*FOOL'S / GOLD.

SHE remembered the feeling of shame that came with the certain diagnosis they seemed to share. Graham’s projection reminded her of that brutal feeling that followed her most of her adult life. Yet somehow, it had been 3,650 days since her last lapse in judgment. She would take the credit herself if she could, but in reality, the reasons for her sobriety were named Parker and Olive Joy. Her lips twinged at his greeting, only a little shocked. Her conclusion: he was emotionally immature. 

She scoffed, shaking her head at him. ❛ Off the record, Goldstein, ❜ her white flag rose for his ego. ❛ Did you know there’s larger things happening on in the world besides your comfort in beer, brandy, and cheap champagne? ❜ she stated rather as a fact. And, a way to humble his inner struggle. ❛ Are you alright? ❜

—

“I’m quite aware, Mrs. West, which is why you’ll forgive my suspicion upon seeing you here, rather than some political press junket,” he responded, ears piqued with utter curiosity as he realized the tone she was using to address him. Concern, if he interpreted correctly — the kind that led one to ask that question which always left him mentally reeling. Above the rim of his cup of coffee, dark eyes eagerly searched her for something that betrayed her words and revealed her as no different than any other journalist: forever on the hunt for their next big story to break.

Finding nothing, he conceded, “I was lying about the BBC. They’d never be caught dead with cheap champagne.” A weak joke, but one he chuckled at nonetheless. “I’m fine.” A lie, and one he told most eagerly. “It’s more of a maintenance thing, anyway. And, so far... I’ve maintained a grand collection of white tokens,” the newscaster admitted casually without clarifying further. After all, if she was here for the same reason, she’d need no explanation — and would be able to present one of her own.

.

“That’s a Party City scepter. I wouldn’t dare call it a weapon,” he hummed. It most likely cost more than his rent, but to miss a chance to be a nuisance was impossible to the young man, especially when he wore Ywain’s shoes. The other seemed to be under the impression that this was a two way street, however, and while it certainly would be a transaction, Thomas intended to dictate the rules. The only people he ever heard talk of crypto currency had not precisely shone by their sanity of mind. Besides, though he could build his own computer, he had to admit (but not to Goldstein) that he knew next to nothing about that crap. But first, he needed to check something. “This is, I’m sure, a simple formality,  but I’m sure you don’t mind I check you for potential microphones or bugs, mmm?”

Thomas stood out of the shadows at last, revealing his juvenile features to the reporter. If it cost him sometimes, as people thought him younger than he was, it could also benefit him, when people thought him too baby faced to mean anyone harm.

—

The inclination to defend his costume was an immediate one, and a litany of reasons as to why the scepter ( along with all the rest ) was anything but store-bought pooled at the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill out in rash rebuttal. It was a child’s tendency — not just a childish one, but a habit quite literally born from days of youth spent defending the little he could call his own. So, instead came his otherwise typical cheek, another habit of youthful days but one better suited to the moment, if only for the fact it allowed him a deeper insight into the surprisingly young man. “Fine, fine, check away. I’d offer to bonk you across the head with it and prove to you exactly how weighty those Swarovski crystals are, but... I’d be afraid of permanently damaging your fontanelle.”

With that, he let out a breathy chuckle, arms extended away from his body to allow the other’s examination to begin. Even before meeting, it was implied that things between them would be kept off the record, and Graham knew better than to betray a source’s trust — even if that trust was one still shakily being built. “Have we met before?” He asked, eyes scrutinizing for familiarity. “Reckon I can’t ask you what I actually want to until you’re certain I haven’t got a wire on — so, make it quick, yeah? This whole night needs explaining.”

STARTER: @grahamgoldstein​​​​

LOCATION: Definitely nowhere near the News Building 

SHE couldn’t have thought of a better way to spend her Friday afternoon but surrounded by strangers at Alcoholics Anonymous. She basked in the pleasure of being unfamiliar to everyone. That was until she noticed one of her kind swimming in the sea of struggle, apparently. At first, Astrid remained to herself, hoping he wouldn’t notice her. She wasn’t actively “addicted,” she was just here for her life coach she told herself. The “clean” image of her reputation being tarnished wrecked her thoughts. Yet, his stature became interruptive for her, almost unable to ignore him from across the room. It was typical. She was just a curious storyteller. At their fifteen minute break, she conveniently ended up at the snack table beside him. 

