Pursuing the Idea of You Chapter Two, a skins fanfic

Thank you, as always, for your enthusiasm! I literally can't keep the smile off my face; you're all so wonderful, really.

Heaps and heaps and heaps of thanks to NoEyesMycah for all the help and support she lent to this fic; without her, this chapter would've ended in a pathetic hysterical bout of verbal abuse between two people who have absolutely reason to fight. Thank you, girl, for throwing out the best ideas ever.

Y'all should go over on Twitter and bombard her with flattery for her brilliant mind, then throw out reasons why she should actually watch Skins. After all the help she's given to a fandom she doesn't even know, I think she ought to start watching it because, Christ. Do you need any other reason to?

Also, why yes, this chapter does contain a glimpse of a certain Emily Fitch, seventeen years later. I—er—also had to crank up the rating to an M, for obvious reasons. Cussing and misplaced sexytimes ensue.

Cheers!

mine. now.

She flicked her pen against the edge of the table impatiently, her eyes narrowing in growing displeasure. 'And, that's the best you've all come up with, then?'

The silence that followed afterward was laced with ill-disguised, irascible tension on one end, and crippling, anxious terror on the other. The temperature dropped a good negative forty degrees, at least, what with the tone of her voice and their lack of a response to appease her rapidly growing temper. They swallowed thickly and broke out into a collective cold sweat, fidgeting restlessly in their seats, and internally willing—in vain—for the vinyl-backed carpet to take mercy and have pity on their less-than-pathetic-souls by swallowing them whole.

'Three weeks. I gave you three whole fucking weeks, and this is the best you come up with? This is the best you can give me? Are you all deliberately trying to piss me off? Are you all on some half-arsed conspiracy to get on my goddamn nerves every blasted chance you all get?' She stood up roughly and pushed her chair back; they winced as it swiveled away from her and crashed against the glass wall across the room. 'What d'you think you're playing at?' she snarled, her voice dropping to a whisper. 'What, you think this is some fucking repeat of your frustrated college experience as editors and contributors for the paper? Or, I don't know, your days as a sodding intern, running around the Chronicle's lobby, handing out mug after mug of lukewarm coffee to your superiors while typing out a write-up to meet the afternoon deadline? Grow. The. Fuck. Up.'

She whipped a stack of folders off the table and gestured wildly, 'This is the real world. This is my fucking office. You follow my standards, my rules, my orders. Therefore, you meet my demands, am I understood? If you can't cope, then I suggest you pack up real sharpish, or I'll kick you off the team myself. I need assets here, not liabilities. This is pathetic. These figures are pathetic. And, frankly, you're all pathetic.' She slammed a folder down on the table in between pauses to emphasize her point. 'This was your second chance. You fucked up, and fucked up bad. I'm sorry, but I don't honestly see how any of you can fit in the pilot team.'

'Please!' A girl at the far end of the table squeaked. Her colleagues turned to glare at her with wide, frightened eyes, shaking their heads almost imperceptibly—a silent warning to stand down, or be sent sprawling in the most demeaning way possible. She continued, though, undeterred. 'Please,' her voice wavered. She cleared her throat awkwardly, 'I—that is to say, we—took up the full brunt of the research material, from surveys to data-charts and interviews. And, while the last three issues showed a steady decrease in customer patronage, no one here can deny that we've received an influx of subscriptions since last month's press conference and launching. At the rate we're going, we'll probably raise the figures enough to meet the quota imposed by the corporation, at least, enough to keep us on track and up to speed for another perennial cycle. In all honesty, miss Fitch, I have difficulty seeing which areas of concern you're particularly distressed at, because it looks to me like we're good to go. I can't help but think, quite frankly, that this is a gross overreaction on your part. No offense meant, of course,' she amended hastily, blushing a fiery red to the roots of her hair.

She regarded her coldly, her lips set. Her eyes glittered with suppressed malice. 'Of course,' she echoed, tilting her head to glance over her cursorily. 'I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your name the first time. Freya, was it?'

'Er, Catherine, actually,' she looked uncomfortable at being addressed so directly, and settled for keeping her gaze trained on the unopened bottle of water by her hand.

