I haven't taken anything seriously since 1918.

Fleur chuckled at the unexpected question and even more unexpected admission of uncertainty from the woman who looked so perfectly at home in this environment. “Indeed, madame, I’m sure you’ve asked the advice of the very least qualified person here!” she confessed cheerfully. She leaned down a little conspiratorially and continued slightly sotto voice, “A delightfully generous friend brought me and then got into a heated argument with their friends about things that quite flew over my uneducated head so I’ve been wandering around amusing myself… For what it’s worth, I like it very much – they look like fay beings cavorting in some lush park. But I believe–” she turned her attention to the little placard on the wall, “Yes! My friend says Mme. Laurencin is very good.” She frowned thoughtfully, “What did she say? Something something about a quintessentially feminine cubism, you know? And she actually does know something about art.” She shot another appraising glance sidelong and asked, “So, are you an art collector? I hope I won’t offend you if I say you don’t have quite the air of a grand lady but you surely must be to be casually shopping for new decor here!”

“To be completely honest, dear,” Vivienne said, her attention now split between the person beside her and the object of their discussion, “I’m beginning to think an untrained eye might be just what I need.” The last time she’d been in here, her perfectly nice, everyday stroll through the portraits had been interrupted by a loud debate between two young men over the finer points of the “sheer, heartrending power” of what she was quite positive was simply a rather abused-looking shovel. Apparently, what the piece actually was was a meditation on the nature of injury and the futility of humanity.

Or, at least, something like that. She had much to learn, clearly.

“That does tend to happen, doesn’t it? All the better, though, in some ways.” Her voice fell into a barely-audible whisper. “No one to judge you if you stare at the same little work for an undignified amount of time. Or skip by a masterpiece just a bit too fast.”

She turned her head back to the cavorting green and pink creatures, tilting one way, then the next, trying to weigh up her thoughts. “Yes, that’s it, exactly. Such nice movement and energy . . .” Even if they did look a tiny bit off-kilter, it was in a charming sort of way. “Oh, yes, Mme. Laurencin, of course.” She had certainly heard the name, though for reasons other than her artistic output. “I think I might have come across her - draped around some very well-dressed gentleman . . .or, wait. No. A lady, I think it was. Regardless, she certainly didn’t look like a dry, buttoned up sort of person. Just the kind of energy my sitting room needs, come to think of it.”

“Me?” At this suggestion, she let out a slight giggle. “Only a budding one, I’m afraid,” she said, a slight smile crossing her face. “All of this new, abstract business is . . .enticing, but some of it is a bit terrifying isn’t it? All these noses where they’re not supposed to be.”

She paused, caught herself, and cringed a little. “That sounds awfully old and . ..grand, doesn’t it? I got up today, sick of still lifes on my walls and needing a change, and now look. What about you? Anything vying for a place on your personal walls?”

When: Afternoon, August 1926

With: Anyone!

Vivienne had always felt quite at home in museums and art galleries. It wasn’t that she was particularly knowledgeable about art, not at all. She’d spent hours upon hours in these places as a young actress, pretending to admire the paintings when, really, she was watching the people.

The rather daunting world of art collection had really only become available to her once she had come into possession of enough spare coins to seriously think about spending one minute admiring some of the especially beautiful pieces she saw on gallery walls, and the next minute taking them home with her.

Now that she did have the cash, it was all too easy to part with it, in pursuit of just the right item. The lure of beautiful things was intense, intoxicating – intoxicating to the point of foolishness, quite often.

She could feel that push towards foolishness come on now, actually. The pressure to buy just about emanated off of the painting itself – wafted off it, like the aroma of sugar off of a pastry. Oh, how lovely it was! How nice it would look above her dining table.

But. . .no, there was something odd there.

“Excuse me,” she said, leaning over slightly to catch the attention of whoever was directly to her left. “This is going to sound ridiculous, but . . .will I look like an utter fool if I buy this? Or, is it the best thing you’ve ever seen in your life. I have no idea, you see, so any and all input would be entirely welcome.”

