First of all Thank you to everyone who has reviewed it. I didn't expect this response from you people. Okay little overwhelmed. But I promise I will continue this story and will even try to finish it.
Secondly Thank you so much hunnyfresh for being my Beta Reader. You are the Best.
I don't own the characters or the show.
Chapter 2:
"Not the face," Emma Swan says, curling into a ball, trying to cover her head. "Please, not the face."
The first kick had been to her stomach, making her fall, leaving her lying amongst the garbage in the alley. The second kick takes her in the side, beneath the ribs, and as air leaks from her, Emma waits for the third kick which doesn't come. She peers through her fingers at the shaven-headed giant in the baggy pants, tattoos coiling down his arms. Something is said in Spanish, and Emma looks across at dapper Raymond Gomez, dressed in a polo shirt, chinos and slip-on moccasins. The new face of NYC bookmakers. Raymond waves a hand at the giant who takes a step back, and then he tugs at her jacket and squats down, careful not to dirty himself.
"Emma," he says, in a voice light years from the barrio. "Raymond."
"The money. You have been delinquent."
Emma drops her hands and smiles, and if it weren't for the insalubrious surroundings of the downtown NYC alleyway, she could be in a smoking room in an Upper East Side club, with her fine bones and her patrician accent.
"A cash flow issue. I'll have it resolved by the end of the weekend." Emma is trying to get up, but the bookmaker places a hand on her shoulder.
"Stay down, Emma. So you won't have to fall again."
"You're not done?"
"No, I think my message needs to be underscored."
"Raymond, be a sport. We've known each other a very long while."
The bookmaker pats her shoulder. "Exactly, Emma, which is why I'll tell Edmundo to keep his size twelves out of your pretty face." He stands. "You have until Monday."
There's a rattle of Spanish and Emma covers up again as the giant steps in and delivers a series of kicks that leave her stunned, lying alone and miserable in this stinking alley, bemoaning fate and life.
No, not quite alone: she sees a rat peering at her from behind a trashcan. It seems to shake its head, as if recognizing a kindred spirit, before it darts away, its pink tail snaking after it. The day gets no better when Emma Swan arrives back at her walk-up, after a long and painful trek from downtown—no money for a subway, let alone a cab—and finds her few pitiful belongings dumped out in the corridor, the apartment padlocked. Emma sits down on the stairs and leans her throbbing head against the railing. She finds her hand under her t-shirt, toying with the ring she wears on a chain around her neck. Her mother's ring. The mother who died giving birth to her. Emma knew her only from photographs and the glimpses of her beauty in her own face, but her imagined love sustains Emma through years of arid relationships with aloof stepmothers.
The ring, a cluster of diamonds and sapphires, is worth a fortune and Emma, disgusted at herself for even allowing this thought into her mind, can't stop the awful realization that all that stands between her and the ER are these stones.
Her cell phone buzzes. Amazed it wasn't damaged in the fracas she draws it from her pocket and thinks that things may be looking up when he sees caller ID.
"Jeff," she says, not quite masking a groan.
"Emma, why do you sound as if you're in agony?"
"Just finished a grueling kick-boxing session, old man. What's up?" "How would you like a job?"
"Well, I'd have to check with my agent."
"Stop being silly, darling, this is me."
"Okay, what are you offering? A walk-on part in Startup?"
"No, my friend, the leading woman in Storybrooke."
"I haven't seen that show."
"It's not a show, it's a town. Where I live."
"I'm not with you, old son."
"I want to employ you to escort a very dear and very lovely friend of mine to a ball."
"I'm not a damned prostitute, Jeff."
"No, what you are is broke and desperate. It'll be for one night and it'll pay well."
"How well?"
Jeff names a figure that would make a serious dent in Emma's gambling debt.
"Okay, I'm warming to the idea."
"How lovely. Do you have something wear for a fund raising event?"
"It's at the cleaners."
"You're lying to me."
