the COOPER CLARE show !

“Don’t worry about what any of this costs by the way, it’s my treat,” he continues. “Which isn’t to say you shouldn’t order as much as you want. I get it, your parents raised you right, you don’t steal from the rich, Robin Hood was the villain all along, etcetera and whatever. I promise I won’t make you put change in the manners jar if you get the four-course sampler.” And he means it. Quite frankly, he appreciates that Parisa’s out with him at all, serving as a welcome deviation from the bad habit that he’s developed since his divorce of eating alone.

Charlotte was jerked out of a bit of a daze by the voice at her elbow, perhaps the drugs and bubbles mixing in her veins. Still, she smiled quickly and followed the gaze of her companion. He seemed interesting, and somewhat familiar. Perhaps another night like this, or in a darker corner of the city, he had the look of someone who lived a little bit in shadows. Or perhaps on the television, some media or another. After her last run in, Lottie tried not to get too familiar. But it was New Years Eve, so why not make new friends. 

“Oh no,” She giggled and pointed, “He’s some commoner, and she a lady. They are having an affair, you see. But he wants more, and she won’t leave her husband so he’s threatening to make a scene. Flying too close to the sun, she’s saying, is asking for trouble.” Lottie smirked and took a sip of her glass of champagne, she’d lost count of which one this is. “Or maybe she’s critiquing his shooting from their last hunt, reminding him of all the geese that got away.” 

He’s able to find some humor in most scenarios (look no further than the bit he did last week about the IRA’s Remembrance Day bombing), but there’s something especially comical about this. The room reeks of regal professionalism, and yet here Charlotte stands, wobbly at best with a far-off look that either came from too many drinks or too many drugs - maybe both. The juxtaposition is hilarious in its irony, and Cooper’s grinning to himself before Charlotte even says a word.

“Let’s hope you’re not making that up from experience, Lady Windsor,” he says. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if you were right. I’ll bring the popcorn if you bring the chips for betting when they decide to duke it out somewhere.” He puts a bit of extra pressure on ‘duke’, but he doubts the pun will get a laugh - it’s a low-tier joke for his standards, no doubt. “And what about you, your Ladyship? Any brawls you’ve got planned for the night? Or are you feeling a little too,” he searches for the right word, but resorts to, “uneven to fight tonight?”

Ezra knows how to read a room. How to take something as simple as a quirk of the brow as a cue, like it’s something beyond muscle spasm. 

Unlike his (better) counterpart, there had always been a sort of veil between Fabian and other people, the constant missing of social cues, nuances, and punchlines. Anti-social is one way to put it. Socially inept is another. Introvert, perhaps the least harmful one.

Another person might see this as a hindrance, but not him. While Ezra basks in the spotlight, Fabian is happy to wait in the wings. 

Fabian’s shoulders imperceptibly relax under his tuxedo jacket, a direct result of Ezra’s talking. He doesn’t find it particularly funny, but his voice carries a lightness — a genuine excitement about what he’s saying, that there’s no escaping it. Ezra grins, and Fabian’s lips falter into something softer for a moment that quickly passes. If you blink, you miss it. 

Ezra never does.

“Uh. Alright.” Fabian’s no good at this, but still, he tries: “I don’t know about her, but he’s…” He studies the man who she’s talking to — a stance that’s almost too breezy for the scene; like they’re standing in completely opposite sides of the room, and not in conversation. “Trying too hard. Smiling… a lot, despite her obvious anger. Like he’s trying to make it seem like everything’s fine. He knows his wife is angry and…” The lightest of chuckles. “That there might might be some nutter in the room trying to figure out what she’s saying.”  

It’s Fabian’s turn to take in the crowd, and interpret it in the only way he knows how.

He clicks his tongue. “Speaking of Cooper Clare,” he turns to Ezra, “I’m surprised they didn’t hire you as a court fool. It wouldn’t be the first time the Palace hires a comedian for party entertainment, but I think they’re afraid of your tongue. I’m afraid of your tongue.” Fabian shoots him a look. Comedy has a way to strike the truth in a way no other art form can, and Ezra’s mastery of it could only ever be a terrifying thing. “That, and this reeks of easy distraction. The bread,” a gentle nod to the banquet, then a hand that motions to the two of them and the people filling up the room, “and the circus.” 

Maybe it’s cruel, but he likes to watch the way Fabian stumbles on his words for a mere moment. He looks at Fabian’s designs, at the way the fabric clings to his models, and there appears to be no hesitation there, not a stitch in place that doubts its brilliance. In the eye of the public, Fabian is the detached genius - in these private moments, Cooper gets to see the hesitation behind the prodigy. 

