She was lying when she told Harry how she had seen him from across the bar by himself.
Eleanor sees him first. She scuttles back from refreshing her makeup in the powder, along with fifty of the other women in the club, barely able to contain her excitement. Her chest rises and falls rapidly over the tight satin of her bodice as she squeezes back into their booth, the crinoline of her skirts mashing up against her own. She blows smoke, exquisite and acrid, into Eleanor's face and asks what has revved her engine. The other girls laugh. They love when she is crude, the only one of them who has such courage. Eleanor pouts. She refuses to say.
Susan has ruined it for you all.
Oh come now, Ellie, what's ruffled your feathers? Was there a tray of free pastries in the loo?
You know how I hate that name.
Would you tell them what you've seen before they bite through their tongues?
Finally, with enough prodding, she spills. There is an absolutely handsome man at the bar. And he is seemingly alone. Eleanor squeals as she checks her visage in a compact mirror, smacking her orange lips once or twice for maximum effect. She is planning on going over and introducing herself. Any woman would be fool not to. A few pats to the loose curls dusting her shoulders and she wriggles out of the booth.
Wish me luck!
You'll need it.
Susan!
Winnie pulls her aside once Eleanor has left and scolds her gently. It isn't nice to give the girl such a hard time. It isn't as if she is competition. She takes another deep drag of her cigarette, ignoring Winnie's look of disapproval, and picks up her drink by the rim, cradling it close to her chest as she unfurls from her seat. They ask where she is going and she doesn't bother to lie. They will all find out soon enough.
It isn't that she has any sort of problem with Eleanor, other than the fact that the girl annoys her often. Maybe it was that the girl was too sweet for her own good. Maybe it is that she is much too easy to take advantage of. As it is, when she sidles up to the blonde man, and Eleanor catches her eye from his opposite side, the girl visibly shrinks. Her glistening brown eyes widen, then narrow with the sting of small betrayals.
Excuse me. I couldn't help but see you from across the bar. Do you perchance work at the bank downtown?
Well, sort of. My father owns it.
My goodness. You must be a Hollace then.
Yes. Harold. Please, though, call me Harry.
Please, call me Susan.
Eleanor slinks off trying to keep her mouth closed. She smiles as she raises her cigarette to her lips. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the girl turn, watch the slim filter slide between the plump folds of her painted mouth, the delicate intake of breath and the sly, slow, seductive expulsion of the smoke upwards and outwards into the yellow chandeliers. She can see Eleanor's watering eyes flick towards Mr. Harold Hollace, a beau she had hoped would see what many could not, and his complete and total rapture with the creature before him.
Susan...?
Pevensie. I don't think you'll recognize it from anywhere.
No, I'm sorry.
It's quite alright.
It's easy to lose track of time when one is in pleasant company. She allows Harry Hollace to lead her to a private table, drinks in hand, with handsome silver lighter that he always has at the ready. They talk of nearly every subject, from the war to his bank and even the peachy girl who had tried to make his acquaintance right before she showed up. Harry did not think much of her. She was nice. She laughs at his observation and notices that every time she does, Harry's smile gets brighter, wider. His hand inches closer and closer across the table, until finally it captures her own. The smell of smoke and drink lingers between them. All thoughts of Eleanor are lost until someone appears by their table-side. Winnie and the girls have retrieved their coats and purses. The sourest of looks dons all of their faces, except for Winnie, who seems more tired than anything else.
Susan, I think its time to go.
Go then. Harry and I are still talking.
How will you get home? Have you enough for a cab?
I'm sure if I don't, kind Mr. Hollace will escort me back.
A gasp runs up from the girls, but Winnie simply shakes her head. From behind the blonde, she catches a glimpse of Eleanor trying to hold back a sob. She finds herself wondering numbly when she became capable of such treachery, but the alcohol drives away her guilt. Looking directly at Eleanor's round, flushed face, she waves and wishes them all a pleasant night. Winnie herds them out but shakes a finger in her direction first. She gives Harry a warning glance before she finally departs. Harry sees it, shakes his head, and takes a swig from his beer bottle. She isn't worried. Instead, she is thrilled. Harry has not removed his hand from hers. Distractions aside, she leans across the table, her skin glowing in the dim light, and asks Harry if he thinks she is a proper lady.
Of course.
Would it be too improper for me then to steal a kiss from such a dashing man?
The chaste peck on the lips turns, dubiously, into something more. Breathlessly, Harry asks if she would still allow him to escort her home. She nods, knowing she will not make it home. Harry heads to the bar to settle both of their tabs (quite the gentlemanly gesture) and she is left to finish her last cigarette. The smoke winds and furls around her head and in the small moment of clarity that extreme drunkenness sometimes offers, she sees soft, gentle Eleanor hiding behind the swing coats of their friends. She is sniffling pathetically but bravely trying to hide how deeply the barb has pierced. For a moment, she sees her face on Eleanor's body, sees the same shamed and hurtful expression as another slides in to claim the prize. She grimaces at the memory, the painted portrait her younger sister so eagerly and eloquently presents. Their brothers sit and twiddle their fingers. Lucy is unaware.
