#c:zoya

It had seemed like half of London had come to The Frost Fair tonight. Clad in what was now their best clothing (how their life had changed so rapidly. Only a few short weeks ago, they could count the items in their wardrobe on one hand. Now, thanks to the cast-offs Zoya had graciously allowed them to take, they had begun crafting a collection of outfits to be proud of - if they were going to make a success of being a dressmaker, they would have to look the part after all. But their favourite clothes were the once they wore tonight, gifted to them a week prior by Zoya for Christmas. A warm coat, clean, new, well-fitting boots, and a dress in the loveliest shade of pink Polly had ever seen.

They knew they looked better than they ever had, out of their pauper’s clothes, and though their body was still recovering, their mental state still fragile, they felt a deep sort of contentment. After a night of festivities, there was a sort of joy in their heart that Polly didn’t expect. But where the joy collided with their delicate state of mind, something strange happened. The two emotions were not meshable, and instead of overpowering the negative, the happiness weighed on Polly strangely. It made them contemplative, reflective of everything that they had been through up to this point. It also made them feel oddly chatty. 

“Are you tired?” They asked Zoya, curled up in a chair by her fire. They had taken their coat off, but draped it over themselves like a blanket, cocooning themselves in it. “I’m not tired yet. Will you stay up with me?” 

There is something about Zoya Fox that dazzles Polly, even from a distance, from a hidden spot across the street from the Theatre Royal’s stage door. It shines even brighter here, in a corner of the East End where they never would have expected to see her. To say they admire her is an understatement - Zoya is a symbol that somewhere in the world, things are better than they are here, that there is another life to dream of, even if it is out of their reach.

“I brought you this,” they’re almost shy as the approach, offering the shawl with a sheepish smile. It is clean, at the least, but that’s about all that can be said for it. “Looks like we’re here for a while, and it might get cold later on.” 

“The face that launched a thousand ships,” Bill sneered. “Fleeing in terror, were they?”

It had been two sleeps since the seance - since the murder - and Polly had yet to leave Rahat’s home. It seemed a little safer here, tucked away from everything that was going on outside. But Rahat could not spend every waking moment at their side - they were already doing far too much, and Polly felt terrible about it. It didn’t help that they had barely slept since the events of Saturday night, and it showed. Their pallor was ashen, their face gaunt and their dark-circled eyes sunken, but every time they lay their head down, all they saw was that horrible sight they had stumbled across in Mitre Square. 

Polly covered their mouth to stifle a yawn. They didn’t know Zoya and Rahat knew each other, but it was, as ever, a pleasure to see her. Zoya was always so glamorous, even here, and Polly always was awestruck and enthralled by her. Even here. Even now. 

“I’ll put the tea on,” they busied themself with lighting the stove, moving the iron kettle to the hob. Rahat wouldn’t mind. Once they had made two cups, they carried them over to where Zoya sat, and slipped into the seat beside her. 

“Where you all right? After what happened the other night?”

Bill made himself comfortable, lounging in Zoya’s chair beside her dressing table. The woman in question was on stage at the moment, acting out some dreary play written by some boring man or another. Bill couldn’t say he particularly cared what was happening on stage. Real life had become dramatic enough, and not in the way that he liked. 

And so, he waited, legs crossed at the ankle and resting his heels on the surface of the table. He had knocked over a bottle of perfume putting them up there, and not bothered to pick it up, not bothered to stop the contents spilling, seeping into the carpet. 

“About time,” he grumbled when Zoya finally entered, putting his cigar out in the ashtray. He hadn’t come here for any particular reason - just to remind her that he could. “Who’ve you been speaking to, then? There’s no way you got a standing ovation tonight. The play’s not that good.” 

"How do I tell Mom to butt out of my modeling life. She just booked me another gig. It's like she thinks that I can't get my own, which I can, but I have curated the best schedule for me in order to keep on track with event planning."

"Hey, so I was thinking, I found this really cute place that I've been meaning to try to see if it would be nice as a wedding night stay for couples. I obviously don't have a partner, but I was thinking maybe you and Alex could try it out together, I could help you guys find a sitter for the twins. Maybe get a little redo of your wedding night?" she suggested. "It would be free of charge, and you'd just have to tell me how it was and if they treated you nicely."

Zoya groaned loudly at her phone. "Why do I even try," she said when she saw another dud on the dating app. "How do you ever meet someone organically anymore? Also why do men think it's hot to do a picture of them in front of a gym mirror, flexing."