'Right, of course,' she whispered. 'Well, Catherine. I'm rather glad, actually, that you brought all these facts to my attention. It's gratifying to know that someone along the lines cares enough to bring me figures and press-packs to back up their research substantially. That's resourcefulness, people—take a memo,' she walked around the table with deliberate slowness, stopping to trail a finger across Catherine's shoulders, smirking when she shivered at her touch. Catherine looked relieved, however, that she wasn't being bundled out of the meeting room after her rather passionate outburst and received a modicum of rarely doled out praise instead.

'And, since you seem to know your way around here quite better than anyone, why don't you take a well-deserved promotion, Catherine? After all, you took the full brunt of the research. In fact, why don't you take my job instead? Then, I can sit back and stretch my feet out beneath the desk and pretend to look up Birmingrad and Stoll stocks on the foreign exchange market so I can impress you whenever you pass by my desk? That sounds pretty fair to me, don't you think?' she leaned down and pressed her palms against the table, smirking when Catherine's face paled, completely drained of color. 'And, then I'd bypass my latest assignment on financial assessments of Flagstaff's corporate sale stocks and sell-outs in the past season to take the time to research the publication's lack of subscriptions and customer market to make you look like a complete cop-out during the next editorial meeting, effectively humiliating you in front of our colleagues, who by the way, think you're the biggest bitch to grace the earth since Hitler decided to dust the Jews off the face of the goddamn globe,' she smiled warmly, but the ice in her gaze belied her malevolence.

'Thing is, though, Catherine, I got these reports and figures about a month ago, so you're sorely overdue. I'm sorry. I really am. I appreciate the sentiment, though. I'm sure you meant well. See, now, the fact remains that your team's output is a page or two short of a typical American high school tabloid written by a freshman-year, comfortably gay teenager, with a potentially fatal case of HIV, or most likely, rectal cancer—not exactly up to my standards. Or the company's, for that matter. Also, I think you'll find that the subscriptions and subsidized issues' circulation isn't enough, actually, if you'd done your math half as well as you say you did. We're a bit short on that area. Pathetic, I know. We'll find a way to amend things, however. And, we'll carry on stronger than before, am I right, people? Now, Catherine,' she looked almost sympathetic, her eyes sad, her lips quirked up into a passable parody of a miserable frown. 'I'd love to give you my job, I really would. The good Lord knows I could do with a year-long vacation in the Caribbean, or Asia, really. Unfortunately, there aren't any openings! But, there is one other, though—only, it isn't for you. Although, whoever will take your place will certainly have you to thank for suddenly letting in a window of opportunity! The only opening for you as of now, I'm afraid, is the front door—though you're most certainly welcome to use the fire exit, if you so chose. It was a pleasure working with you, Catherine. Have a fantastic day, yeah? Reeve, see her out, please,' she waved farewell eagerly, her face nearly kind; the perfect image of sincerity, but everyone knew better.

Reeve escorted a shell-shocked Catherine out the glass double doors of the meeting room and led her back to her cubicle, where she began piling her belongings into a box beneath her desk, nearly robotic in her actions. Her eyes were glazed over, unblinking, as if she had difficulty processing the way things had dealt themselves out in the last twenty minutes. The rest of the editorial staff kept their gazes trained on the table before them, hardly daring to look up at her.

'Right,' she said cheerfully. 'That wraps things up for this morning, I suppose. We'll resume at three.'

'Miss Fitch?' a voice called out hesitantly from the door—her bottle-blond secretary, Margaret. She swept her fair hair back and readjusted her headset agitatedly, 'I told her not to disturb you during meetings, but she said it was an emergency. Your sister is on line six. But,' she swallowed thickly, seeing abject horror and indignation slowly dawn on her editor's face. 'She's actually downstairs, at the main lobby. She's with your father.'

'Katie,' she said tightly, keeping her emotions in check. 'What a pleasant surprise. And here I was thinking you'd be halfway across the globe by now, on the way to a business meeting in—where was it again? Manila?'

