Kiki Curren {Lucy Westenra} (lily_like_girl) wrote in bellumlogs, @ 2010-02-18 13:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | jonathan harker, mina harker |
Who: Kiki, Helena, and (possibly) Pete
What: Reunion!
Where: 1104
When: Feb 16th -- Mardi Gras/Shrove Tuesday
Warnings: Foul language (seriously!) and asinine observations.
Kiki Curren, fresh off a flight from London, was jet-lagged.
First, the car service (complimentary) was late. Like she was really going to carry all her luggage down to the fucking curb. (Kerb, actually, which she learned the hard way, after The Daily Mail splashed a fucking picture of her falling as she left a club: 'Kiki kicked to the kerb?!'. God, as fucking if.) The fucking asshole of a driver just stood around staring at her until she ordered him to get her things and even then he dragged his fucking crumpet ass around like she owed him!
At the airport, she finished the last of her illicit supply of tramadol (800 milligrams, brand name Ultram, $75 from a friend) but the shit just put her to sleep. If she wanted to fucking sleep, she would have just started working on a bottle Tanqueray and fucked the businessman in the seat across from hers. She had just wanted a fucking high, a gentle little fucking buzz to make her forget about the stress of Ryan and the bullshit her parents were going to throw at her her for ending the engagement. (So fucking what if she threw her engagement ring (4 carats, large round brilliant solitaire, $100,000 approx.) into the Thames? Like Ryan was going to fucking return it for money back, the asshat.)
Then the flight from London (Virgin Atlantic, upper class, $3,045.77 without tax) was fucking ridiculous. It left fucking late and was fucking overbooked and she had to fucking sit next to some fat fucking slob who leered at her breasts (like there was a chance in fucking hell she'd chat him up). Four hours into the flight, Quincey got the runs and the fat fucking slob had the gall to throw a big fucking fit about it, like he wasn't stinking up the place.
Once they landed, the bitch flight attendant made the air marshal escort her out of the plane where she got a fucking lecture on in-flight etiquette, as if she didn't fucking know how to fly on a fucking plane. Hello, she was a fucking Curren, they fucking invented etiquette. Christ.
It took forever and a day to get her fucking luggage and find a fucking cab, and then the cabbie gave her attitude when she didn't have Lena's fucking address right fucking away. After three calls to her mother's bitch assistant, Kiki finally got the address. Once the cab rolled into traffic, she settled back with Quincey on her lap, scrolling through her email on her iPhone.
Kiki was shocked when the driver stopped at Lena's building. Despite the Manhattan address, Kiki was sure her friend would be living at the bare edges of what could be considered Manhattan. Sure her husband was a lawyer, but this was Lena: the girl was pretty but she wouldn't know a good street from a bad street if someone gave her half a mil and ordered her to buy a penthouse. But the building -- while old -- wasn't completely fucking ugly and it had a vaguely artsy-historic thing happening -- like Boston.
Amused for the first time in twenty-fucking-four hours, Kiki scooped Quincey in to her arms and waited while the cabbie unloaded her luggage, then she dialed Lena's number on her phone. When she heard her friend's soft voice, Kiki laughed and shrieked: "You fucking missed me, didn't you?"