A friendly grin appeared across Astrid’s face as she approached him, ❛ Got the night off? ❜

—

As fate would have it, tonight’s Alcoholics Anonymous meeting was anything but — not with one flame-haired familiarity sitting a mere few feet away. No stranger to going to great lengths for a story, the flurry of possibilities as to why she was here created storm clouds in his mind, each one resounding with more thunderous realism than the last. It wasn’t before long that he decided that Astrid West — editor-in-chief of the only paper he deemed nearly as daring as his own media conglomerate — was here for him.

“Well, I certainly thought I did, and yet... Here you are.” Graham asked, hostility laced on his tongue at the idea of a part of his life locked away could suddenly turn public. He didn’t spare a smile in return, gaze scrutinizing her from over his cup of bitter black. “Found your next ground-breaking story, have you? Wondering if the BBC suddenly stands for... Beer, brandy, and cheap champagne?” Alternative headlines popped up in his mind, but — for now — he’d let her fill in the blanks. 

“Still a morngy bastard, ey?” Mr BBC with his polished accent, not one hair out of fucking place. The man looked to Colin like a migraine and a very punchable face had a love child. That impression was not born out of thin hair, but rather through the realization that Mr BBC right here, was a small peckered coward. Now Colin was too a divorced man, but he’d had the merit of at least having tried to make it work for some time for the sake of his kid.

“What’s the matter BBC? Not used to being out in the real world?” And one where lamps apparently no longer existed. Colin paused, to look at the phone the other was holding in his hands. “You say I’m the drunk here, but I didn’t drop my damn phone. You did.” A pointed look. “Anyhow, I’ll get out of your hair, you air. Whatever. I got a landline to find, trying to get a fucking clue of what’s chuffin’ happening.

—

Where his sense of sight, utterly debilitated by the casino’s submersion into pitch-black, failed him, his hearing did not. That voice belonged to a man Graham had strategically avoided coming face-to-face with over the years, their interactions as far and few between as his schedule — intentionally kept unavaiable anytime the other’s name was mentioned — would allow. Still, damn the lights for cutting out precisely when being on would have prevented him coming face-to-face with his ex’s very own ex — and damn them even more for making him realize that the both of them were in entirely the same position: a one-time love of Marielle’s life, likely with each one thinking she was the love of their own. 

How could they not, after all? More than that, how could either of them do anything but try to find her amidst the chaos of it all? Graham rose to his feet then, spurred on by the realization. “No,” he started, still in the midst of finding his words and deciding between an easy retort or taking the high ground. “No, I need to stay with you. My phone’s busted, thanks to you, but more importantly — I need your help. You’re an officer of the law and that’s your job, so... Call me a morngy bastard all you like —” God, that was a phrase he hadn’t said in years, “—but I need to find her.”

.

She could still picture the two of them, looking at the ultrasound, both in shock but, at least for the time being, a moment of utter joy. Graham’s suggestions of names, and how Marielle had fallen in love with Ramona’s name incredibly quickly ( not entirely unlike how she’d fallen in love with the man who stood next to her now ), and how he’d been overjoyed at Marielle’s suggestion of a middle name. How Ramona had said ‘dada’ even before ‘mama’ and how utterly content that had made her - because of course their daughter would love Graham, would want to talk to him always - the very same man she herself was so in love with.

Her left hand’s thumb unwillingly found the ghost of where her ring used to sit, on her ring finger, though she quickly jerked it away, as though it was the same hot oil her mother had used to fry donuts one time when she was a child.

Because this wasn’t what they were, and he’d made that all too clear to her.

“I don’t know, she probably said something else and this is my paraphrasing of her words.” She offered him a conspiratorial smile for a moment. “I am probably the one who would use that word, though I like to think of Ramona as above the trends, but she has used any number of phrases that I’ve admittedly Googled - but you’ve got people her age at your work, right? Do they keep you up to date on all the trends?” She gave a small shrug.

