Subject: Happy birthday, Vivian. Who: Vivian Thorpe. Where: A tavern that isn't Ann's. Warnings: Fruity language. TBC. Open to: Anyone who wants to chat to a pretty (if not slightly mopey) redhead on her 30th birthday.
Thirty fucking years old.
Viv couldn't believe she'd actually made it. She didn't know what was worse, dying young or making it to her age. She'd been ignoring it as it crept closer, the date looming, but eventually, July 14th had landed and wham, Viv was thrown into the Big 3-0. And she could no longer say she was in her twenties. How fucking awful.
No one even knew it was her birthday. Not that she of, anyway, besides Harry Fisher and perhaps Slater. But Harry was the only one she knew would definitely know, and thinking of him always brought her down. No matter how much she loved Slater, no matter how good her life was with him, she still missed Harry, desperately. She'd never tell a soul, nor would she ever try and go back to the Theatre, but sometimes, late at night, or at times like this, she'd find herself pining for back when he was young, and still ambitious without the means, and she was going to be his princess. She was going to climb with him, but in the end, he'd made it, she hadn't. She was still a streetwalker with no social status to speak of.
All this dreariness meant one thing. She needed a drink. So she'd wrapped up warm, found the last of her money, and left Slater's, finding the nearest tavern that wasn't Ann Wayland's. The last thing she needed was to run into her.
After procuring herself a drink, Viv sat down heavily on a bar stood, taking a long gulp and swaying a little on the seat. She hated birthdays. Resting her head on her hand, her bright hair falling around her shoulders, she sighed, closing her eyes and dreaming of what could've been.