FOUR OUT OF FIVE

“You should stop telling jokes.” The suggest was matter-of-fact enough to border on hurtful, but was softened by a sip of tea and a lack of deliberate eye contact. She couldn’t suppress a grin brought forth from the idea of a tube of mints being sent to Harold, though the idea of selling Arsenal FC was enough to reroute her brightening mood. “If I sold the team, what would you have to do with your time? I can’t imagine you’d be having breakfast with Glazer.” Then again, perhaps Edison had turned over a new leaf during their brief parting. But she knew just as well as he did that their current arrangement was the best situation for the both of them. Without their respective teams, they’d both be fated to spend the last twenty years of their lives in separate spheres. While that wasn’t a wholly impossible undertaking, it was one that Selena had no interested in pursuing at the present moment. So she sipped her tea and ignored the implication that laid between the alongside an ill-fated invitation to an utterly ridiculous stag party. “If I’m selling this team, then I’ll need to bleed someone else for money. Another husband might be just the ticket – you never know.”

Even with the smile and misplaced bravado, Selena wasn’t prepared to dwell on the idea of re-marrying so early in the morning. That was a conversation best left until afternoon, when she was inevitably two drinks deep and unwilling – - or perhaps incapable - – of doing much more than than scratching the surface. She abandoned the topic without notice or thought, “Right then. When should I be off? It’d be a bit rude of me to spend the afternoon pilfering through your files, I’d think.”

“Why? Because they aren’t humorous or because they’re made at your expense?“ Edison asked, eyebrow arching as he tucked into his cup of tea. “Blunt & greedy this morning aren’t we?” Edison smiled, too chipper for his own disposition. “Very rude,“ He observed, though he didn’t look altogether, or even partially, as if he meant it. “I for one can’t believe you’re still here. Should’ve run you off ages ago.” Another quip, another self-indulgent little grin, but he knew better than to keep it up. Selena was the type of woman who would very easily upend herself & rightly fuck off if you so much as insinuated as much. “It being Sunday, the only business I have has been concluded for the day.” He said, tilting his still steaming cup. “If you have something pressing to get to, I could always tag along & spy.”

Sean couldn’t help but grin a little at the other man’s words, shaking his head a little. “Is it his first wedding at least?” He asked. He didn’t particularly see the problem with having a stag do; though if it wasn’t a first marriage it seemed a little pointless. Not that he knew the other man though. 

“Still, nothing wrong with a party.”

“Oh no,“ Edison shook his head, laughing at the insanity of it. “This will be wife number four. There’s not even a saying for that one, I think he’s just collecting ex-wives at this point. I agree, there’s nothing wrong with a party, but I mean... come on. There’s better excuses to throw one than making another girl suffer through six months of marriage just to turn around & find another one.” 

Sophie couldn’t help but earwig into the man’s comment, laughing lightly as she heard what he had to say. “Oh give the guy a break, he just wants his moment.” She smiled, “but be sure to get him age appropriate strippers else it’s just plain creepy.”

“He’s had three previous moments.” Edison assured the woman, his strain turning into a tired chuckle. “Oh, I’m not going. He can forget about that.” He pressed, shaking his head at the thought. “That’ll be tough,” Edison smirked. “I think they’re all retired at his age.” He couldn’t have agreed more & yet the chances that the man wouldn’t have some nineteen year olds employed for the night were slim to none.

“Oh well in that case, if I was you that is, I would skip this one.” Natasha responded as she couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the idea that it could be a whole reason to give the dude reason to divorce and start over. “Wife number, just think of all the older guys that might wait until their fifties or later to get married? They might want a high class stag night out.”

