from Paris. She knows that she ought to have waited for a more momentous occasion, but she needs a bath today. She needs to pretend that she is not stuck in the middle of a jungle with no way to get back to Paris. No one should ever be cut off from Paris indefinitely.
Reluctantly leaving the water, she decides that when Roxton returns she will remind him that they need to find a way off the Plateau because without her bubble baths, her skin will turn grey and slough off. She slips on a borrowed treasure-Veronica’s father’s silk smoking. Marguerite had sacrificed all of her silk underclothes for their electric fence and she misses her silk like an alcoholic misses the drink. She sighs with pleasure as the cool fabric covers her skin. At noon, she is finally ready to face the day.
She walks out to the wood stove and pours herself some tea, smiling to herself and ignoring Veronica.
“What are you doing with that,” Veronica asks, sounding miffed.
And so it begins. A day does not go by that these people don’t criticize her every move. Bringing her tea to her lips, Marguerite replies, “Drinking it.” That much should be obvious to anyone, but Marguerite smiles slightly to demonstrate her willingness to overlook the blonde’s rude question.
The other woman moves closer to her and says in a threatening tone, “Take it off.”
For a brief moment, Marguerite ponders just how exactly one does take off a cup of tea. Then she realizes-it is the jacket to which Veronica is referring. Lovely though it is that Veronica has taken a sudden interest in her sartorial state, the jacket belongs to Marguerite now, and she isn’t going to give it up. Innocently, Marguerite asks, “Excuse me?”
“My father’s jacket; take it off now,” Veronica’s presence is now most definitely menacing.
Attempting to instill a bit of reason into the conversation, the brunette gently reminds Veronica that “If you’ll recall I sacrificed my silk underwear for Challenger’s electric generator. Surely, you wouldn’t begrudge me a little pleasure.” She smiles hopefully.
Veronica does not smile back, “It’s not yours. Take it off.”
“It’s been sitting in the trunk gathering moths for what? Eleven years? It’s not as if he was using it,” the voice of reason pleads.
Apparently living alone in the jungle for over a decade doesn’t strengthen one’s logic, because the reply is “Take it off or I’ll cut it off.”
And Veronica produces a very large, very sharp looking knife to support her claim. There is no reasoning with some people. Marguerite sighs softly. What a disappointing girl-Malone will never be able to take her anywhere, “My, my - daddy’s little girl’s all grown up.” She undoes the knot at her waist and lets the black jacket fall to the floor. She strides back to her room, forsaking her tea, as if she had always planned to walk through the house nude. (Had this been the maison close at which Marguerite had been briefly employed, the scene would have ended very differently indeed. This thought reminded her of a rather shocking story involving a duke, who had to be among Roxton’s acquaintance. She’d have to tell it to him one night.) Every defeat is a victory in disguise, as Michael Collins had once told her and she did her best to affect this motto.
She spends the next several hours planning in her room as she dresses. She hears Veronica wash dishes and begin to prepare some food. As Marguerite attempts to tame her dark hair, which does nothing but bunch up into stubborn curls in the tropical heat, she hears Veronica put away the jacket and walk to the elevator.
Then the other woman’s footsteps pause. Marguerite guesses that she’s trying to decide whether or not to say that she’s leaving. The footsteps resume and Marguerite is left alone. Apparently, they aren’t speaking to each other.
Not that Marguerite cares, because she doesn’t. She’d much rather be alone. It is worrisome; however, that Veronica thinks that she can be so easily intimidated.
So, the plan is created: first, a nap, so that Marguerite’s hair dries; then, a snack; then, revenge. Because no one should think that they can toy with her and escape unscathed.
While eating a lovely, Summerlee-made scone, Marguerite decides that the only way to teach Veronica a lesson is to give her some of her own medicine. Legs crossed and arms tangled around each other, Marguerite leans over her black coffee-nasty American habit-and chooses the rifle as her weapon. She considers another cup of coffee, but thinks better of it. There’ll be time when she returns.
The walk through the jungle passes quickly, as Marguerite rehearses her declaration in her mind. Veronica needs to be shown that she is not in control. Especially with the men gone, Marguerite must keep her head on straight and show Veronica that she’s not afraid to use force, either. So, she practices her mantra: Let’s get one thing straight: put a knife to my throat again, and you better finish the job. Let’s get one thing straight: put a knife to my throat again, and you better finish the job. Let’s get one thing straight: put a knife to my throat again, and you better finish the job. Let’s get one thing straight: put a knife to my throat again, and you better finish the job.
She stops in front of the garden, lifts her rifle, take aim and says in a steady voice, “Let’s get one thing straight: put a knife to my throat again, and you better finish the job.” It’s all rather well done, if she says so herself. And she does.
“What are you gonna do shoot me,” Veronica asks, skeptically.
Wouldn’t be the first time that she’d shot someone in cold blood. But Marguerite decides against that, “Live by the sword.”
Veronica reaches for her knife in her boot.
But this doesn’t go unnoticed, the gun is trained on her again, “Don’t press your luck.”
“Shhh, don’t move - behind you,” the blonde gestures to the forest.
“Where,” Marguerite asks, now she’s slightly frustrated. This was supposed to be easy. Dealing with Veronica was supposed to be easy. She’s supposed to be good at controlling situations, but this one is completely out of hand.
“On the path. A Herrerasaur. And he looks hungry.”
Feeling a little desperate, she asks, “Can we make it to the tree house?” Veronica shakes her head. Allowing her shoulders to drop in despair, Marguerite asks no one (especially not Veronica), “Could this day get any better?”
The answer to her question is, essentially, yes. Yes, it can because, again, she’s not in control. God, she needs to get out of this place. “They hunt in packs.”
“Of course they do,” strangely, Roxton springs to mind when she says this. He’d know what to do.
Crouching low, Veronica says, “Follow me on three; one-two-three.”
Just her luck. On three, Marguerite turns, shoots and then runs towards Veronica. The Herrerasaur pursues them as they run together.
She’ll never get used to being chased by dinosaurs. Or rather, she never wants to become habituated to fleeing huge reptiles. She and Veronica jump over a log, only to fall into a well shaft.
Brilliant day. Absolutely marvelous.