Euphemia (![]() ![]() @ 2008-04-22 21:19:00 |
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Current music: | "Autumn's Child" : Devendra Banhart |
"Run, river, run..."
Who: Euphemia Borage and Brandon Callenour
Where: Euphemia's flat
When: Monday night (BACKDATED)
What: Euphemia has a conversation with her fiancee about his behavior.
Rating: PG at best
Status: Closed; complete
"Here," Brandon said, tossing her a necklace made of shells. Euphemia made no move to catch it, her hands folded in her lap as she glanced up at him, brown eyes cold. He sighed in exasperation as he flopped down on the couch besides her, his face wrinkling. "Oh, come on. It's not as bad as all that."
"Does your mum owl you every hour to tell you what her friends are reading?" The woman retorted. "Because mine does."
"I don't answer," he said lazily. He was all limbs as he sprawled out over the cushions. She thought to herself that their children would look like spiders, long-limbed and nimble. That idea, coupled with the carefree grin he threw at her was almost enough to make her smile. Almost.
"I thought we had an agreement." The woman stood up, her hands on her hips as she looked down at him. "And you got the better deal of it - no mistake - so you hold to it. Bloody hell, Brandon."
"It's hardly my fault the papers like my face." Bran reached out and tugged at her wrist, pulling her down on top of him. She gave him a hard elbowing, then wriggled to the side. The man laughed. "You'd be in a much better mood if you let me shag you before the wedding."
"Hush." She scowled, then added, her voice far too sweet to be genuine, "If my first time isn't going to be special, it'll at least be within the bonds of matrimony."
"It will be special," Brandon pointed out. "At least then. I haven't shagged a married woman yet."
"Well, get on that, will you? I'd hate to have to be your first for anything."
Being angry at Brandon for long was like kicking a puppy, Euphemia thought. Like so many of their peers, he took his privilege for granted. He didn't understand the double standard that existed - did, in fact, try in his fumbling way to give her freedom. But it was their parents that would deny that - their parents and a world that cast a bemused eye on Brandon for his behavior while they mocked her for allowing it to happen. If they had not been directed at marriage from youth, she mused, they might have been best friends - might, in fact, have fallen in love on their own. But predestination had led to dischord for two people as independent as they - from the time of their youth, they had fought against becoming complement to one another. Had, in fact, shaped who they were in opposition.
But there was still familiarity for all of that and it prompted Brandon to speak, in an attempt to break untenable silence.
"Heavy thoughts, Phem - I can tell." His face looked contrite. "Anyone who gives you trouble over those silly photographs - you just tell 'em -"
"Brandon," Euphemia started to interrupt, then stopped.
"What?"
"What happens if you fall in love with someone else?" Her voice was troubled as her hands twisted together, wringing themselves of sweat.
"Oh, I'll shag her most likely-" he said, and she held up her hand to cut him off.
"No, don't. I'm serious, Brandon. You're going around like this - this mad thing and it can't last forever, can it? I mean, eventually, you'll -" She was struggling with the words, with the very concept. It was a talk that his mother should have had with him, not Euphemia, but Opal Callenour was more concerned with maintaining the appearance of a thing than with keeping it from rotting from the inside.
"Fall in love," he finished and they both fell silent. They had never spoken of this before and it was obvious that the thought had never even crossed Brandon's mind.
"I guess - I think - I suppose -" Brandon said finally. "I always thought I'd just settle for falling in love with you. After the being young bit was over - isn't that what people do?"
"Yes?" But her voice was small.
"You mind it, don't you?"
"Yes."
"The me not loving you part or the - the other bit?" He sounded doubtful as if he believed that there wasn't any way he could fail to be loved.
"The other bit." Her fingers were digging into one another and an insane, random thought struck her - that if she'd only managed to lose her ring finger rather than pinky, she would not now be feeling the weight of the diamond that cut into it. How she hated diamonds. They had no color.
"Is it-" And she couldn't bear whatever was coming next so she shushed him again. He fell back on the couch with a "Well." He was quiet for a moment, then he said, "I always thought you loved me, a bit. Other women do, you know. It isn't like I've got three heads."
"No, I don't," Euphemia said apologetically. She wondered if it was possible to wrench one's own fingers off. Then she added quickly, "Not that I couldn't. When we're old and all. Like you said."
"I don't think you could, actually. It's like trying to snog your brother or a goldfish or summat, isn't it?"
"Goldfish don't go off to Ibiza and wave their bums for the papers."
"Goldfish haven't got bums."
"They're going to disown you eventually." She sighed, brushing hair away from her temples.
"They won't." Brandon grinned as he tried to tug her closer. Euphemia rolled her eyes at him. It seemed to be a constant state of movement for her that evening. "Besides, you know and I know and they know that I come into Grandad's money in December. Won't we have good times when we're married, Phem? We'll go on a cruise for a year, I think - and then we'll work on the next generation."
It was the closest Brandon had ever come to an original plan and she hated it.
"I'll get seasick," she lied.
"Oh, there's potions for that." He dismissed. "Or- wait, I know! We'll rent the whole shop. No reporters, then - just my mates and whoever you might want. Some of your girlfriends perhaps, even Old-"
"That's the worst idea you've ever had," Euphemia's voice was acid. She stood again, untangling herself from the arm loosely draped over her shoulder. Pacing across the carpet, she asked, "This is all it's really about for you?"
The words were bleak, as if she was standing in an empty desert staring at a city a thousand miles away, impossible to reach. The future yawned out before her - an endless whirl of fun, of parties that lasted days, of children given to nannies to rear, of thousands of emptied wine glasses and sparkling stones and heels that were too tight and pianos and all of it like four walls that she could never decorate, of a room that she owned but could never touch. And through it all, Brandon as her anchor. Brandon who spoke of diamonds and saw only the sparkle and shine, who couldn't see how hard they were, that there was nothing they could not cut. Or destroy.
"I - I -" And she saw that her words had been that diamond, had cut where she had not meant. Euphemia remembered what her mother had said to her only two nights before.
"Being brave is more than throwing yourself into danger - you're used to that." Then Anthea's hand gripped her daughter's so tightly that Euphemia's engagement ring broke the skin. "This is brave. You have a responsibility to your family, Euphemia. A duty. This line must go on."
"The last time I saw France, it was under attack," Euphemia said, her stomach lurching at the memory and she told herself that was responsible for the sickly smile on her face. "Perhaps that can be the first stop."