“Your date.” Because there was usually someone attached to his arm - someone incredibly beautiful, but who often seemed more like an accessory to him ( though of course, there was always the fact that she’d focus on him first, and there was no shame to his dates that they didn’t draw her interest in the way that he did ).  

“Yes.” She responded before she could help herself. Before she could stop herself - she was usually so good at catching herself, at not flinching at the mention of his name, or when she saw him on what felt like every cover of every magazine in the supermarket. “I don’t have one either.” Marielle looked over to him. “I developed the habit of an early bedtime all on my own, if you would believe it.” She waved to the bartended to order a vodka soda, and took a sip before she continued. “But I have had some dates - though could you please inform the general populace that asking a danger if she is flexible is not the alluring pick up line so many men think it is?” She made a small face. “Where are you planning to bring me, Mr. Goldstein?”

—

“Is she in need of a job?” Graham queried abruptly, his intention far more innocent than the question might have suggested, while his own fidgeting hand hovered uncertainly in the space between them. Continuing on, he clarified, “There’s loads of interns roughly about her age, yes. A few researchers, as well, like one of the ones recently assigned to my team. She actually sent me the most outrageous TikTok the other day, something called a ‘fancam’...?” His head shook with a breathy chuckle, the lines around his eyes crinkling in what was, nowadays, evidence of a rather rare smile, wide and bright even despite his utter ineptitude with the technology of the younger generation. 

“Sometimes, it’s all a bit much for my head. Makes me nostalgic for the nineties, honestly — which is probably why I grin like an idiot anytime I see that you still write your smiley faces out,” he admitted softly, gently nudging her with his elbow. “Although... I have noticed a curious pattern of decidedly not receiving a smiley anytime the Daily Mail runs a story about me and my...dates.” Graham knew he had no right to judge her over such a thing, and had no reason to believe he came off as anything other than what he’d decisively presented himself as: a man naturally suited to the world of celebrity, a lifelong bachelor, a writer with a history of using both sword and pen. And yet, there was a deeper truth to it that he wanted Marielle to know: “So much of what gets written of me, or spoken about me... It’s all for show, really.”

His eyes, tinged with some mix of apology and explanation, lingered on hers for perhaps too long a moment, if only for the fact that he knew there was no other soul in the room who could take a single glance and know if he was lying. Privately, perhaps even selfishly, he allowed himself the momentary vulnerability to be seen — not simply viewed or watched, but seen. Known. Understood. Those weren’t often the grounds upon which his inner thoughts and desires were typically founded, but Graham knew that there was no better person, no other person, with whom such vulnerability felt all at once comfortable and thrilling. He supposed that was why he allowed himself a genuine laugh when she revealed the decided lack of depth of those who’d expressed interest in her before.

“Blimey, that’s teenager-level chat. Was I ever that bad?” A knowing chuckle. “No, don’t answer that — I’m certain I was, but... Well, let’s just say it wasn’t the worst way of getting a regular audience member at all of your performances.” In his mind’s eye, he saw freshly-picked wildflowers bunched in a makeshift bouquet and himself, waiting until after everyone else had left to present them to her in private, ashamed he didn’t have the money for a proper arrangement. “Would it be awfully corny to say ‘a trip down memory lane’? Starting possibly with the dance floor?”

When: During the blackout Where: Red Rose Casino - common area

He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight. You’ll do it tomorrow, would have been what his supervisor said. But Colin felt like this was a waste of time. He’d go home and do what? Watch some stupid tv and go to bed? Nah, thanks but no thanks. The idea of some peace and quiet was enticing, but so was moving forward with his investigation. 

Needless to say that he wouldn’t get shit done while being the only cop on duty on a night like this. The thought of wearing a sign that read : I don’t know shit about this, had crossed his mind, but he knew from experience that this wouldn’t have stopped people from asking. Of course, with the power down, cellphones weren’t getting any signal either, and his quest for a land line had been unproductive for now. With his phone’s flashlight as his only light source, he made his way through the corridors now, hoping that he’d find one.