'Surprise, surprise,' Katie remarked dryly, leaning in to kiss her cheek perfunctorily. 'You don't look particularly happy to see me, Emsy. You don't look particularly well, for that matter. Something happened, I take it? Something up at work?' she looked up and caught one of Emily's staff by the eye. He froze, like a deer in headlights, and fidgeted as if wondering if it was too late to run screaming in the opposite direction. 'You, there,' Katie drawled lazily. 'You substituted for my P.A. when she came down with the measles a week ago. Ronald, wasn't it?' He nodded meekly in response, and she took it as encouragement. 'What happened today, exactly? What crawled up my sister's miserable arse and died?'

Emily glared at him, silently willing him with her eyes to leave off wordlessly. He was staring at Katie fixedly, however, and seemed to be struggling for words. 'There was—She was being rude, and Miss Fitch had to—It wasn't anything—I—'

'Fuck's sake,' Emily grumbled. 'I fired Catherine What's-Her-Face, alright? She was being a stroppy cunt and she was a liability to my team. I could easily hire ten more of her, if that's what you're worried about.'

'Jesus, Emily. Everyone who stands up to you is a fucking liability, whether or not they actually make sense is out of the question,' Katie brushed past her and strode towards the lobby, nodding to several clients and investors in the vicinity. Emily kept closely behind her, looking irate and generally disagreeable.

'So, how is it, then? Being the editor-in-chief for Trade Finance and Avant-Garde? Everything you thought it would be?' Katie tossed her hair back and glanced at her.

'You tell me. I've had to lay-off fifteen knobs in the past three months alone. One of them thought it would be a fan-fucking-tastic joke, you know, sending me a box of live scorpions for my birthday last August,' Emily ran a hand through her hair and glared at a passing intern. 'Can you get me a coffee, please? Sorry, two, for my sister as well. Grande, caramel frappe, no whip, non-fat, decaf? And, a venti soy-chai latte, two shots of espresso,' she barked. The intern nodded hastily, typing into a BlackBerry with fumbling fingers before scurrying in the opposite direction.

'Nice to see you still remember my coffee order after all these years,' Katie raised a brow, surprised. 'You're so strung up, though. More than usual, I mean. Wasn't Catherine What's-Her-Face part of the rotating interns you were supposed to be assessing from Cosmo and Heat, though? Can you fire her?'

'Fuck if I know. She can sod off my office, right? I can do that much,' Emily tossed her hair back flippantly and scrolled through her BlackBerry. 'I've got a lunch meeting in thirty. Care to tell me why you're here, exactly?'

'Can't I see my sister? Ha. Shit, I can't even say that with a straight face on anymore. Look, Ems,' she said seriously. 'Dad's here, yeah? The Board isn't exactly happy about the lack of satisfactory customer responses and subscriptions for the past two cycles. They're thinking about, well. About cutting you off.'

'What?' Emily yelped, stopping in her tracks. 'What the actual fuck? Just because I wasn't able to maintain ranking for a year?'

'It's not just that. Financial Times and Money Management topped you off, three weeks into the latest season: Trade Finance is somewhere at the bottom of the Big Five, Ems. Didn't you see the report figures my secretary sent last week? Avant-Garde, on the other hand, is struggling behind Seventeen. Fucking Seventeen, Emily,' Katie said, exasperated. 'We're lucky Cosmo and Heat decided to pull through with the internships at all! If anything, we should be sending staff out to them.'

'Are you saying I can't do it? That I can't handle this?' Emily said quietly. Katie opened her mouth to interject, but Emily cut her off heatedly. 'Last season, Avant-Garde was on the top of the goddamn list—for two consecutive cycles! Seventeen's figures are misleading, their market is for prepubescent teens. Our targeted market is directed at—'

'We know, Emily. You think the Board didn't do their research? They're concerned, is all. You might not be able to pull the figures up in time. We're sponsoring Top Model's next season; we need sponsors to back us up, too,' Katie lowered her sunglasses and peered at her carefully. 'Have you put on weight?'

Emily rolled her eyes, 'No, I fucking have not. I lost five pounds since you last visited, and that was over two months ago! Look, I got in touch with the producers, alright? They'll grant a leeway, just give me time, I can pull up sales. Trust me on this.'