Long Time No See

It was a point of pride for Odette that she put so much work into incorporating more traditional ballet and the lessons within it into the dancing at Le Ciel. Some of the things she’d learned within it translated just as well into dancing with less clothes on or even into the air - they acted usually as inspiration, at least. And the basics taught there, the level of posture, balance, and grace, made for a good foundation for the rest. 

The difference it all made, though, was truly what set Le Ciel apart - that much Odette was certain of, much as it likely made her seem incredibly self centered. Narcissism or appropriately proud, she wasn’t quite sure, but one thing was certain - Le Ciel was still open, still flourishing. That’s all that really mattered, in the end. She and the others found excellent clients when they wanted them, had a steady stream of interesting individuals coming to visit after shows. 

That, admittedly, was Odette’s favorite part - she loved meeting new people or seeing friends, finding out more about them or their lives. She enjoyed how many more people she had the chance to meet that she never would have, all the types of people that her mother and father would’ve never allowed her to converse with before. There were so many more kinds of people, so many more stories and perspectives that she never would’ve had the freedom to learn about if she’d stayed with her family. As time went on, she only got more and more convinced that she’d done the right thing, cutting ties as she had. She had one tie left and that’s all she wanted, knowing that she wouldn’t give up Jack for anything. 

Lately, though, it did feel like they were coming up with all sorts of faces from their past - it was odd. Welcome, in almost all cases - though admittedly more complex, with others - but odd. Felt like the past was really coming back around, for some reason. At this rate, her parents were bound to pop out from some corner unexpectedly and really make things interesting. And if her parents found their way into her club, Odette was going somewhere exotic and elsewhere for a month and dragging Jack with her. No way she was dealing with that, proud as she was. There were limits. 

She couldn’t shake the feeling of the older woman approaching being familiar as well - someone that put her in mind of home, though she couldn’t remember who or why. It was driven home all the more, hearing her talk, and Odette smiled gently, struggling to place her as she responded, “I am, though I am afraid to admit you have me at a disadvantage.” She was usually much better at faces and names, it was part of why she was so good at her job and well liked. 

As soon as she gave her name though, it finally clicked - Odette’s smile grew and became more sincere, memories coming back to her. It wasn’t often, of course, but she remembered her at some of the larger parties that her or Jack’s or Mae’s family would host, where all three of them were off causing mischief and getting carried away with it. They got caught less as they got older, of course, but if she remembered right Madame Moreau was one of the better ones to be caught by. A little more tolerant, more likely to indulge - or at least less likely to get visibly angry at their particular brands of chaos. Always a win, that. And, given that she’d sat through the entire performance and didn’t look white as a sheet, it likely meant that Odette wasn’t about to have to sit through a lecture on modesty or shame. Even more of a win there. 

“Nothing to be sorry for - I’m glad to see you, Madame Moreau, I apologize for not immediately recognizing you. Can I offer you a drink?” Odette caught the eye of one of the wait staff and signaled for a bottle of champagne to be brought to her, “I have a table usually set aside, if you’d like. I can promise champagne, at least, to make it more enticing.” 

The compliment brought Odette’s smile out in full force, pride evident in face of the compliment. “I appreciate that, thank you. The wardrobe tends to be the main focus for most, not the routines themselves. If I may - what brought you to Le Ciel?”

Vivienne waited, her slight hint of trepidation mounting. In the seconds it took for Odette to put everything together, a flurry of thoughts zipped through Vivienne’s mind. Perhaps she’d gotten the wrong woman. Or worse, perhaps she hadn’t and would simply spook her, the idea that Vivienne’s connection to the older, traditional generation might predispose her to telling tales or exposing Ms. Alarie’s rather unexpected profession being one that had, unfortunately, only occurred to Vivienne now.