Walking around a corner, however, all he could find was his balance as he tripped onto something. “What in the goddamn moth-”

—

He, like so many others running past him, thought to use his mobile as a torch, though not before investigating the off-chance that the BBC had loaded it up with some technological marvel that would suddenly set everything right — not that he’d understand it, of course. The thought of, “where’s Lydia when one needs her,” quickly turned into a frantic, “Oh god, where’s Lydia?” And now there were two women he desperately needed to track down and ensure their safety. Fate ( or gravity, more like ) had other plans as a bump to one shoulder caused the phone to fall to the ground, met first with a thud against the carpet, then a crack as a heavy foot stepped on it. The subsequent sounds were not mechanical ones, but instead the voicing of Graham’s very own thoughts — though spoken rather more commonly than he was inclined when in public.

Still, that didn’t stop the frustration building in his bones, and with faux politeness, he asked, “Can you go off and be drunk somewhere else, please?” Using the light cast off from the other’s phone, he picked up his newly-shattered one to examine the extent of its breakage. “Fu-bloody-bar...” He cursed under his breath, before returning to his newfound companion. “Know what that means?” Graham squinted in response to the harsh glare of light as he showed off the damage caused by the other, yet unable to adequately see the man’s face. “Fucked up beyond all repair.”

.

I’ve got a bloody big scepter and I’m not afraid to use it, mate. — “Your reputation certainly precedes you,” Thomas understood then that the other couldn’t see him from where he currently stood and decided to remain here for the time being. He felt most comfortable behind the scene, unseen. He liked this aspect of his day job. The clients didn’t care for the cook, only for the food in their plate and if they ever asked to meet the chef, his boss would deal with the clientele, not him. In a way, he was a lot more subjected to social work with his more secretive occupation. Ironic. “But you’ll have to do a lot better than that to impress me, mate.” It was perhaps concerning that the journalist was confident enough for nicknames. Death wish? “Put your stick down. I don’t want you to end up with a black eye,” understand he’d love to see the guy try to hide it behind tons of concealer. With a smirk, Thomas put his palm down on the handle of his sword. Of course it was a dupe, but he didn’t precisely need anything to be able to defend himself.

—

There was something quietly unnerving about a spotlight shining so brightly that it obscured its subject’s face, an identity scattered through dark shadows on the floor. In this case, the silhouette revealed a lightly-armored individual, sword clearly at his hip, the threat of harm resting easily on his tongue. Graham had faced death before, on far more occasions than he allowed his mind to routinely linger — but, each time, he’d seen the face of the person who thought to do him mortal harm, and he’d be damned if he allowed that morbid little tradition to end now. 

So, he followed the other’s instructions, placing his scepter gently on the ground before returning to a decidedly more neutral stance, arms crossed over his chest but otherwise defenceless. “Alright. Weapons away. What is it that would impress you?” Graham asked, voice slipping back into that well-practiced BBC tone, devoid of any informalities that so often slipped out when he was under stress. “Bitcoin? Ethereum?” His eyes remained fixed on the shadow of the other’s hand atop the hilt of his sword, searching for any twitch of movement. “Depending on your information, you could walk away from our little conversation quite the rich man, you know.”

My money for his information — that was what was on the table tonight, Graham reminded himself — no more, no less. In truth, he’d never had to forge illicit connections before, but there was a race among the media conglomerates of London now, with each participant chasing down every possible source to get the upper hand on the next headline-making story. So, here he stood, ambling around in a backroom at which he’d been instructed to arrive, two drinks balanced in one hand, and his costume’s scepter twirling about in the other.

The door opened, but the dark of the room kept the entrant’s countenance obscured. Graham, knowing the stories of what happened to unwanted guests behind Jabberwock doors, announced, “I’ve got a bloody big scepter and I’m not afraid to use it, mate.”

*HALLOWEEN 2022 » Graham Goldstein as KING GEORGE III.

In truth, Graham put next to no thought into his costume for the event — an unusual occurrence, of sorts, for someone who so often internally questions if he truly looks the part, or if he’s no different from a wallflower in the background. However, he’s set to take on the role of King George III for a one-time charity performance later in the year, and so had the costume neatly tucked away in his wardrobe, recently fitted to perfection to suit his physique. 