'Could've gained them back in a day, Em. Seriously, your waist's like, what, now? Twenty-four? Pushing twenty-five?' Katie bit her lip and shook her head, perching her glasses smoothly atop her head.

'Did you not just hear I word I said?' Emily cried, stepping past her and effectively blocking her way. 'I can do this! This is all I've got, you can't just throw it all away—throw me away! How can you and dad even—?'

'I heard, Em. I heard, alright? I just don't know what to tell you, and don't expect me to take sides at this point, because I fucking can't, alright? We're in a right fix,' Katie pinched the bridge of her nose delicately and screwed her eyes shut. 'Dad lost the gym.'

'How?' Emily whispered, burying her head in her hands. 'It was our starter, it's been there ever since we were kids. I thought it was going well! You must have at least thirty branches in London alone!'

'Oh, Emsy,' Robert Fitch looked extremely uncomfortable at the sight of his daughter's distress. He adjusted his tie and smoothed down his lapel with trembling hands. 'Don't be like that, now. It had to be done. We couldn't let ourselves be forced off the market, now, could we? We've known for awhile that we'd be bound to face serious repercussions, refusing to keep pace with the trends these days. This is a small price to pay, honestly. And, it's in good hands—Equinox is a world-class chain of gyms in America, and they made an offer I couldn't refuse.'

'Fitch Fitness was your life,' her lip trembled. 'It was a part of us. It was our childhood, it was our family, it was everything. It put us where we are now. You couldn't even fight to keep it?'

'See here, Emily,' he said sternly, his brows furrowing together. 'If this is about your situation with the ratings, you can't throw this back at me as a low blow; I can't do anything about—'

'I don't give a flying fuck about the Board! I couldn't care less about Trade Finance and Avant-Garde! This is about our goddamn family, our goddamn business, and the fact that you've devolved into a fucking power-hungry miser by throwing it all away—never mind me, goddamn it!' she leapt up from the leather sofa and nearly upended the coffee table in her outburst. 'How dare you?' she whispered, appalled. 'I don't know you anymore—'

She flew backward and tripped gracelessly over her feet as the back of his hand connected with her face, hard. 'Emily!' Katie cried, rushing forward. 'Fucking stop, dad, she's got her own shit to deal with—'

'How dare I?' Robert growled, his face a deep scarlet. His features contorted frighteningly as he took great shuddering breaths to calm himself down. 'How dare I? Who put food on the table all these years? Who put the clothes on your back? Who kept a roof over your head? Who kept you out of the streets? Who placed you in school? Who gave you a career? Who promised you a future? Who made you what you are?'

'A man I used to call my father,' Emily said quietly, wiping the rapidly congealing blood dripping from her nose. 'What good did it bring any of us, Robert? You lost mum, you lost James, and you lost me. But, then, none of that matters to you anymore, does it? Nothing matters but your precious corporate empire.' She spread her arms and laughed harshly. 'Well, you fucking got it. Congratulations.' She stood up shakily and brushed her trousers down. 'If you'll excuse me, I've got a lunch meeting in fifteen. I'll deal with the Board in my own time.'

Katie glanced at her concernedly but stepped back to let her pass. Emily brushed past him on her way out and he grabbed her wrist angrily. 'I gave you a life,' he snarled.

'No, you lent me one,' she met his gaze steadily. 'There's a difference.' She pulled her hand back abruptly and whipped out of the room, ignoring the horrified, curious glances of her colleagues at the sight of her bloodied face.

'I can use the back-exit if you'd like, Miss Fitch. They're crawling all over the place, it's almost as if someone's tipped them off,' her chauffeur fiddled with his gloves in agitation. He readjusted the rear-view mirror to get a good look at her, 'Red light won't hold for long now. Miss?'

Emily slipped her sunglasses on and reapplied a thin layer of gloss on her lip, using the tinted power-window to her left as a mirror. 'Oh, leave them be, George. They're harmless,' she shrugged. 'If they can't pry anything, they can't use anything. Besides, I'm expected up front.'