All set, Susan.
Thank you, Harry. Who ever said chivalry was dead obviously has never met you.
You speak too soon, my dear. I'm afraid I may be tempted to compromise your honor.
She stops and stares for a moment as the words fall from his mouth. She is unsure if she is hearing Harry speak or someone else entirely. In the hazy air, the handsome blonde man phases in and out, a tall and beautiful dark Prince taking his place. He extends a calloused hand. She takes it as if nothing is the matter. He leads her out of the club and down the foggy streets. The pavement is silver, the lamp posts torches in a dark, dark cavern. She is lightheaded and lighthearted as suddenly he spins her around about by the waist and crushes his mouth against hers. Like waves upon a shoreline, they meet, in the middle of the street, devoid of any and all traffic at this time of night. Or is it morning? They pull apart for breath and she looks up at the glimpses of stars in a lavender sky. He plants kisses along her jawline, down her throat, and back into her lips.
Susan.
She is nothing compared to me, right?
Pardon?
That horrid girl. Tell me I'm better than her.
She cannot hold a candle to you.
Tell me I'm beautiful.
You're so beautiful you put the Sun, the Moon, and the Sky to shame.
I don't want to go home.
Come with me.
He leads her away and she follows. She blinks a few times. Harry is gone. A taller, broader man has taken his place. When he turns to catch a glimpse of her, she sees the flash of his golden-brown eyes, the hint of perfect teeth beneath a radiant smile. He no longer smells of smoke, beer, and cologne. Instead, his scent of leather, oil, and sage wafts between the mist back to her nose. She knows that the drinks are lying to her. She doesn't care. It's finally her chance, her turn. It is only a few more minutes before he has swept her into his strong arms and ascends the stairs to his flat. She giggled drunkenly as he tries to unlock the door without setting her down. She teases him by darting her tongue out to catch the sensitive lobe of his ear. He gasps and sets her on her feet, the harsh jingle of his keys mingle with the tinkle of her laughter.
So cruel, my Queen.
How can I help myself?
I'm not sure.
There is no more use for words as the door swings open. She is swallowed into the darkness of his abode but he knows his way around well enough. His hands find the shoulders of her coat. It is discarded into a heap upon his floor. She closes her eyes as he works on the buttons of her gown. What color are the walls? She imagines them to be a deep, grey brick. The floor is cold when she kicks off her heels. In her minds' eye, she sees mahogany parquet. Stumbling through the hall, guided only by his strong hands, his eager mouth, the glancing touch of a hard torso, she gasps softly as she plops down on the soft mattress.
See, my lady? I am not so chivalrous.
It would be unchivalrous to deny me now, would it not?
Her Majesty has a point.
She frowns as he moves lower down her exposed body. Is she hearing him right? She hasn't fooled herself completely. His teeth graze her hip bone and she arches into the contact, all the while screaming at herself. The man feasting upon her flesh was not whom she so desperately wanted him to be. Mr. Harold Hollace, well-to-do banker's son, grasps her undergarments and tugs them downward. Mr. Harold Hollace pauses to remove some of his own clothing. And when he returns, he is Prince Caspian X of Telmar and Narnia. Tears threaten her eyes. Drink has cruelly repaid her for her early deviousness. Yet, she cares not. She sighs tenderly as he continues worshipping her, like the Queen she once was. She smiles triumphantly as he continues to whisper mantras in her name. What did Lucy know anyway? What pure and utter nonsense was she spewing when she told her that Caspian had fallen in love with a beautiful woman, the daughter of a star? Not even the daughter of a star could match her, Queen Susan the Gentle.
Will you allow me to love you, your Highness?
Yes. Love me until love dies and time stops.
She wakes in the morning with a horrible headache and a horrific ripping sensation in her chest. The graceful hand of Harold Hollace is draped over her bare chest, his golden head resting on her protesting arm. He is handsome, peaceful in his sleep, and blissfully unaware of her treachery, unaware that the woman he had made love to for hours spent those hours in heaven believing him to be someone else. She swallows her guilt and kisses the tip of his nose. Perhaps it is better this way. He does not wake but he pulls her closer and murmurs something she can't quite understand. She closes her eyes once more, trying to ignore the dull ache in her forehead. Somewhere, deep inside her ribs, the broken heart she has tried so hard to squelch, mends just a little. The night's hallucinations become mere dreams. She, eyes closed, leans over and kisses Harry until he stirs, until he wakes, until he rolls himself on top of her and begins a new dance. She kisses him until they've both had their fill and then she kisses him more. There are no more utterances of Queens and Princes and she suddenly realizes she likes that better. She moans and writhes beneath him and revels in her purely cruel acts of selfish satisfaction.
Susan smiles, for the first time in her life feeling the elation of unkind desires fulfilled.