Charity Summerby (charitably) wrote in newsalem, @ 2011-11-28 20:38:00 |
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Entry tags: | & rp log, charity summerby, stephen fawcett |
Who: Stephen Fawcett, Charity Summerby
When: Tonight, at some hotel event room in London
Where: Some fancy pants party for a book no one likes.
What: See above.
Rating: PG
Book parties were hit and miss. If this would be a boring time - and it was looking more and more like so - Charity wanted to be prepared to ditch. Her little black dress was accentuated in a way that go go from formal to night club in a flash. She fit right in here, despite a good deal of the guests being literary types (and some of them were not quite as fancy as she thought they ought to have been for the occasion). Frumpy would be a good word for some of them, and without a single lick of fashion sense. And then there were the publicity people who were right on the money, in fancy robes and dresses, the ones who oozed in and out of groups with ease. Smiles or contemplative moues, depending on the conversation they'd found themselves in. While Charity wasn't in publicity, and a lot of photographers were designated kooky or frumpy, she fit right in with those types. She had just enough knowledge of a few different things - and the current book - to flit in and out of conversations without being asked anything too difficult. And if she was, she could always fall back on the old self-deprecating line of, "I'm just a photographer." That always got a knowing nod and a laugh. "Excuse me, gentlemen," Charity said, graciously extracting herself from the foursome. If they were going to talk Muggle politics, she was definitely going to get out of this before things got too heavy. The truth was, Charity couldn't care less about the state of Muggle politics. Alcohol was in order, so she slipped away toward the open bar. It was never a good sign to order anything but wine, lager, or the standard single malt whiskey. Wine told the world you wanted to fit in. Lager spoke of your confidence, or rather your lack of it. Whiskey said you couldn't care less what anyone thought of you. At the bar, Charity smiled at the catered bartender. "Whiskey, on the rocks, please. Maker's 46 if you've got it." Stephen hadn't seen Charity arrive, but he'd caught a glimpse of her a short while into the evening and had been attempting to find the right moment to say hello ever since. He'd made a bad first impression -- which was unusual for him, since he prided himself on always putting his best foot forward and leaving an introduction on a good note -- and their conversation on the journal network hadn't gone much better. His intention hadn't been to piss her off, although in retrospect he knew he should have known better (although he'd argue that it should have also been obvious that he was exaggerating). He hadn't been given such a prime opportunity to make amends until tonight. Unfortunately, it took some time before he could extricate himself from his duties and from all the boring conversations he had to have with boring guests. Finally, he managed to slip away and he stepped up to the bar beside her. He'd been by earlier, so the bartender recognised him and nodded in his direction. "Same as before. Thanks, mate." Stephen stole a glance at Charity, uncertain as to how she'd take to him offering to buy her drink, and finally deciding he didn't care if she turned him down. The point was the offer. Clad in well-fitted dress robes (as this was an occasion for wizards) that weren't overly frilly or colorful, Stephen knew he looked good, but he also knew that a handsome man didn't automatically get to do whatever he wanted. "Put the lady's drink on my tab too." No matter which frumpy, dumpy, and lumpy wizard was offering to buy her a drink, Charity knew well enough that cordiality and graciousness were key to these meetings. This book jacket could lead to more, and they were insanely easy work for quite a bit of money. A smart person would not turn that down. One corner of her mouth curled up and, drink in hand, she turned to find - "Oh. It's you." While there wasn't quite disdain in her voice - more like remembering her own embarrassment - the smile wiped clean from her face. Of course it would be the one bloke she'd made the most desperate pass at - under the cloak of a Chaos Bean - and gotten shot down. And then reminded of it in the journals. And now this. And at least she wasn't under any other influences than the one drink she'd had before the one currently in hand (and that was an hour ago). Still. Manners. Charity held out her hand, extending it to shake his. The next few words were chosen carefully. "Have no fear, your leg is safe this evening." Although he could tell the look on her face was less than friendly, Stephen extended his own hand to take hers. "That's too bad," he commented, releasing her hand after a gentle squeeze. "It might liven this place up a bit." For as hard as Stephen worked at what he did, he found some of the events he was forced to go to completely insufferable. He could put on a good face for it all, but it was bloody tiring, and there were nights he wished he could be truly honest about what he thought. He could have, he reminded himself, if he'd stayed in editing or moved over to acquisitions. There, he could have prevented some of the rubbish from ever being printed in the first place. As it was… well, his job was to fool everyone else into believing it was fantastic. He couldn't very well confess all of that to Charity, unfortunately. "You enjoying