Simmer Dim

Andy is aware that he is losing Daphne's interest somewhat, but she is certainly not losing his, mainly as she still has not slept with him. To this end he has decided upon a new strategy to put things back on the course he is hoping for.

So on Sunday morning, fighting his hangover, he calls her to invite her to lunch with his family. Then he informs the others that he's having a girl over to meet them, and endures the somewhat suspicious looks this rather unprecedented act earns him. He calls down to room service for a decent lunch to be brought up, and even bothers to put on something not what he passed out in the night before.

And at twelve-thirty he is ready and waiting for her in the lobby of the hotel.

Claire is practicing, barefoot in the middle of her room.

"'Why wear a blue kerchief, maiden, I said. Because the blue color is not one to fade..."

Claire and Greig are both early risers. To both of them, sleeping late is anathema. Never mind how late they got to bed, if it is morning, they must be up.

By ten past seven Greig has gone on his first jog of the day, showered, dressed, and joined Claire at a coffee bar across the street from the hotel. They're perched on tall stools in the front window, half behind the big gilt letters spelling out the shop's name.

Greig has a notebook balanced on his knee. Claire has loose notes ranged in front of her.

"I don't know," Greig says, "The Blue Kerchief is a good counterpart to An Old Man Courted Me, but with all the times we've done it, I can't decide if it should go before or after."

Matthew is firmly ensconced in his hotel room--he doesn't mind when they're just in the city, but the occasional venue outside of Manhattan triggers all his nervous centres, and he's doing his best to pretend that nothing else exists besides him and his pages of notes. He's not writing his own lyrics for the time being, just rearranging traditionals into a form he likes better, which is less stressful overall.

He is chain-smoking, something he only does when he's writing. There are two empty packs on the table already, the ashtray is overflowing, and he has another one between his fingers as he frowns at the paper, tapping a rhythm on his knee.

He hasn't been outside in over twelve hours, nor has he stopped to eat, but that's normal. He doesn't really think anyone is going to bother him over that. Not really.