“Never a question about it.“ Edison gave his head a little shake. He might’ve been amused if he wasn’t so bewildered as to how the man evidently had no shame. “Do you believe that?“ Edison asked, with a curious smirk. “I’d be mortified.” Perhaps he was being a bit judgmental, but honestly. “Maturity requires a bit more... well maturity than a weekend of shots & scandalously clad women.“

“I remember the breath. Not the eyes.” She had some vague memory of the boy – - his eyes weren’t exactly on the top five list of features she had memorized - – but even Selena knew not to cross that line. Admitting she had briefly pined for one of his school mates – - from afar, and downwind of the poor boy - – wouldn’t sit well with a breakfast of vodka and toast. It was, apparently, fine for Edison to admit that he had met his ex wife through the friend. “Oh, well I didn’t know you two were best mates. Maybe I should be sending him my congratulations, too. Could ship an edible arrangement post hate.”

She’d fallen into his trap effortlessly, as she was want to do, and tried to recover lamely. “I might decide to retire from owning a team soon, so maybe you should let me hang out with Harold.” Henry. “He can be my second husband. You’ll be getting an invitation to another stag party within the year.”

“Unfortunate,“ Edison concluded, taking a bite of toast. “We weren’t. It was a joke.“ Edison sighed, wishing he had a paper to reach for to dismiss her. Instead, he was forced to trace the rim of his tea & shake his head at the suggestion of an edible arrangement being sent. “Not a tube of mints?” Edison questioned, brow lifting lightly. “Please,“ Edison lamented. “Don’t get me so excited so early in the morning.“ It’d have been his lucky day wouldn’t it? His biggest rival selling her team off. A period of transition would lend itself to a weakness to be exploited, but he should be so lucky. Not that in truth he wanted that scenario at all. If there wasn’t any excuse for them to be seen together how would all of this work? He chose not to think on the subject, recognizing it for what it was -- bullshit. “What’s owning a team got to do with being Henry’s fifth wife?” Edison asked, polishing off his toast. “I wouldn’t go anyway. I’d have my assistant send a gift though. Something nice. “

The sheer thought of attending a stag party was enough for Selena to turn up her nose. “They wouldn’t know what to do if they had to talk to a woman with half a brain.” The letter itself was plucked up using only an index finger and thumb, regarded with disgust as she read the names. “Sounds familiar, though. Did you used to hang out with him? Is this the one with the terrible breath?” That was, for all intents and purposes, the best way she could phrase her distaste before the paper fluttered back to the table before her. “I think you should go. Maybe take Gemma. Make it a family outing.” After careful consideration of the idea, a light flashed through Selena’s eyes, “Actually, that’s not a terrible idea. You should take some additional guests. Have a whole school reunion with Halitosis Henry.” Or whatever the poor fuck’s name was.

“Oh, but think of the fun.” Edison goaded, allowing himself a self-serving smirk as she plucked the letter out of his hand. “Yes, actually. I can’t speak to the breath but he was at Eton.” Edison took a second to try & devise a way to describe his old friend but resorted to making a motion to his eyes. “Big ole blue eyes. You could swim in them.” Edison said, smiling again as he lamented. “Oh, fuck off.” Edison huffed, taking a seat at the kitchen table & using his mug of earl grey, scooted the letter away. “Gemma probably wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for Henry’s first marriage.” Edison sipped his tea as if it wasn’t a hot ass take. He hid a grin in his mug, sure to make keep his expression neutral when he placed it back down on the empty envelope like a sad, flimsy coaster. “I stand by my original invitation. -- He’d pay top dollar if that’s what you’re holding out for.”

A stag party. She might’ve rolled her eyes at the idea if it hadn’t been presented with such impassioned aggravation. Rather than take Edison’s side – - something she was loathe to do even on her best days - – she opted instead to shrug as if the notion was the most normal thing in the world. “Some people like to have fun.” It was too easy to remind him that he teetered on the brink of being the sad forty year old man hosting a bachelor party; he would’ve seen that coming from a mile away and could’ve easily written her off with little to no preparation. “I know that’s probably a foreign concept to you, but I’m sure there’s a book somewhere you can read on the subject.”