But, as quickly as all of these doubts appeared, they were quickly waved away. “Oh, that’s nothing,” she said, of the apology. “It’s been years. And you know how it is, seeing someone in, erm, circumstances unlike where you’re used to seeing them.” She attempted to dispel any awkwardness that might come from touching on the topic outright with a warm, entirely genuine, smile. “I would love a drink, that’s very kind.”

“Well, they’re rather lovely as well,” she  said lightly. “It’s wonderful to see something just a bit different, though. One does get sick of the can-can after a while. Though,” she said with a chuckle. The mill had its charms, too, but they were much louder charms, it had to be said. “I suppose I’m not the intended audience for those, quite, am I?”

At Odette’s question, she paused slightly. The ghosts of a slightly tweed-encased, stiff-upper lipped shared past being what they were, she did have to catch herself slightly, with a reminder that there was no need to sugercoat anything. “Honestly? Lechery excepted, the atmosphere is rather brilliant, and the drinks are surprisingly good. At first it just seemed like a nice change from sitting at home with the gramophone, but now . . .” Her voice jumped up in pitch slightly, filled with excitement. “It’s sort of become a regular hobby. You meet all sorts of people you don’t expect to,” she said, inclining her head towards Odette with a grin, “So it’s been absolutely fabulous for my social circle, really.”

Including a criminal or two, most probably, but she tried not too think too hard about that.

“And you? It fits rather nicely, but . . .how on earth did you make the decision to swap silk, and whatever else, for sequins and rhinestones?”

Vivienne Moreau was one of Jack’s mother’s friends. Er, friend was the wrong word, but enemy suggested a level of enemy that was unbecoming of a society lady and rival sounded like they shared a playing field, which they didn’t. Still, Madame Moreau had watched Jack grow up. Watched her chase Maelie and Odette between dancing couples and confused waiters, caught him nicking food when he wasn’t supposed to, clocked him when he offered Maelie a cigarette when she (and honestly he) was far too young to have one. So many of his memories of her tied to Mae. It hurt to even think of her house at times. He’d just expected his friend to walk around the corner, blonde hair bouncing in a flapper bob. What, darling? she’d say. Cat got your tongue? 

God, Mae wouldn’t talk like that, no matter what glamorous woman she’d run off with. What kind of writer was he if he couldn’t keep his childhood companions’ characterizations straight in his own head. At least I stick, Jackie. Yes you certainly do, Fred. 

The addition of one more ghost to Jack’s retinue made his trip to Madame Moreau’s even more uncomfortable, as did her “Mr. Lambton,” which somehow infuriated him even though it was technically the correct for of address because he was the only person in his family without an actual title. Something about it felt very childish again. Mr. Lambton, Miss Alarie, what are you doing over there? Give you one guess.

He was effectively cornered even before he knew it. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Moreau had some trench raiding experience of her own, so elegantly did she spring her trap. “Madame Moreau.” He tried to turn his slight shock into a purr, only marginally succeeding. Why was it that when you met with people who knew you when you were young you felt so very small? Or perhaps it was just him, having been small and particularly badly behaved to begin with. Ah well, he thought, best to continue the trend and play dumb. “I’m always honored when I get to speak to the hostess at these lovely things, but I can’t imagine a reason you would seek out a little fish like me in such a sea of glittering glamour and talent.” He wasn’t a writer yet. Not beyond his own mind and conversations with Odette. The stories he sent to the boys were too silly to count, and everyone who had seen pages aside from her, Bill, and Jos was dead. 

“It’s been very enjoyable though. The buildings are a good deal shorter than when I was here last. But how have you been in, God, eight years?” He’d kept to the little theaters and gay clubs of Paris since Mae. Worlds like this had been too painful. Perhaps were too painful. 

Moreau knew about Nadja and had indicated so, which was an ambitious opening salvo, but not unexpected considering all of their past history, as Byzantine as it was. Nadja had said she was important to her, and Jack certainly respected that. But the actress was sorely mistaken if she thought he wanted to impress her. He was here for Nadja, but he was not with Nadja. It was convenient to come together because it was convenient to go home together. The genuine pleasure he took took from being around the sweet and stunning ballerina was considerable, but he was, quite frankly, done with society nonsense. 