PITCH dark squares she’s accustomed to caused a sort of shift in her energy as she recognized her colleague of sorts. The BBC logo was hard to miss when you’re in constant competition every waking, readable hour. Astrid’s lips curved into a smile as she was saved by his bona fide suggestion. 

She nodded, remaining in line as it was tea that managed to get her away from her work today. ❛ Stunning. You’ve read my mind. Tea is exactly what I need. I’ll be honest with you–– I haven’t had Bao’s yet but suddenly I’m in the mood, hmnh. I’ll take your word for it! Today’s lunch will suddenly be in honor, ❜ she told him, pearly whites on desk for the inevitable to come.

Of course, it’d be mentioned. It was everywhere. Luckily, he was right and she never minded when a man spoke the truth.

❛ Oh, please, ❜ Astrid waved a humble hand, as if she dismissed said praises. ❛ I will send the good intentions to my hard-working staff. They’ve got bloody bollocks. I can only hope you’re having as much fun as we do. ❜

—

It wouldn’t be a lie to acknowledge the ounce of envy within him, coveting the kind of acclaim that resulted from a headlining story such as the Times’ own. But, at his core, Graham was nothing more than an aspiring storyteller, and he couldn’t fault the newspaper or their editor-in-chief for finding a damn good story to tell. 

“Well, it’s not everyday that print journalism has a leg up on its much cooler broadcast counterpart,” he joked before ordering his favorite lemongrass oolong tea for them both once they reached the stall. “My treat. Guaranteed to loosen one’s tongue,” came the obviously false explanation, accompanied by a brief chuckle. “Oh, aye. Loads of fun. Everyone’s scrambling around the Beeb to find the next leak, hounding press attachés, pundits, policy advisors...” He tone remained casual, though his eyes searched her icy blues for the tiniest suggestion that he might’ve correctly guessed the occupation of her source. 

Graham’s arms folded across his chest — not to position himself adversarially, but simply as a grounding stance against the headrush of his thoughts. “Honestly, I’m more curious as to how you’ll be certain your source will continue telling the truth. They’ve got a target on their back now more than ever, and we both know that everyone involved is going to be releasing their version of truths and lies in the weeks to come.” He took a sip of his tea, sucking in a breath upon feeling the burn at his tongue, before asking with a knowing look, “Damage control and defense mechanisms, innit?” 

.

There’s something both extremely welcome and deeply uncomfortable about the way that Graham’s glance over to her made Marielle feel. With him, it was always a terribly confusing mixture of emotions - something that she found herself frustrated with at times, as she’d always been someone who, in her opinion, was able to keep a handle on herself.

“Lucky for London, I’ve not had nearly that many.” She breathes, voice still as even as she can manage it. Because old films had been their thing, and there had been nothing she’d loved more than hearing him recite lines from them and hearing him talk about where his life would take him - take them (because back then, it had always been them, two kids desperate to get out of their hometown, longing for something more). His imagination had been one of the first things that had drawn her to him, a kindred spirit, someone who could make anything sound fascinating and wonderful.

( She supposes then, that it makes sense that he’s become a fancy news anchor - why keep one person captivated when you can keep a whole country - or even more? )

“You do. Impressed you remember.” Though coming from anyone else the words could have come with a bite, from her there is, instead, a certain sort of melancholy, something that she strives to push away at all costs, usually. 

“Yes.” The word is out of her mouth before she can entirely process what it is that she’s agreed to.

And then of course, she’s twelve again, or fourteen, or fifteen, or she’s telling him that the time spent over the toilet was not due to a night out but rather to the fact that they’re going to be parents and she’s pretty sure that there had been nothing until that moment that had made her feel the same unbridled sort of joy. Except of course, what comes with that memory is another set of less favorable ones, including lying to their daughter about why her father wasn’t at her birthday party, or why she didn’t see him much anymore, or why his face was all over the magazines in the supermarket.

“We can forget our obligations, if you’d like. Ramona’s out with friends - I think she doesn’t care what I am up to so long as I’m not tucked in bed by ten p.m. - she’s told me that is rather lame of me.” Marielle offered a small, nervous smile. “Or we can just drink. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your date, or anything.”