yourself?" "Fairly certain I would never get invited to another one of these soirees, even if I had done the jacket photo for it," Charity answered with a smile. It was a practised one, for sure, but it had been practised so much that it came across as very natural. It was a shame that first impressions were so hard to break. He really was quite a looker. She tipped her glass in his directly, briefly, and then took a sip. Her eyes swept the room before returning to him. "Too much politics going around for my taste, but thankfully, I get to say so. Are you here for work?" Stephen chuckled and shook his head a little. "If you actually did it, right here, right now, I'd see to it you got invited to whatever the hell you wanted." He meant it, too, even if he didn't think she'd take him up on the challenge. "I can do that, you know. Decide the guest list. It's one of the perks." He placed a generous tip on the counter before turning to face her, leaning casually against the bar like he'd been doing it all his life. "You don't know what I do, do you?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her, a hint of a smirk on his face. He leaned forward and lowered his voice so that only Charity would be able to hear (unless someone had those Extendable Ears, but he didn't see any around). "Do you think I'd be here if I didn't have to be?" "Tempting, but I'm going to have to decline. Under ordinary circumstances, I'd make you eat those words, but there's an old wizard over there who's been giving me the eye all night - " She pointed using the hand her glass was in in the direction of one particularly rotund and balding old man. When he caught sight of her pointing to him, he smiled, his eyes turning to slits, and waved with his pinkie in her direction. It was too bad Charity wasn't a gold-digger; he would have been right up her alley then. " - he might get ideas, and I'm afraid I'm just not up to the task." She leaned against the counter, setting her glass near her clutch, and favouring her right leg. Her body language said she wasn't going anywhere. "I don't know. You could be a glutton for punishment. Or brain dead." It was easy to see how Mandy had been ensnared by him; he had an easy charm about him which just screamed confidence. "I can count one thing out; you didn't write this book we're all here for." "Very good," Stephen replied, pulling away to give her space again. He hadn't had much of a hand in the creation of the book at all, which was too bad as far as he was concerned. Then again, he might have ripped all his hair out if he'd been involved in editing again. He took a sip of his drink before answering his own question. "I'm the director of publicity for Whizzhard. This," he lifted the hand holding the glass and waved it around gently, "wasn't my brain child, so don't be too hard on me." Charity was actually impressed; that was no easy feat, considering the amount of people she met and worked with on a regular basis. He seemed rather young to be a director of a major publishing outfit. He must be a workaholic. Or just that good at schmoozing. She wouldn't have discounted either. "So who's brain child was it? And please don't tell me it was the fat man's over there." She propped her chin up with the heel of her hand, elbow on the counter. It was hard not to remember the way she'd come onto him like, quite literally, a bitch in heat. She'd been about half a heartbeat away from actually humping his leg. "I'm liable to storm out right now." "You talking about the book or the party?" he asked, looking at her with an amused expression on his face. "Because those are two very different answers." The book, well… if there was one thing he'd learned over the years, it was that there was a niche for everything. Hardly anything that crossed the desks of the editors surprised him anymore; it was really more of a matter of making the book sound more interesting than the last one about the same thing. "And," Stephen continued, "why would you storm out over the fat man and not anyone else? What's so wrong with him?" Men, particularly rich men who thought the world revolved around them, had a tendency to think that women owed them. That bloke who waved either seemed to think that Charity couldn't get another job aside from taking head shot photographs for a book jacket. "Not a single thing," she answered. For all she knew that was Fawcett's boss, and maybe there was some kind of comraderie between them. "So director of publicity, huh? How'd you make it up the ladder so quickly? You're awfully young, aren't you?" "I'm flattered you think I'm young enough that this is some sort of impressive accomplishment," Stephen replied. It was something he was proud of, but it hadn't come easily, and he was still trying to find his footing. He was fairly sure that he would bore her with the story of his decade-and-a-half career, but he wasn't sure if now was the time or place (or if she was genuinely interested). Instead of answering her question, Stephen had one of his own. "How young do you think I am?" One of Charity's perfectly manicured eyebrows arched upward. She remembered his name from school, though not after a certain point. Given that she was thirty-five - and there was a mental groan at the remembrance - he couldn't be much older. She narrowed her eyes over her whiskey, taking a tiny sip of the burning liquid before shrugging. "You can't be forty yet," she answered. "And most of the editors and novelists and publicity people I know are well over forty." "Not yet, no." Forty wasn't too far off, unfortunately, but Stephen's hair