Honestly, he should’ve known. He should’ve been aware that the mere fact that he was aggravated by the invitation would lead his current company to dispute the sheer audacity of a forty year old man’s fourth pre-nuptial attempt at youthful celebration. It didn’t help the old school mate’s case that Edison had been through one tireless divorce & that he couldn’t imagine queueing up a fourth. “You want to go?” Edison asked, ignoring the tip & instead offered the letter Selena’s way. “Guy’s a blast. I’m sure they’d be happy to have a female in their presence that they didn’t have to pay for.”

“Would this be his first chance of having a stag party or his say fifth?” Natasha asked as she looked up from her phone. Was it her business? Not at all but there was mention of a stag party and knew that came with funny stories. Well, depending on the people involved that is.

“Third.” Edison sighed. “Actually -- it might be fourth. I went to the first one, it was right out of Oxford, but now it seems like he’s just looking for an excuse to divorce the last one so he can have another go at the first year. Should the cut off be age or what number wife you’re on?”

Grateful that he didn’t take offense to her comments, she continued smiling as he replied. “I guess I’ll take the points for myself for at least being partially right.” She chuckled when he poked fun at himself, shrugging her shoulders. “I guess pretentiousness is in the eye of the beholder, y’know? Some people would say you’re pretentious for coming in here and ordering expensive scotch. Others would say the way you dress might be. Me? I think it’s in how you act more than anything. Not that I’m saying you’re coming off as pretentious, just that’s how I judge people on it,” she amended, hoping once more she hadn’t offended him. Following his gaze to her glass, she let out a hearty laugh, shaking her head. “While I’m not at all averse to some good Kentucky bourbon or whiskey, this is actually a Jameson. Figured maybe it’d taste even better closer to the source,” Cass teased with a grin before taking another sip. “Sorry if I’m defying all of your stereotypes in one fell swoop. No umbrella, nothing Kentucky… wanna see if third time is a charm?” 

“Seems fair,“ Edison conceited neatly. He certainly wouldn’t be changing his drink choice to suit the masses. Neither would finding him in casual clothes be any more likely or even appropriate. He might’ve looked out of place now, in a suit & tie in a dark pub, but he’d look far more ridiculous in a boardroom wearing joggers & a jumper. Her third point was one that was simply impossible to adjust. I think it’s in how you act more than anything. The culmination of preference & manner was unadjustable in the case of Edison Beaumont. Neither was he inclined to handicap himself by trying to adjust some facet of his personality. “It could be worse.“ He supposed aloud. He could exude something like frivolity or stupidity instead of quiet pretense. He was suddenly reminded of a time in university when a young woman had tried to pick him apart via his birth moon. Or sun. He couldn’t remember, but he remembered thinking she was pretty until she was halfway through blaming a planet in retrograde for his inability to relax. He swallowed down the memory with another drink. “Well there’s something,“ Edison beamed. “I live a two hours drive from the distillery. It’s not near close enough.“ He said, laughing. London was fine, but Ireland felt a world away. “Am I out on strike three? Baseball’s American. Do I get points for the analogy?“ He laughed again. “Let’s see...“ He took a pause, leaning back atop his seat to look her over. “You know an awful lot about spotting something that could be considered pretentious so I think it’s fair you’re guilty yourself.“ Edison mused, drawing a hand over his chin. “Plus you’re in London, not Southhampton.“ He drew in a breath, scrutinizing. “Gotta be something “Polo maybe. Or... working for a production company. Location scout maybe.”

His wordless response pulled another soft chuckle from her, her shoulders lifting in a barely-there shrug. “Could be. Could be really well-dyed water.” Cass eyed the glass for herself before adding, “Hell, it could even be really strong tea.” The variations in different teas and add-ins that the people around her in London chose was something she actually enjoyed. Her grandmother had always used tea as a comfort drink when Cass was growing up, so while coffee would usually be her first choice, she did have a fondness for tea. Being in London had given her ample opportunity to try different kinds. “Sorry,” she apologized, realizing she’d probably been obviously scrutinizing him. “You just seem more like the type who would save the hard liquor for business meetings or something. Like you’re more of a wine type. Don’t get me wrong, your choice was pretty good, but it certainly isn’t what I would expect from appearances alone.” She didn’t bother trying to defer; she’d always been a shit liar, so there was no point in trying to offer platitudes instead of her observations.