—

There was something in her smile that seemed a reflection of his own: in both existed the revelation that, just like their counterpart, each one remembered everything. They’d shared so much, their individual lives at first unravelling as parallel lines before inevitably knotting so thoroughly that they’d become irrevocably intertwined, until they severed completely — broken marriage vows, divorce papers, buried rings and all. His thoughts were spiraling, spinning into that interminable storm of regret and hypotheticals that he’d learned to beat back into locked-up corners of his mind through the chase of adrenaline rush and alcohol. In this moment, he existed at the two vices’ meeting point: half-drunk and on-edge, awaiting a well-deserved blow to land.

And land it did, though not in the way he would have expected — or preferred. She spoke their daughter’s name with such ease, an effortlessness that struck at the very heart of him in stark reminder of how thoroughly removed he was from parenthood altogether. And how different that was, to the boy he was twenty years earlier, giddily suggesting a list of names inspired by his favorite singers and bands, or the man he was just a year or so after, reinventing songs to suit their eventual choice and thereby serenade both mother and daughter — only to become the liar who claimed it was that very name which led him through to survival. 

Each iteration of Graham Goldstein ( boy, man, and liar ) was simply a facet of the actor’s mask,  as was the default for one who’d only ever wanted to be someone else. So, it came as no surprise that he slipped into that mask once more when he moved to speak. “We might need to alert the press, here,” he started with faux seriousness, leaning further into her orbit in an almost conspiratorial stance. “Do the youth really still say ‘lame’?” Graham sighed out a laugh, a meager offering in response to his own pitiful joke — pitiful only, perhaps, because it was all he could bring himself to say in regards to Ramona.

What Marielle said next, however, caught his ear with a different snare. “My date?” He repeated immediately, casting her a curious sideways glance from under the thick of his brow. Admittedly, the decision he’d made to not bring dates to events that his daughter might also attend was a private one — but he’d hoped, even after all this time, Marielle believed him a better man than what the tabloids printed. “By a strange coincidence, I was hoping you might take up that role for the rest of the night.” He took a casual sip of his drink, letting the admission sit in the space between them before reverting back to half-hearted comedy. “Come on, it’ll be a nice change of pace...seeing as your date’s apparently got you used to an evening’s excitement ending at nine-fifty-nine p.m.” Another sip, more necessary than the last but passed off as a toast to what he assumed was her new life of blissful domesticity. “Go on, tell me all about them.”

“Mm, I’m certainly not interesting Mr Goldstein and I’m certainly not wanting to be connected to you.” His arrogant nature made her more irritated than usual and she was becoming more and more certain that this was Ramona’s absent father.

Her civil nature quickly faded though as he continued to speak. The one thing that would strike a chord with her was a child, of more precisely her lack of one. So her smile quickly faded and she looked away. “Why does that matter?”

—

The woman — once a veritable stranger, and one he was quickly wishing had remained as such — spoke so few words and yet, her refusal came swift and entirely unjustified. His head canted in immediate query, uncertain as to the source of her apparent vitriol. “In civilized conversation, one might consider it a mere act of curiosity,” he responded simply at first, eyes no longer meeting hers and focusing instead on the ice fixed at the bottom of his glass. It was offered so calmly that one might’ve thought it to be an olive branch, but then — the barbed words came at last.

“Of course, they do say that curiosity killed the cat — though, I’m starting to believe you’re the one to blame, Mrs. Crawford.” He’d do anything to make his time with this insufferable woman pass, and so swallowed a heady sip of his drink, its accompanying head-rush a welcome occurrence. “Allow me to be blunt. What is your problem with me?”

LOCATION: Borough Market

STARTER: open to everybody

RUMOR had it that Astrid Joy was a personal voodoo doll for those headlining The Times… from what she had heard. In all honesty, it was hard to ignore the influx of messages, calls, e-mails, tweets, posts, tags and whatever came in form of notification the past few hours. Yet, this was just another day at work for the EIC. She had come to terms with the fact she would be everybody’s least favorite person at some point a very long time ago. 