"Jeff, I was burglarized . . ."
"Spare me. Do you know Lightbodys on Fifth Avenue?"
"Yes."
"I have an account there. Go over and get yourself wardrobed. A formal dress and a casual outfit to travel in. Stylishly preppy, you know the score. Then I want you at Union Station by six to get the train to Storybrooke."
"Jeff, I'm a little financially embarrassed. I think train fare is beyond my means."
"Darling, darling, darling, what has happened to the power elite?
Okay, James at Lightbodys will make some cash available to you. Enough to get you to Storybrooke. I'll meet you at the station at eight."
"I'll be there."
"Don't let me down."
"I won't." As Emma levers herself to her feet and walks away from the small pile of belongings she no longer wants, she whistles the song from her alma mater to stop herself weeping at the pain in her bruised abdomen. She no longer feels the bruises to her ego.
Here in Storybrooke:
Madness.
This. Is. Madness.
Regina Mills, prowling the sprawling mausoleum of a house—always more to Leopold's taste than hers—feels so agitated that she cracks a bottle of wine for the first time in months and has slugged half a glass before she even realizes it.
Slow down, Regina.
Breathe.
She settles on a couch in the living room, staring blankly at The Bachelor on TV and realizes that she has taken leave of hers senses. That the sight of Leopold and his fertile little floozy left her unhinged enough to be hypnotized by Jefferson Hatter and his screenwriter fantasies. She has an image of Jeff as a snake charmer, dressed in pantaloons and a turban, blowing on a flute in some Kasbah or souk—is there a difference?
Leopold would know.
God, how she misses him.
They were the golden couple at high school and married while Leopold was still at college getting his business diploma. They'd battled through a few tough years, and then Leopold had started making serious money in property development, and the cash rolled in and with it came the big house and the cars and the trips to Europe.
Suddenly Regina had a walk-in dressing room jammed with Prada and Manolo Blahnik, but the room that she'd decorated as a nursery stayed as empty as Regina's womb.
Leopold said it was fine, that he loved her, and when in vitro didn't take, they spoke of adoption.
But Leopold started spending more time in the apartment down in NYC, needing to be close to his office.
Spent more time traveling, too, on business. Taking along his assistant, the froth-haired Jenna.
Regina has no other family to call.
Her mother died five years ago of an aneurism, dropped dead at the returns counter at Wal-Mart, arguing with a customer representative. She'd been left enraged when her husband had died when Regina was ten, and had spent the rest of her life directing that rage at the world in random fits of temper.
But what Regina does know is whom she must call: Jeff. She must stop wallowing in self-pity and call him and put an end to this madness.
No matter how desperate she is, there is no way she is going to pay a woman to escort her to the Ball. Regina picks up her cell phone from the side table and hits speed-dial. The phone trills for a few seconds before Jeff answers.
"Darling."
"Jeff, we need to call this off."
"Come on Gina, don't tell me you're getting cold feet?"
"If they got any colder they'd be frostbitten."
"Hah, hah."
"I'm not doing this, Jeff. It's crazy. I should never have let you bully me into this."
"Bully? Darling, I object!"
"Object away, but just stop this madness. Get hold of your Emma Lawn—"
"Swan, darling."
"Whatever. Just get hold of her and tell her it's off."
"Too late honeybuns."
"What do you mean?"
"She's en route, clickety clacking your way on Amtrak as we speak."
"Well, derail her."
"I hope you don't mean that literally? There are innocent lives at stake."
"Stop trying to be witty, Jeff, and hear me when I say this isn't going to happen."
There's a moments' pause before Jeff says, "Regina, I understand your apprehension."
"Thank you."
"But may I make a teeny-weeny suggestion?"
"No."
"Why don't I pick her up at the train station and bring her by? If you don't like her we'll send her packing. Think of it as an audition."
"I won't like her. This is worse than a blind date. I feel like you're pimping for me."
"Ouch!"
"Admit it, Jeff, this is distasteful."