Moreover, he may have been incredibly frustrated with his mother, but he wasn’t quick to trust someone she so profoundly disliked. She was a quite good judge of character with the exception of his Vi and his father.

Vivienne nodded slowly as she took in Jack’s response. A good number of years of dealing with all manner of disorganized artistic folks - some young enough that careful questioning was to be expected, some old enough that it crept into the embarrassing – had given her what she thought was a reasonably light touch when it came to catching people out.

Which this wasn’t. Or, at least, not yet. Just a bit of . . .what? Quasi-maternal interest, maybe?

The sight of the younger Lambton brother, in her front room again, but now  towering over her tables and assorted things, compared to the past, sent flashes of past interactions through her. Leaving aside her less than smooth relationship with his parents, her position as the constantly present, childless friend of the older generation had indeed created hierarchy of sorts between them, bu there was something just slightly performative about it, too. After so many minutes and hours on end in the company of such stiff, unfailingly proper people, anyone misbehaving gave her a little jolt of delight, provided she performed the finger wagging expected of her.

Not that he was to know that, of course. Anyone over 5 feet tall is terrifying when you’re young and ready to tear the dreary old civilized world apart. And now, just the slightest touch of those old adolescent nerves might play to her advantage.

“Oh,” she said with a deep chuckle, “No need to be so self-deprecating. I try to at least brush shoulders with everyone. And besides, with this much ‘glittering glamour and talent’ as you say, it only feels fair to make all the newcomers comfortable - hope they’ll keep coming and cease to be newcomers at some point.”

She clapped her hands together in delight. “I’m so glad! Oh, I’ve been fine, absolutely fine! You know, treading boards, trying not to read reviews,  –” Aquiring names, dropping them.”–that kind of thing. Mostly it’s good, with the odd terrifyingly annoying matron on the cards. Either I’m too good at them, or I’m getting too old, I’d rather not think about which one it is,” she said with a chuckle.

She paused for a second, surveying the shifting crowd. “And how have you been? Well, I hope.” Another pause. Was it too soon to ask this?

No. A perfectly innocuous question, surely.

“If it isn’t too nosy of me . . .Jack,” she said, moving slightly closer and hoping the first name might engender just the right dab of intimacy, “What do you do? For a living, I mean.”

Where: Le Ciel

With: @odettealarie

Another late evening, not quite contented with the simple pleasure of curling up with a book, and Vivienne found herself perched at a Paris nightclub table, champagne in hand.

Of the many nightclubs lining the streets of Paris, Vivienne at times felt the most dazzled discombobulated by the sheer fantastical intensity of Le Ciel. Where she had, after a period of adjustment, learned to tune out much of the loud, colorful sleaze of the Moulin Rouge, Le Ciel was a place that still held her attention quite firmly. She wasn’t sure if it was the irony of so many confident, entirely non-pious angels floating about, or perhaps just the sheer performativity of all of those feathers.

Whatever it was, she often found herself absorbed in things that most clients shrugged off, too distracted by the pursuit - or, more likely, the misguided hope - of pleasure.

Tonight, though, something was just a titch different. As the music flowed and the feathers twirled and twisted, manipulated by the hands of experts, she was really quite mesmerized. If she was just a tiny bit braver, she might suggest to her theatre company that they ought to incorporate something like this - with thicker layers of clothing involved, of course.

Before she could get too deep into such a thought, however, a slightly confusing sight flashed before her eyes. Near the center of the line of dancers was a woman who - But surely not. It had been years anyway, Vivienne thought. Her eyes were just playing tricks. There was no way Odette Alarie, of all people, was in front of her right now . . .Right?

Still. Wouldn’t that be something? A real, proper surprise.