Edison grinned at the observation, blinking dutifully at the bar. “How astute.” He said, taking up the glass again. “I don’t normally drink in the afternoon. Or any time really.” It was a half-truth, but it was one that he wanted to believe. His hard drinking days were long behind him, but the old vice had appeared to resurface in moderation over the course of the last year. It helped to quell certain guilts he was slowly acquiring, but that was far to deep in introspection for Edison to tease out of his subconscious. Instead, he’d fended off an antagonizing reporter with six ounces of eighteen year old malt. “I don’t mind,” He assured her, welcoming the observation. “I’d say you’re close, but I’d save the wine for dinner or home.” He couldn’t picture himself trundling into a bar in the middle of the day dying for a glass of dry red, but -- evidently he’d made an impression. “I don’t know which is more pretentious really.” Edison laughed at his own expense. “Either way,” He qualified, indulging in another drink. “Being an American, is it too presumptuous to presume that’s from Kentucky?” He asked, eyes on her glass of so-called dyed water again.

“Fair enough,” she shot back with a shrug and a chuckle before following his gesture with her eyes, lips turning up into an even wider grin. “Would it make you feel better if I asked for one?” Cass’s dark eyes were lit up with good humor as she swirled the amber liquid around in her glass. She wasn’t at all averse to having a drink that came with an umbrella; it just wouldn’t be her first or even second choice. But if someone bought her one or she was getting them for free at a party? She wasn’t the kind of woman to turn her nose up at free booze. “Besides, for all you know, this is some fruity concoction masquerading as an unassuming glass of whiskey.” After a moment, she let her face become a little more serious as she nodded in turn to the liquor the bartender slid across the bartop to him. “Not gonna lie though, interesting choice if it’s only gotta be wet.” It wasn’t so much that he struck her as not the whiskey type, but the way he carried himself made it seem as though he was someone who would generally stick with something more refined, like wine. 

Edison gave his head a reassuring shake. It most certainly would not brighten his mood to have to watch the poor barkeep mix up something that was 97% sugar & a splash of rum. Whiskey, scotch, rye, the whole lot tended to sooth him, even if he wasn’t the one drinking it. Her having her own glass just meant he was in better company. “Could be apple juice I suppose,” Edison said, eyeing the glass with faux suspicion as he took a sip of his own. “Being a liquid is the bare minimum.” Edison said, setting the glass back down gently on the oak bar top after giving the scotch a slow spin in the glas. “What?” He asked, feeling as though she were judging him for something unseen. 

@edisonbeaumont​ | hugh + edison | at lunch

there weren’t a lot of clients he took to lunch in the middle of the day. okay, fine. he never did, because lunch meetings were just dinner meetings with an inferiority complex, but. there were some clients who merited his full attention; without the allure of whiling the evening away with good food, good wine, and a few moments here and there for business talk. and edison beaumont was definitely one of them - if not the only one. “ so just between us, are the spurs going to win next year? i’ve got to get my bets in, ” hugh said laughingly, taking a sip of his water. it was probably time he’d been hydrated that week, he really needed to fix that. “ but seriously, how’s it looking? ”

Edison’s eyes stopped their lazy perusal of lunch offerings & he peered over the top of the leather-bound menu at Hugh as he posed his question. “God, I hope so.” Edison said flatly, but his eyes crinkled at their corners, betraying him as he broke into a broad grin. “You already know where to put your money,” Edison added, eyes returning to the menu. “& it’s not where your heart is.” He warned, knowingly. He’d known Hugh Astor-Thorpe a long time & knowing what football clubs each of them loathed or love was common knowledge. It just so happened that theirs were not the same, but it didn’t keep Edison from a maintaining a resilient arrogance in regards to the Spurs. Especially in current company. “It looks good. The lads look good. There’s not a lot to tune in the off season -- coming off a win y’know.” Edison smiled presumptuously. 