'Of course, miss,' he veered towards the imposing wrought-iron gates, pausing only to swipe his finger along the biometric scanner by the gatehouse. They swung open upon recognition and they trundled up the hill in relative silence. All too soon, they were met with a thick crowd of paparazzi hustling quite loudly outside the faded, whitewashed theater. They lathered into a frenzy at the sight of her limousine pulling up the drive, running pell-mell towards her, cameras held aloft.

'Will you step out, Miss?' George asked hesitantly, scratching the fine stubble on his chin. 'I'll contact security, settle a perimeter about you if you want.'

'No,' she waved a hand dismissively. 'There'll be no need for that; he'll be out, soon. We're on pick-up duty, not press publicity. Afterward, we'll head up the Manor for lunch. You can leave by then.'

'Of course, Miss,' he mumbled. He pulled his lapel towards his lips and began muttering instructions into the mouthpiece. Almost immediately, four security personnel pulled the grand double-doors of the mansion open. The paparazzi switched tack and pressed backward, towards the entrance, shutters clicking for all they were worth. They were kept back effectively, even as a figure emerged from the depths of the mansion. The paparazzi cried out at the sight of him, screaming questions, rumors and statements for ratification or repudiation. He kept his head low and strode purposefully over to the limousine where the chauffeur, George, held the backseat-door open for him. He caught sight of Emily settled languorously against the leather-backed seats and grinned. She raised a brow expectantly and smiled back, beckoning him forward with a crook of her finger.

'Hi,' she whispered, a smile playing on her lips. He braced a hand against the top of the car and bent forward as she met him halfway; about fifty or so cameras took shots of their rather decent display of affection from varying angles. He sighed contentedly against her lips and pulled himself inside the warm confines of the car, the door swinging shut behind him. They pulled away and started back down the drive, leaving the crowds ruffled and miffed behind them.

'Oh,' he stretched stiffly, his arm sliding around Emily's shoulders to pull her closer. 'Hello,' he murmured, taking her in. 'You look lovely today. As always, really. But, more so today. Glowing, more like.'

'You're kidding, right?' she groaned. 'I've had so much shit to deal with today, I just needed to run away from it all. I missed you. I missed you so much.'

'I missed you, too,' he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers comfortingly. 'Tell me all about it.'

'Later,' she promised. She pressed her cheek against his chest and breathed a sigh of relief. 'Let's stay like this for a while. This is nice.'

'Mm,' he hummed in agreement. He caught George's eye in the rear-view mirror and winked. 'Afternoon, George. How're you doing?'

'Just fine, Mister Cook, sir. Thanks for asking. A fine afternoon to you as well,' he touched his fingers to his cap and nodded once.

'James will do us both fine, George, mate. Just James,' he tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

George dropped them off at Point View, up at the Manor, and drove off as per Emily's previous instructions, the wild bass beats of Queen thrumming loudly from his stereo speakers. 'Curious taste in music, that boy,' Cook muttered, glancing at the Mercedez's tinted power-windows as it peeled back onto the main road. 'Does he play it that loud when you're on it?'

'God, no. He's silent as a pigeon when I'm with him. Pity, he leaves me to my own devices; it gets rather lonely in the backseat, you know? I have to find ways to amuse myself,' she stifled a yawn and steered them into the lobby.

'You have any idea how filthy that sounded?' he whispered against her ear. She reached down surreptitiously and brushed the back of her hand against the zipper of his trousers.

'I think I have a pretty good idea,' she quirked a brow, smirking. 'Keep it in your pants, darling. Plenty of time for that later. Right now, I'm starving.'

The managing supervisor caught her eye and quickly muttered instructions to the receptionist by the podium; the latter paled and glanced at them before tripping over on her own heels in her haste to settle affairs in the dining area. Cook caught the supervisor's gaze and grinned. 'Oliver, mate!' he called cheerily. 'How're you doing? Thought we'd pop in for a bit, I've been missing your meals all week. Have you got a table for us at this time?'