"Oh, I don't know, it all feels quite sophisticated to me. Almost French."
"Call the woman."
"Gina, I've gone to a lot of trouble on your account."
"I'm sorry, Jeff, I know you have."
"Please, just take a look at her."
"No."
"I may have called you many things, Regina, but never rude, and turning this poor woman away sight unseen, is very, very rude." Oh the bitch knows just where to hit. Regina sighs and says, "Okay, bring her here for a drink, then I'll very sweetly explain that I wasn't in my right mind, that it has nothing to do with her and pay her some kind of cancellation fee and send her away." "Okay, deal."
"Good." Regina ends the call, feeling more in control.
Then she sees herself in the mirror and realizes she looks like hell. She can't receive guests looking like this. Even though the woman is never-to-be-hired-help, standards must be maintained.
Emma Swan (or Emma James Swan to be precise) feels remarkably restored as she sips a more than decent single-malt in the dining car of the train, staring out into the night. Her ribs ache, of course, and there's a nasty twinge in the area of her liver where the Mexican thug sank his boot, but she is dressed in a crisp new button-up shirt, slacks, high heels and a suit jacket. A suit bag containing a very elegant dress.
After her trip to the outfitters, she'd made use of her gym membership (bought during an all-too-brief flush period months ago) and showered and shaved and dressed in her new clothes.
By the time she got down to Union Station she felt almost her old self again.
Lifting her glass to signal for another drink, Emma feels a sharp pain in her shoulder, and she's back in that filthy alley, being tenderized like the filling of a beef fajita.
Emma's good mood slips a little as she considers her predicament, understands just how messy and unpleasant her life has become, after such a promising start.
She was born into a very old Boston family, silver spoon firmly in place when she exited the birth canal. The only child, she was sent to Andover and Harvard just like her father and grandfather before her.
Her father, David James Swan II, seemed interested only in blowing the wealth accumulated by his father, DJS I, an austere Yankee industrialist who had served two terms in the Senate.
By the time she was ten Emma had skied at Gstaad, holidayed in Monaco with the Grimalidis and had ridden on an elephant with an Indian princeling. When she reached her early twenties—even though she'd scraped together a useless degree from Harvard—she'd been encouraged to play just as her father played. Her was a world of women, horses, shopping, partying, racing cars and yachts.
Then in Emma's 24th year (on a day in late 2008) her father called her to his office.
Emma—tanned as teak from a month in Morocco—assumed that the older man was going to tell her that it was time for her to curb her life of leisure, to at least feign some interest in the family business.
David, standing by the window, held up a decanter of fine brandy. "Drink?"
"Of course."
Her father—whose face, disconcertingly, was like an age-ravaged version of her own—poured two glasses, and when he leaned over to pass a tumbler to her daughter his hand shook and Emma could smell that this wasn't the older man's first drink.
"Good luck," Emma said.
"We're going to need it." They sat and her father threw back most of the brandy in one gulp.
"You know my father actually increased his fortune during the Great Depression?"
Emma nodded, bored. She'd heard this story too many times. "Yes, he was quite the captain of industry, wasn't he?"
"That he was. His hands never left the tiller, if I may flog a dead metaphor."
Emma laughed politely, her mind on the Austrian princess she had been dallying with, the filthiest woman it had ever been her pleasure to bed.
"Thing is, Emma, I've never been much of a hands-on man myself."
"God forbid. Too tedious."
"Yes, that's what I thought. So I let the so-called financial gurus handle our money. And, it has to be said, we prospered." "Certainly seems that way."
Her father looked at her with an expression she had never seen on the man's face before. Was this fear?
"What's up?"
"You've heard about Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae?"
"The old Vaudeville act?" The older man bared his teeth in a snarl. "You know they went belly up?"
"I heard something to that effect."
"And that Wall Street is in a panic, and that the whole damned financial bubble has burst?"
Emma shrugged. "Not really my thing."