Moments after the show was over, Vivienne stood up and made her way towards the dispersing dancers.

“Excuse me,” she said, attempting to adopt as light a tone as she could. “You wouldn’t happen to be Mademoiselle Odette Alarie, would you?”

As she said it, Vivienne braced for a number of reactions. It was a bit odd, breaking the well-constructed barrier between audience and performer like that, after all.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to alarm you. You probably don’t remember me, but I think we have a mutual family friend or two in common? Mssr. and Mme. Brindamour? And Maelie, of course.” She watched for a second, waiting for recognition, if any.

She shifted her feet just slightly. “Anyway. I just meant to say what a fantastic routine that was, regardless.” 

Nadja couldn’t help but laugh and shake her head at Vivienne’s teasing. She hadn’t allowed herself to fall in love in years, and even if she had, she tried to maintain a rule of keeping romance out of the opera house. She had seen too many partners who danced as one for so long grow out of step with one another. It usually ended in such unimaginable drama that would make some dancers take sides while some ran for the hills. Romance, she was beginning to think, was not something the universe had in store for her. Hopefully, something would prove her wrong, but she had yet to be shown proof otherwise.

“No, no, no budding romance there. Dimitri is very sweet, but he’s also very much in love with someone else. We’re just very good actors and very good friends.” The two of them had known each other for years- he’d played opposite her in Giselle and had almost instantly become one of her dearest friends in the world. There was a level of trust that neither one would let the other fall. They were safe together when they performed. They played off each other so well that it made the story seem so much more real. 

The ballerina started shuffling backward, away from her friend and towards the dressing rooms. “I’ll be back in just a moment or two- I promise I’ll be quick! ” 

                                                 ✺     ✺     ✺        

Once the pristine white tutu and leotard had been hung up and pointe shoes were removed, Nadja looked a lot like any other young woman, blending in on the street. Her hair was pinned back into a faked bob and her dress was much more fashionable for the time than the costume she’d danced around in for hours. She scuttled back through the theatre, outside to find Vivienne. 

“Hello again, Madame!” Nadja chirped, still a little drunk off the performance. She slipped her arm through the older woman’s and grinned mischievously. “Oh, I could go absolutely anywhere in the world right now. Where in this city is still alive at this hour?”

Vivienne gave a chuckle and a wave of the hand. “Eh, well, sometimes that’s better anyway, really.” Not quite the same thing, not at all, but it could be a real treat to go through all the highs or lows of a tempestuous union in a single evening, knowing full well that you can go home, with no need for handwringing over apologies, or spending hours dissecting one sentence delivered in a slightly unusual tone. “All the fun and challenge, without any of the lasting effects.” She paused for a second, then broke into laughter. “God, that sounds sad, doesn’t it? Maybe you’re not the only one who needs to get out more.”

“Of course, of course - I’ll just be plotting and scheming over where to take you out - no rush!”

                                                                   ✺     ✺     ✺       

By the time Nadja had made her way outside, coiffed and outfitted for civilian life Vivienne was practically bursting with anticipation for the night ahead. “There you are!” she cried excitedly. “Well,” she said, hushing slightly. “I think I really will have to take you at your word about ‘anywhere.’” She tried to suppress a giggle at this. “Hmm. . .let’s see. . .” She sifted through their options for a second.

Le Gnome? No, not quite adrenaline-boosting enough.

The Moulin? Perhaps slightly too overtly scandalous for her companion. Wouldn’t want to spook her, after all.

“Aha! Got it!” She dashed forward to the curb, hailed a cab, and turned back to Nadja. “This should be fun. Trust me.”

                                                                  ✺     ✺     ✺        

Minutes later, Vivienne couldn’t help but grin as the two women walked through the door of Les Délices Terrestres in all its floral glory.

“Alright, mademoiselle,” she said, smiling but ever so slightly nervous of the other woman’s reaction to the establishment. “Will this do? If so, pick your poison. On me, of course. You deserve it after the evening you’ve had, in the opinion of this humble audience member.“

Was that - what breed of familiarity, was this? Really? Cam blinked, trying to place her face. If he could. Who on earth?