The many people wanting answers and explanations would have to wait for her. Everybody moved at their own pace and hers was on the accordance of caffeine at the moment. She left the news building, a sweet escape into the fresh air. It was buzzing with business in London. Her shoes clacked against the concrete as she disappeared into the crowd of people on a similar mission to hers at the market. 

She approached the forming line, looking up at the booth with a curious palette. She preferred a strong cuppa tea at these hours, but the growing anticipation swayed her to join the group waiting. ❛ What a line! So, tell me– what’s the best thing here? ❜ she asks the person near her. 

—

The market was a world unto itself, proudly proclaiming its venerated history alongside a commitment to modernity — and therefore no different from the more expected locales of his profession: museums, galleries, libraries. Here, however, existed a distinct cloud of anonymity that washed over all within as they perused the stalls and each vendor’s offerings for the day. 

He’d come prepared to commit an afternoon to this anonymity, too: a book tucked into a BBC-branded tote bag, along with a laptop rife with emails and other things to upkeep. Of course, what was actually used to pass the time was a curious, ever-studying gaze, eagerly people-watching as patrons came and went. A familiar face caught his eye, asking someone nearby for their recommendations. The question was not exactly directed at him, but Graham figured he was in a nearby enough vicinity to quickly sidle up to the woman with the kind of apologetic grin to those in line that implied he was meant to stand there all along.

Ignoring the series of rolled eyes behind him, he formulated a genuine reply to the woman’s question — although, the topic of food and drink was hardly what he wanted to discuss, given both their professions. “This stall’s got an excellent tea selection, but if it’s food you’re after... The Bao Borough’s extraordinary.” Truth, then business. “And, they’ve even got a karaoke room for you to sing the praises of whatever source gave you the bloody story of the year.”

“Oh, yes I think I recognise your name.” Eliza hesitated for a moment, although she did recognise it from the news there was also another reason. She was sure that her neighbour’s ex was that name and her fondness for Marielle made her instantly suspicious of him.

“Eliza Crawford, housewife.” She said reaching to shake his hand. She could be civil at least but she wasn’t quite accepting of the drink. “Do you usually take others drinks Mr Goldstein?”

—

Graham’s mind, ever-inquisitive and journalistic to a fault, churned out a dozen questions of wealth and family and status as she introduced herself — a regular occurrence for a man who simply did not come from such things. Still, he kept his musings under the surface, which found itself adorned with his well-practiced, BBC-worthy smile. “I do try not to make accidental larceny a habit, but I’d be remiss to leave out the fact that it’s helped connect me to a variety of interesting people. Case in point,” he tipped his glass in Eliza’s direction before downing the remainder of the drink in one. 

“Housewife, you said? I’d be delighted to hear more. Would that suggest a partner or a pet, then?” He missed a beat, realizing a moment too late what would have been another’s most immediate inclination of inquiry. “A child?”

Having been able to secure a reliable sitter for the night was a win win for Aoife. She didn’t really have as much interest in the party as she did the freedom and drinks but hey. The art was like a secondary treat even if she was pretty sure Malachi was somewhere keeping tabs on her.  When everyone was abuzz about the news it was Aoife who didn’t even take out her phone. Like she wanted to get more into anything the family name had itself smothered in.  She had downed her drink and moved onto the next when another hand took it instead. Clear confusion rendered on her expression until he spoke up in apology. “Whatever. I wasn’t drinking because of the news,” Aoife defended. “You can go right ahead. As long as I get another drink I’m no complainer. Did that whole news bit ruffle you any?”

—

His head canted in immediate response to her words, confusion written into the lines of his face as he studied the woman’s own countenance. Someone unbothered by the news had to be someone entirely unaware of it — which, by her own admission, she wasn’t — or someone intimately involved with it, in one aspect or another. It was a truth he’d learned long ago, interviewing war criminals and soldiers alike, their unaffected attitudes stemming either from a reluctance to reveal wrongdoing or from being both too scarred and too scared to speak. Naturally, Graham wondered which camp the woman fell into, and thanked his lucky stars that his silly game of mistaken alcohol meant she’d soon have a fresh drink to loosen her tongue. “Negroni Fizz, please,” he addressed the bartender before returning to his newfound companion. “Yes and no. I’m more intrigued by the aftermath and what’s to come. How about you? You seem quite unconcerned, and that’s remarkable, considering the state of the room.” He gestured to the space around them, to the countless attendees still transfixed by their phone screens, before sidling closer to jokingly half-whisper, “Am I in the company of the Times’ very own source?”