Her daughter had asked, and here she was. Dreading the day. She was not shy of events like these, as she had come accustomed to them, but she couldn’t avoid to feel like a fish out of the sea. Perhaps being a national athlete was something that Lorelei could relate and share with her daughter, but football was something that Gemma shared with her father only. And if anything had to do with Edison, she wouldn’t been keen to experience it. In fact, she had tried to avoid him as much as she could over the past few years since their daughter got more independence, and while they sometimes met at games or events where the youngster invited them, there would still be this expectancy that maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t have to do it this time around. Dressed in a knee-length Victoria Beckham black dress, Lorelei walked around the exhibit, champagne in hand, trying to make sense to the passion of her daughter. Her mind got lost in the handful of discussions they shared when she first decided for football over gymnastics. It hurt their relationship, but it mostly hurt Lorelei, as when her daughter talked out of the home they shared, she lost the only companion of her lonely life. Maybe it was time to admit she was wrong, maybe, all this time, Gemma was right in choosing this, her own path, make history, build a new road and become a national icon unlike her mother who tried and failed. She failed her nation, failed her family, failed her daughter, failed herself, failed her husband? Her mind kicked in again, realising she probably had stared at a magazine older than herself for far too long, not because she had reached to the conclusion of her thoughts, but because the voice she hated to hear uttered her name.

“Edison”, she spoke before even turning to face him, as if she took longer to turn, he would disappear and save her the talking. But of course, there he was. She look a quick full body glance, wishing to see him gaining weight or the age finally hitting him, but she couldn’t see a thing she could boast about. At least nothing new. “I’d say what a surprise to see you here, but I guess the surprise would be that I’m here.” At this point of their relationship, or rather lack of relationship, she had missed the reason behind her hatred towards this man. Perhaps it was the divorce or his parenting choices, or perhaps even the inconceivable concept that they met, married, had a child, and shared a life in such a short time span when they were so different. 

Edison’s smile faded back into a neutral expression as she returned the same bare-bones greeting. He couldn’t help but notice the little dart of her eyes but gave no indication that he took some small amount of pleasure t in the disappointment he imagined she felt in not seeing him seriously maimed or having gained thirty pounds. Wasn’t going to happen. “Oh, yeah?” Edison muttered distractedly. Confusion, however, etched into his features when she insinuated that he’d have been surprised she was there. “Why’s that?” He asked, eyebrows pithing up expectantly. “You’re her mother, aren’t you?” Edison said defiantly, lifting his chin a bit. “I’d say we’d be in more trouble if you weren’t here.” He supposed he should’ve expected Lorelei to make it about herself. Gemma’d asked them both to come & Edison wouldn’t miss it for the world. He & Lorelei were both adults, but evidently that didn’t stop them from still maintaining a hushed sort of animosity. “I’ve yet to actually catch a glimpse of Gemma.” He said, squelching the awkwardness & losing his out in the same breath. “You look -- well. How’ve ya been?”

Edison Beaumont wasn’t wearing much by way of an expression, which wasn’t completely unusual. He stepped back, clasping his hands in front of him & looked down at his feet as a group of chatting women in ball gowns passed the exhibit he’d just been observing with quiet curiosity. He’d gotten tired of turning down flutes of champagne, fearing, ever so slightly, that his resolve would eventually crumble. He might’ve still been holed up in his office downtown, but instead he’d been looking at this date circled in his calendar for weeks. Now he was there, in what had quickly become one of his favorites Brioni tuxedos. The occasion, an exhibition at the National Football Museum, had called for the textured black jacket & bowtie, but it held more importance to the people in attendance. & for Edison’s daughter in particular, seeing as the entire soiree functioned to draw a well-earned light on the impact women’s football had on British society in the 19th century. So, by proxy, the event was important to Edison who had been invited twofold: once for being a Premiere League team owner &, more importantly, being the father of Gemma Beaumont. So while being in attendance wasn’t exactly like pulling teeth, there was no getting around the fact that he’d dragged himself to dreaded Manchester to purposely place himself in the same vicinity of his ex-wife. 