There. Yes, yes, one of mother’s… associates, of sorts. An actress, wasn’t she? “Madame Lyon?” God, it must’ve been before the war, certainly, when they’d seen each other last; her, sweeping about on the arm of a handsome husband, both all alight with that particularly theatrical sort of charm, him, in the very same uniform. Just short of the medals, different pips. “I’m so very sorry - it’s been such an evening, I do apologize.” He’d shifted his cigarette - as only proper, the French shook in their own peculiar way, and so often - from his left hand to the right, and pushed up, around, to take hers. Lightly, briskly, as these people seemed to like. Trying not to lean too terribly much into those fingers he’d kept anchored along the chairback. “Marvelous. Glad to hear it.” All rote, this. The talk of a host, or - the man of the hour. Right. That had pinged off his edges, sharper than they used to be. So did the look-over; soft as her scrutiny might be, it nudged him straighter all the same. 

Done well. Oh, yes. Great. Of course. 

He was smiling, somewhere below his eyes. Graciously, with a shake of his head, a laugh rather a lot like that handshake. How was he? How was he. As if she hadn’t spent the whole night hearing about that. As if his face didn’t tell at least some of the story, no matter how he held it. “Me? I’ve been, oh, splendid.” Hadn’t he just. “It’s an honour, truly. To be here, with the embassy. And everyone’s been so thoroughly kind.” Kind. That was a word for it. A socially acceptable word. Intense. That was another. Still entirely diplomatic. Rather appropriate, to the setting. “The Marquess really took it to the nines, didn’t he?” The tens, perhaps. Altogether too much. “I do think he was rather tickled to have the excuse. That’s the thing, with ambassadors, I suppose. Has to be something going wrong for them to have any real work. And, therefore, any real reason to celebrate…” Or show off, as the case might be. 

That had dallied dangerously close to ingratitude, hadn’t it? Cam pushed his smile a little higher, and blamed the champagne. “But you’re well? And your husband? Still dazzling the social set, I’m sure, the pair of you. Talk of the town.” They’d always seemed that way - and so spectacularly in love. Hard to tell anything true about a pair of actors, though, wasn’t it? 

It had been such a while since she had heard the name that when he said it, she wondered for a fraction of a second of they had company all of a sudden. “Oh!” she said softly, once she had figured it out, smiling politely as he attempted to execute the handshake.

Logically, she knew there was wrong with hearing the name again, but nevertheless it was strange. ‘Mrs. Lyon’ felt worn out to her now, old and vaguely musty after so many years tucked away, long ago having done its job of protecting her reputation . . .and more importantly, that of her then-husband. But to him, it still suited her perfectly as if she was frozen back then, still vaguely stranded between 1902 and the cusp of the decade that followed. “No need to apologize. These things are exhausting. All the being fawned over - Lovely, for some, but –” she shrugged. She had adored it, at the beginning. “It does have the cumulative effect of making you feel like the newest, most exotic zoo exhibit, or something.”

Too forward? Perhaps. With some time away, she always did forget how intensely vulgar having an opinion seemed to be, to the society set. “Not to disparage your honorable host, of course. You really must be a jewel in the whole diplomatic crown. I was pretty sure I saw an entire trio of champagne fountains, all lit up in different colours. Surely that’s not trotted out for everyone.”

She had seen the fountain, absolutely. And consumed at least one of each of its offerings, in fact.

“I always wondered what it might be like, diplomacy,” she said absently. “You must be every bit as charming now as you were at 13, then. Actually saving the world, as was promised left and right.”