She hadn’t given too much focus to the announcement. Undoubtedly, it was important, but Luis was a good man - even if she only knew him through his husband and their love of the theatre, she respected him, and that was enough to make her ignore the whispers around her. She shot Ramona a text, though her daughter was out somewhere with friends from University and she knew that worrying too much wouldn’t do either of them any good. Her daughter had a good head on her shoulders, and Marielle knew that she could trust her.

Perhaps the fact that her mind was in multiple different places kept her from noticing the familiar figure next to her. One who she had had memorized for countless years. One that she couldn’t avoid now, even if she tried to. It was on the television screen, and in the supermarket on newsstands, too. Still, when he spoke she startled, briefly. Because of course he’d be here, and Marielle couldn’t help but glance around him to see if there was a pretty model or someone else attached to his arm.

“Graham.” Her voice is even - perhaps too much so. His laugh makes her lips twitch up in a near-smile, for a moment. She can still remember the two of them sitting outside as teenagers, avoiding all other responsibilities to just be together, to relish in moments where they weren’t obligated to do anything else. “I hardly think I am speeding up the process of the end of the world.” She offered him a flash of a smile, though he’d know better than anyone that it was born more out of politeness than genuine joy. “But I’ll bite,” because what did she have to lose? “what will you order for me?”

—

Like the haunting sound of a finger strumming across a crystal glass, he heard his name — or, perhaps more than this, heard her voice speak his name. It was evenly delivered, not colored by what would’ve been a well-deserved rebuke for his actions some twenty years ago. In truth, he’d have took the rebuke if it didn’t leave him with the other feeling now creeping up in the pit of his stomach. The familiar voice didn’t beget loneliness and longing— it simply made him realize that which was always there, no matter how hard he worked to rid himself of it.

He was committed to returning her words in equal evenness, and so he sipped at the drink that wasn’t his and offered a near-smile. “What’s that line from The Big Knife?” It almost seemed cruel, making reference to something they shared so many moons ago, when young Graham discovered his love for Old Hollywood films and dreamt up life as an actor — with Marielle, of course, at the center of those dreams, but now set to the side and left in the past once the reality of ambition set in. “A woman with six martinis can ruin a city.”

She smiled at him, and it caused a flicker of something akin to hope to spark up in his chest, though he knew better by now to hang wishes onto dreams of the past. But, damn, if he didn’t feel like the luckiest man in the room to receive a flash of her smile, if only for a moment. “The problem is that I know you well enough to know what you’d actually like, eh?” In truth, the first syllable of his nickname for her escaped him, but Graham cut it off quickly and fashioned it into something else more suitable for him — not unlike what he had done with their lives. The similarity was not lost on him, and so, he took another sip. “Hmm, how about an espresso martini? The night’s still young.” For near-40-year-olds, it really wasn’t. “We could just...forget our obligations here and go out dancing.”

Eliza had swiftly made the decision to put her phone away. After speaking to a few of her most trusted she agreed that it’d be best for her to remain there and keep up appearances as just Mrs Crawford. That was easier said that done though and she was staying close to the bar.

She’d just been about to reach for her glass when someone else did and she had to be quick to hide her frustration with a gentle smile. “Oh, oh no it’s fine. I don’t drink with strangers and that’s likely a sign to stop.”

—

Stranger. Something about the word only served to add unintentional insult to half-imagined injury, as though designating him as someone who’d not yet accomplished enough to be recognized by the masses. Still, Graham had enough sense not to condemn the woman for the accidental slight, though its sting still prompted him to down the remainder of her drink, hating every last drop of the watery liquor. 

“I find that strangers make the best company when alcohol’s involved,” he replied easily. “But, if you insist...” With a well-practiced charming smile and a hand extended, he introduced himself. “Graham Goldstein, of the BBC. And, now only one of us is a stranger to the other — though that’s easy enough to be remedied, if you’d indulge me.”