When another waitress pattered past, Edison seized his opportunity & grabbed a glass of champagne, hand finally forced by the thought of the reunion. He walked, sipping on it as his azure eyes paused on one exhibit after the next. He paused at one item in particular, looking at it thoughtfully over the rim of his glass as he rocked back onto his heels. It was a watercolor painting of three women scrambling for the same familiar pentagonal badged ball, their cleats -- or maybe there were simply heels -- looking menacing. Observing the card at the bottom of the gold frame, Edison gleaned that it was the oldest item in the collection. 1869. His eyes flicked back to the three players. Their faces, twisted in grins or grimaces of concentration, Edison noted, were beautiful. But in the way that something deadly is, just edging towards out of control. It was mesmerizing, really. The painting served to quell the years old negative feelings he’d developed for the mother of his child. Lorelei wasn’t the worst individual in the world. Not even the worst ex-wife. Probably. But she did have the uncanny ability to leave a bad taste in his mouth unlike anyone else he’d ever met. Meetings between them since the divorce nearly twenty years ago were necessary only for the sake of their daughter, but they never got better as the girl grew up. They just got more terse. She still blamed him for something. Whatever that something was, Edison had given up trying to decipher. Lorelei could go on loathing him & he could go on -- his glass was empty. He found a place to discard the evidence & set off to find his daughter when a familiar head of blonde hair bobbed into view. “Lorelei,” He smiled, saying her name like it was pleasantry, sorely missing having another drink in his hand for the occasion. 

One of the things that bothered Cass the most about London was how standoffish people could be. Maybe it was the fact that she was used to southern life in America or the fact that even New York had people that were open to chatting in the streets or coffee shops. Regardless, she never knew if someone would roll their eyes at her if she tried to start up a conversation. Half the time she felt like they were annoyed with her for even making side comments. Still, it was part of her nature to be friendly and talkative, and 8 months in London hadn’t changed that. So when the man sat down next to her and placed his order, Cass couldn’t help but make an impressed noise as her eyebrows rose. “Someone’s got fancy taste,” she said, her tone slightly teasing, but the grin on her face proving she didn’t mean anything rude by it. Her own tumbler was filled with nothing more fancy than Jameson - and the plain variety at that. She took a swig of the whiskey after speaking, watching the man over the rim of the glass to see if he was going to be one of the ones who would be annoyed by her, or if he’d actually maybe even laugh.

Edison tended to air on the side of quiet irritation. It was no one’s fault but his own, typically too tightly wound & following too many threads in his head to ever breathe a truly relaxed breath. He wasn’t rude & he didn’t maintain an attitude, but it didn’t stop his eyes from narrowing at the voice beside him. He blinked, diffusing & successfully eliminating the notion that this woman had anything to do with one who’d just accosted him. He forced a small, polite smile. “S’long as it’s wet right?” He said, regaining more of his good nature. It wasn’t her fault he was agitated -- or that she was so obviously American. Edison sank into the chair beside him. Damn, he really did need that drink. He didn’t even hold any prejudices towards Americans. Maybe he needed a smoke too. & probably a Xanax. “I don’t see an umbrella in that,” He said, pointing with his knuckle towards her glass of whiskey. “So, takes one to know one. -- Good taste & all that.”

Edison had largely flown under the radar as the quiet & buttoned-up middle son until he turned twenty-three & jet-set to Croatia without telling a soul. The months that followed can hardly be remembered. They involved six countries, copious amounts of booze, a British football star by the name of @loreleibuckley​, & the culmination of a lost adolescence. Finally acting as the inheritor of a vast fortune rather than an academic, Edison might’ve gone right on carrying on with the thin lines & women if fate didn’t have other plans.