There it was. She actually found it quite sweet. Evidently she and Pierre had made quite an impression. It was exactly what they had been wed for, really, but it was still nice to get a good review. “Oh, I’m afraid not. He’s still dazzling, I’m sure, but dazzling Hollywood rather than Europe. Doing well though. A silent film star now, and very good too.” She did miss him. However much their relationship may have been . . .more unconventional than it looked behind closed doors, they did know how to have a good time. Her favourite, of all the spouses, perhaps. It varied at little.

“I apologize - I should’ve said earlier. Four unions finished, and I’ve circled all the way back to a maiden name. Vivienne Moreau. But you know what? Vivienne is just fine.” It could well change again the nest time they saw each other, after all. Best to play it safe.

“And you? I’d be shocked if your mother hasn’t managed to find some adorable little .  . .duchess for you.”

“Alphabet of romance and pain” meme - accepting

Q   :   QUESTION.   would your muse ask the big question or expect their partner to?

To date, Vivienne hasn’t yet been the one actually going down on one knee, but she’s not necessarily opposed to the idea of doing so. Contrary to all appearances, though, she likely wouldn’t choose a big, public event. Something small and surprising, perhaps - a ring hidden in a dessert maybe, or a secret code to solve that ends with the question itself.

Old Friends

@madamemoreau​

It was not the first time Octavia had attended the theatre alone, but she much preferred a companion. Other women, especially those of a particular age, also attended matinees by themselves—widows, dowagers, and the like. She reckoned she ought to resign herself to the fact that she, too, was now of a particular, more advanced age, and would one day (heaven forbid!) count herself among their ranks.

Being a woman of her position and title necessitated her being social. As a Countess, the wife of a politician, the mother of a renegade and a bureaucrat, and a benefactor to the arts, communication and contacts were key. Parties were simply par for the course. And so as the play ended, she did her due diligence, following other invited guests to a nearby restaurant for an after party.

That particular show, however, had been…oh, dear. What was there to celebrate?

Octavia made her rounds, congratulating the cast, many of whom she had seen in other roles across the years. But as she made her way through the billed performers, her eyes fell on its star.

Vivienne Moreau. How unfortunate. Was it that she simply had terrible taste in plays, or that she was simply…terrible? No, that was an unfair assessment. Her reputation continued to proceed her, and as such Octavia was always willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. She had seen her give several wonderful (though she would never dare admit it to her directly!) performances in the past, so this awful turn had merely been, no doubt, the result of poor taste.

“Vivienne! My dear. How lovely it is to see you. And with such color!”

The stage lighting washes out your entire complexion. You would do well to fire those responsible at once.

To Vivienne’s mind, there was nothing quite like the rush of accomplishment that followed a truly inventive, wildly successful first night. Just the energy rush of it! The adoration of the audience could be almost palpable, all the way until they became obscured by the falling curtain, lapping still thundering from their palms.

This, however, was not one of those first nights. Try as she might, there was little Vivienne – or any other member of the company – could do to breathe more than the briefest glimmer of life into the material. Really, she thought the ticketholders would be forgiven for thinking they were hallucinating when a glimpse of anything that could be called intriguing crossed the stage.

But, at least for the rest of the night, she was determined not to let on just how deflated she felt. Even terrible shows carried the benefit of an opening night party, after all.

Almost instantly when Vivienne turned, drink in hand, from the bar and into the fray, she spotted the familliar face of Octavia Kerr Lambton, Countess of . . .she could never quite remember where.

She would have to say hello, of course. While Octavia’s taste - or something near it, may be in part responsible for Vivienne’s feelings of creative disappointment, the purses of people like the Countess were what kept her beloved theatre afloat.

“Countess!” she called, all warmth and enthusiasm even as she grimaced inwardly at the other woman’s approach. “What a pleasure to have your eyes on us all tonight.”

Vivienne tried not to flinch at the lighting jab. Personally, she had thought that every line, every wrinkle had been visible, even on the under-thirties. But to agree with Octavia, to let on that she was right, would not only be to admit defeat – Vivienne would be throwing away the best opportunity for fun she was likely to have this evening.