was already starting to change -- which was one reason he was surprised that she thought he was at all young. "I'm thirty seven. When the last director announced that he'd be retiring at the end of September, I campaigned for his position, and…" He shrugged. "I got it. I haven't spent the last decade of my life in publicity to get trapped underneath a stuffy old man who's still stuck in the 1930s." "They probably figured that you've more than five years in you." Charity snorted under her breath before taking another sip from her glass. She tapped her ring against the side of it before sliding it down onto the counter. "Thirty-seven. I'd make a joke about getting old, but I'm not too far behind you. I don't even want to start making those jokes yet." She was lucky, though. She had taken very good care of herself, and good genetics ran in the Summerby family. She could still pass for her late twenties on most occasions. Working out also had its perks; her breasts were, thankfully, still in their more youthful place. And truthfully, she wasn't against a little enhancement (but only of the lifting sort; she'd look rather lopsided enlarged). "Besides, aside from the greying temple, you could pass for a much younger man." "That, my having more than five years in me that is, is up for debate, but they don't have to know that." Stephen had never been terribly concerned about his health. He liked food, he liked good beer and whiskey, he smoked… all-in-all, he was a heart attack waiting to happen. He just hoped it wouldn't be for at least another ten years. Besides that, Stephen was starting to wonder if he shouldn't be attempting to start his own company now that he had a client base and a solid reputation under his feet. That was a story for another day, though. He nodded towards her empty glass. "Want another? My way of thanking you for not realising I'm pushing forty." He paused to down the rest of his own drink before setting it on the counter beside hers. "And as an apology." He hadn't forgotten how they'd gotten off to a bad start a few weeks ago. Ah. Charity had been hoping they could forget all about that whole Chaos Bean thing. Or at the very least, not talk about it. At all. Ever. Yes, Charity's natural state of being was always on flirtatious, but desperate was not a good look on her. It reminded her too much BD: Before Dempster. She'd never been particularly desperate, but she had been much more interested in dating someone with long-term potential. That left out a whole lot of men, and sometimes, they found the idea that a girl wasn't out for just a good time to be desperate. "Don't mention it." She grimaced slightly. Charity turned and pointed toward her glass, indicating that she'd like another. "Really. Don't mention it. I was... not myself at all that day." "I know you weren't. Neither was I, although I was admittedly much more similar to my true self than you were." He turned to face the bar and lifted a hand to flag down the bartender. "I'm not normally that much of an asshole, though, or at least I try not to be." What he tried to be was honest and blunt, but not malicious. After telling the bartender to give them two more of the same, he turned back to Charity, taking a step closer. "I really am sorry, Charity. I shouldn't have treated you the way I did." Under ordinary circumstances, Charity would have just shrugged it off, and while she suspected that the bean hadn't necessarily turned her into a sexually aggressive woman - she was already there without the help of anything - she wasn't normally so desperate for a shag. Whatever discomfort she was feeling, it didn't show. She thought that maybe she should, he might decide to change the topic of conversation. "If I had been in control of myself, I would not have overreacted. I'd have laughed and gone about my merry way. Embarrassment tends to make me go overboard. So for that, I apologise as well." "All right, fair enough," Stephen conceded, relieved that they'd sorted it out. "And now that we have that cleared up…" "That's where you've been hiding," a woman near his age announced out of nowhere, sidling up to Stephen. "I should have known." The look on her face was one of bemusement and she didn't hide the roll of her eyes at all. "We need you." Bollocks. Just as he'd been gearing up to ask Charity to lunch sometime. "One second." He waved his assistant director off so he could have a few more seconds of peace. "Duty calls. Do you think you can survive without me for ten minutes?" These events were always the same. Short, tiny conversations and you wished you could stay huddled with that person. Some thirty second conversations were entirely too long. Either way, they were travel-sized and meant next to nothing. Charity was quite glad that she was only there as a thank you for handling the book's headshot. With a practised smile, Charity waved her arm out in front of her. "By all means, this is your soirée. Monopolizing you for the evening was never my intention." She pushed up from the bar, drink in one hand. The other, she extended to shake his. "It was a pleasure to meet you - properly, and not under the influence - Stephen Fawcett." Reluctant as he was to part with her, Stephen did have a job to do. He reached out his own hand to grasp hers briefly. "It's been a pleasure seeing you, Charity," he said, leaning in a little. "And I hope your opinion of me has improved since the last time we spoke." Giving her one last smile, Stephen backed away and disappeared into the crowd, hoping she would still be there by the time he found himself free again. |