“So intuitive,” he muses at Fabian’s speculations. “Maybe he’s smiling because he’s high as a fucking kite and has no idea where he is. In fact, he thinks he’s in the Sears craftsman tool department, doing what a real man does best - pretending to know what a gear puller is and buying a lawnmower with headlights, in case he’s feeling real frisky and wants to cut his lawn at night. His poor wife’s only yelling because he didn’t share his Xanax, the greedy pig.” It’s another attempt to make Fabian laugh, but he doubts it’ll work. He’s already gotten a barely-smile, which is really all he can expect on his good nights. On his great ones, maybe a grin.

He rolls his eyes at the mention of the royal family. “They’d never hire me. Court fools work for the Palace, I work for myself.” A beat. “And on weeknights at 10:30, for the BBC, a truly merciful God. Praise be thy name.” He imitates the sign of the cross gesture before turning back over to Fabian with a skeptical grin. “Besides, I doubt Her Majesty can take the time out of her busy schedule of anti-aging blood rituals to be afraid of me. And you-” He pauses at the word, looking Fabian over. “Well, your needles are much sharper than my tongue. And you know what they say - sticks and stones may break my bones, but a good therapist is only a hundred an hour. That’s chump change, the price us plebians pay just to breathe the same air as a Marzara design.”

          “D’you know what, I might just steal one of these,” he joked, features deadpan as he picked up the empty ashtray to survey it. Intricate floral designs adorned the edge. Made of expensive silver, without a doubt. He flicked his own cigarette into it. The air inside was stuffy, hot and smelling of perfume and alcohol; though he was not one to turn down an invitation like this, the sheer number of people he’d been introduced to was a bit overwhelming.

          Zachary wasn’t here on work duty, of course. Everything was very much off-the-record during the event. Still, there were hands to shake and new faces to greet as the newly appointed Editor-in-Chief; a year had passed since his promotion, yet he was still considered new to the ropes. Did the subtle condescending attitude of the more senior members of the press stem from just precisely that —- their seniority? Or them being white while he was a man of color? (A combination of both, Zach suspected.) When he realized his cheeks were practically sore from all the smiling he was doing, he decided it was time for some fresh air and quiet. And a smoke. He was not alone in this, it seemed. 

There’s something about the smell of cigarettes that makes Cooper instantly nostalgic. He’s well aware of all the ongoing research on how cigarettes fuck your lungs, sure, and he knows it’s not exactly the cologne that’ll find him a new wife, but he savors it nonetheless as he’s reminded of late rehearsals in New York that all too frequently took place in smoke-filled rooms. And fine, half the time the smoke was purely marijuana, but cigarette puffs had certainly been in the mix as well.

“Not without breaking off a piece for me. I’ve got a dog to put through college, you know,” he replies. He takes the ashtray from Zach’s hands and flicks bits of his own cigarette into it. He doesn’t smoke often - his ex-wife had hated the habit - but it’s not like he’s got much else to do tonight. “I’m sure this is valued for thousands, but honestly, I couldn’t tell you why,” he says. “It’s just some pretty metal with designs on it. So is that the kicker? The little flowers on it? Do you think somebody should tell them there are real ones outside?” He grins to himself, setting the tray down and looking back towards Zach. “But I guess the royals are big on that, right? Superficial worth?”

It’s also the first public event that Cooper’s gone to completely alone, but that’s not to say he hasn’t befriended loneliness in more ways than one by now. Everyone talks about divorce, but nobody mentions the after - the tables for one, the eerie silences in the apartment, the grocery spending cut in half, and in this case, the parties attended without a wife on your arm. However, rather than wallow on his own, Cooper takes the opportunity to watch the crowd shamelessly, peering into the lives of people he has no business knowing about. 

“What do you think’s going on there?” he asks the figure standing beside him. He nods towards a couple on the other side of the room, the woman speaking harshly towards a man shaking his head in front of her. “She’s definitely angry about something. And-” He stops for a moment as the woman waves her hands around a bit. “Oh, it appears she’s flapping her wings now. She must be talking about a bird. No, a plane. Yes, a plane. She’s saying,” he adjusts his voice for an impersonation, “‘I can’t stand those damn airplanes, Henry. You arrive before you even leave. If God wanted us to fly, he’d buy the ticket himself’.” He grins at his company, nodding towards them as if to say ‘your turn’. “What’s your take on them?”

cooper clare + nye fashion