“Oh my, wasn’t it just absolutely wonderful?! A new lighting director for this season, from Canada. He does all sorts of newfangled things - so, so innovative. Most of it, I’ve never seen before, in all my years in the theatre.”

With good reason, she thought, but did not say.

“He’s really rather sweet. If you like, I’m sure I could get you his card. Might brighten up your next production a little.”

A slight pause here.

“But only if you’d be interested, of course. The cutting edge isn’t for everyone, now is it? Nor should it be.”

Tom laughed. “Good to hear my plan is in motion.”

It was a nice change of pace, being out on the town, seated with someone else. His colleagues weren’t his biggest fans, so outside of Cora, he more or less went it alone. Though that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, in a club like this…depending on how he planned to spend the time.

“Not fans, I take it? Anything too objectionable?”

He wish he knew more about theater, could better peg her latest show. Maybe there was some well-known, crowd-drawing jaw-dropper. Nudity? Drug use? Eating on the go? Talking too loudly? It was hard to know what, exactly, would throw the Parisian elite into a frenzy or stone-faced disapproval…well, outside of an American cop.

Huh. It was a fair question. The French weren’t necessarily more…exotic than the people he’d known back home. The recreational choices were just a little more varied and in-your-face. But hey, the United States hadn’t spent a chunk of the last decade living through a war. Let the people party.

“It’s definitely been interesting. And I don’t know…I appreciate a little depravity every now and then.”

Normally, Vivienne didn’t at all like to think of herself as the sort of person who stuffed other people neatly into boxes, only to be confused when they exhibited a will of their own. As far as she was concerned, a little unpredictability could seldom go wrong, especially among respectable sorts of people.

But she had to admit, Thomas Brannon was something of a novelty. Even discounting his foreignness, simply the presence of a polite, well-spoken man – a member of the police force – in an establishment such as this was enough to make her pay serious attention. And as far as she’d heard, in the odd whisper between the dancers or mention in the news, he was on the straight and narrow, too, this particular hobby excepted.

All the better, she thought. She’d met enough slimy clients in her time. Why shouldn’t somebody normal have a bit of fun, too?

It made things easier for her, too - to have another outlier for company.

“Absolutely nothing, sadly. Pure stuffy, moralistic Victoriana.” She waved a hand in a circle, in a general gesture to their surroundings. “Which is precisely why I’ve ended up here,” she said with a chuckle. “A welcome bit of poison, to cancel out the helplessly upright quality of all that preceded it. There was a good dose of adultery, though. Plus, an intimation of an affair with a man of the cloth, and –” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “Just the smallest hint in favour of free love, if you can believe it! Sadly, the director was in favour of a traditional approach, shall we say. One step away from the full, frozen David Garrick approach, really.”

“Well, darling,” she said with a grin and a wave of her champagne glass, “I would expect nothing less from a representative of the law who I’ve run into here more times than I have on the streets. No judgement meant, of course. That says just as much about me as it does you. Personally, I think it’s all well and good. Everyone ought to live, after all! See the world a little!” She’d met some of his counterparts over the years in places like this, and been chilled rather than intrigued. No one likes a zealot, after all. Especially not someone as at home in grey areas as she was.

“Do you know,” she said, leaning in closer now, “I’m beginning to take to you. An kindred spirit, I think.” She wondered what the true denizens of the underworld thought, seeing them together - the sore thumbs. “So much so, in fact, that I’m determined to buy you a drink, alright? Anything you’d like - provided it’s stronger than water, of course!”

“Large? Reasonably straight? I’m not very good at this, I’m afraid. Have an example.”

Also asked by @capitaineconor

“I’m generally not particularly likely to get worked up about, say, whether or not someone uses a salad fork at just the right moment, if that’s what you mean. Life’s far, far, too short, don’t you think?”

“I will say, though, lateness is truly infuriating. Probably from years and years of rehearsals, I would imagine. No one wants to keep 20 or more performers waiting. The glaring is enough to haunt a person for years.”