"No, mine neither." Her father slumped in his chair. "Emma there's no easy way to say this: our fortune is gone."
"You're not serious?"
"Oh, but I am. Those gurus consulted some poorly informed oracles, I'm afraid."
"It's all gone?"
"Everything."
"What about our properties?"
"Gone. A house of cards."
"The art collections?"
"Seized. Under lock and key."
"So no more trust fund?"
"No."
"You're saying that I'll have to work?"
"Yes, my baby girl. I'm sorry."
"Good God."
"Yes."
"What will you do?"
Her father, suddenly an old man, shrugged. "I don't know."
The next day her father took his boat out onto the south and never returned, so Emma traveled to NYC, with the half-baked notion of trading on her good looks in the movie business. There was some initial interest due to the cachet her name carried, and she landed herself an agent.
A part in an independent movie came her way, playing herself, really. But she found that once the camera rolled being herself wasn't at all easy.
Her usually flippant delivery became leaden and—most embarrassingly—she froze, was literally incapable of remembering a single line of the script, take after mortifying take.
So her career was stillborn.
So Emma Swan started to gamble. She'd always been a gambler—it was in her blood—but now she played with desperation.
Desperation and very little skill.
She lost. She lost badly. Lost so badly that she ended up having the pâté kicked out of her in that downtown alley. And now she is on a train rattling toward one of those horrible coastal feeder-towns, all new money and Spanish kitsch, she is sure.
She sighs and polishes off her drink as her stop is called.
When Emma steps out onto the platform she sees Jefferson Hatter waiting for her, waving a languid hand.
"How are you, darling?" asks.
"Peachy."
"Good trip?"
"It was fine."
They walk, Jeff eyeing her. "Why are you limping?"
"A jujutsu accident."
"Ah."
They arrive at a brand new Jaguar saloon.
"Your chariot, Ma'am," Jeff says.
"Where does this come from?"
"A prop, darling. A rental. To fit with your image of the wealthy young scion." Emma nods. Jeff holds out the keys. "You can drive, I presume?"
"I chased Michael Schumacher around Nürburgring when I was seventeen."
"Well, I hope he let you catch him."
Emma dumps her things in the trunk and Jeff directs her out of the train station that is—as she suspected—disguised as a hacienda.
"How can you live up here, Jeff?" she asks as they drive down the depressing little main drag.
"It's quiet and it's pretty."
"It's a backwater."
"I think you know all about NYC and its temptations. Life up here is a simpler proposition. I can get my work done."
"Sounds dire."
"Not at all."
Jeff turns to look at Emma. "Now, I need to warn you that Regina Mills is a little nervous."
Emma bursts out laughing. "That's her name? Regina Mills?"
"Yes, why?"
"God, Jeff, Mean Girls meets Manning O'Brine! I can only imagine what she looks like."
"Regina is my very best friend and she's a beautiful and charming woman."
"I'll bet."
"Stop the car."
"Why?"
"Stop the car!" Suddenly Jeff isn't camp anymore and when he grips Emma's forearm it hurts. As Emma pulls over to the curb Jeff reaches up and clicks on the dome light.
"Listen you two-bit little bitch," the voice is pure Bronx. "You're a nothing. A nobody. You're here on my dime. You'll cut the smarmy attitude and do what you're being paid to do: you'll be charming and gallant and make my friend look and feel good. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"And if you put one toe out of line I will personally beat the living crap out of you."
"I know jujitsu."
"You don't know a damned thing," Jeff says, jabbing his fingers under Emma's ribs, right where she was kicked. Emma groans. "Now drive."
Emma clicks the car into gear and she drives, wondering why, oh why, life keeps humiliating her this way.
Next Chapter the ladies meet. The chemistry is off charts. Will Regina agree to Jeff and keeps Emma as Plus-One or she says no?
I will upload the new chapter in three-four days.
Did anyone guess the "Mean girls meets Manning O'Brine" reference?
Reviews Please?