Simmer Dim

Eden likes having David sleep over, but likes a lot less the part where he has to call his brother beforehand and in the morning, constantly checking in with him to ask permission and make sure he isn't needed. In a way it feels like being chaperoned, the two of them carefully monitored by this guy she hasn't even met.

But at this point in the evening it no longer feels like a big deal--the two of them are curled up under a blanket on the threadbare couch, half-naked, halfway through a twelve-pack, looking at pictures of Orkney on the laptop. She's feeling lazy and warm, David's arm around her shoulders and her settled in his lap, laughing at the way his accent gets thicker when he's tipsy. Giggling makes her shoulders shake and she leans back against him, closing her eyes, with a little hum.

"I love you."

Left alone, David goes back to his own room, swearing under his breath. He picks up the coffee he brought back, lukewarm now, and downs half of it; any inclination he had toward actual food is gone. After a minute he goes hunting for his phone, and dials Eden's number with a slightly shaky finger.

True to his word, Matthew shows up at the coffee shop the next day to meet Kamal there. This time it only takes one Xanax, and no beer at all, and he even makes sure the cigarette smell is cleaned off him before he arrives. Admittedly he didn't sleep last night, and had a bit of a panic attack at David, but by noon he's presentable and his heart rate is only a quarter again what it should be instead of twice.

He looks around hopefully, a bit of a half-smile on his lips.

Even David eventually gets to a point where he needs downtime, and he's spending the Tuesday afternoon sprawled on the bed in the room he shares with Matthew, with a battered book of crosswords for company. That, of course, and the phone. Theoretically this is for the purpose of coordinating the movements of six people; actually it's mostly in case Eden calls him.

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.

David manages to alert Greig and Claire to his plans, while avoiding the others -- Gareth will be blithely amused, Andrew obnoxiously so, and he really isn't in the mood for either. At seven sharp he's in the hotel lobby, freshly combed and trying not to bite his fingernails. (She is so pretty, she is so clever, and how is he going to pull this off without fouling up again?)

Eden has the day off, but even on her days off she tends to visit the aquarium (in her private fantasies she owns the aquarium and she has to check on her exhibits to make sure the tropical fish, seahorses, and gorgeous jellies are doing okay). Thom always lets her get in without paying, since it does make that big of a difference anyway.

It's about three, and she's finally breaking for lunch. Usually that means getting something to do and walking down the street where all the nightclubs and venues are, checking the marquees to see whether any of the bands sound worth going to. She has a salad in a plastic box, and she's studying the two-inch high letters announcing Simmer Dim. It is, in her opinion, not the most enticing name she has ever heard.

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.