'Always, James. For you, and for Miss Fitch,' he smiled tightly, his perpetually watery-green eyes darting about self-consciously. 'H-How are y-you, Miss Emily? How is your f-father?' he stammered. He dabbed at the beads of perspiration along his brow and nodded towards her.

She stiffened, but allowed herself a rather pained grimace. 'I feel brilliant, Oliver, thanks. So does Robert, I'm sure. Relax, he won't be coming over anytime soon—and I promise you he won't send any more hitmen. It was one time, and I swear it was my bloody sister's fault, not mine.'

'My apologies, Miss Fitch,' he said nervously. 'I knew you wouldn't do anything like that, of course. Please believe me, however, when I say I had absolutely no idea that the man your sister was with was Donald Hamish's son. If I had known there was a feud between fathers, I might've been able to prevent your father's, ah, regrettable outburst.'

'But, then you would've dealt with Katie,' Emily shook her head. 'Her temper's just as bad as his. It was his fault, though: he should know better than to meddle with our affairs, especially our personal lives, and the people we choose to be with.' She glanced at Cook pointedly.

He frowned, 'What am I missing here, exactly?'

'Two months ago, Katie went out with Hamish's son, Jonah. You remember Jonah? From the press-con last March in Seattle?'

'Oh,' his eyes lit up brightly in recognition. 'Fiberglass-prosthetic-leg-Jonah! That bastard was a downright laugh,' he chuckled. 'What about him?'

'They had dinner here 'round about the same time dad's new investors were as well. They caught the two together and told my father. You know how it is—they had issues with Donald Hamish, something about a dispute over a new contract in Fulham. Anyway, dad sends his thugs over to shake Jonah up—you know, to send a message to Hamish—only, Katie had to make things worse by involving the entire restaurant to fight them off. They trashed around twenty thousand quids' worth of property that evening. Which is why you'll have to excuse Oliver's apprehension about letting me in his restaurant again,' she finished sheepishly.

'Please, Miss Fitch,' Oliver ducked his head in an awkward half-bow. 'Let us leave the past to trouble itself another day; today, you dine with me. If you would please, James?' he swept them into the dining area and straight through the pavilion, past the portico and onto a secluded niche beside panel after panel of floor-to-ceiling French windows. The latch was left slightly ajar and a gentle breeze wafted across the room, cooling Emily's flushed cheeks.

'This is lovely,' she murmured, glancing out the window at the garden-view that sprawled before them. 'You have such lovely gardenias, and hibiscuses. Oh, and geraniums,' her eyes lit up as she leaned out the sill. 'Your lilies are in season as well, how delightful.' She touched a finger to the glass and gazed admiringly out at the shrubs arranged beautifully by the terrace. 'My garden isn't nearly as gorgeous as this is, is it James?'

He scoffed, 'You might have a better chance of growing a plant box in sunny Surrey than here in the city, Em. Anyway, thank you, Oliver,' he turned back to him and smiled gratefully. 'We'll be fine here.'

'Of course,' he pulled back the chair and indicated for Emily to sit. 'I'll send someone to fetch your orders the moment you've made up your minds. Let me take your coats, in the meanwhile.' He disappeared through the double-doors of the room and they were left with a silence as substantial as it was oppressive.

'So,' Cook ventured hesitantly, his voice hardening with resolve. 'What happened to your lip?' She let her breath out in a slow hiss and closed her eyes briefly.

'Bit of a disagreement with dad,' she muttered, picking at the edge of the tablecloth with her fingers. 'I lost my temper, so he lost his. Bit shit, really. But, it's fine,' she waved him off dismissively. 'Really.'

'He hit you?' he roared. His chair flew backward as he stood abruptly, his eyes wild with indignant rage, 'Again? What the fuck, Emily? He's a mad man, he's a bastard! He's an arse-licking cunt-face; filthiest son of a goddamn whore I've—'

'He's only human, James,' she pleaded exasperatedly. 'He's manic depressive. It's getting better: he's taking medication regularly.'

'That doesn't excuse his shit-poor parenting skills,' Cook seethed, settling back down on his seat. 'If I had a quid for every time that cunt-wipe—'

'James.'

'—That sorry fuck—'

'James.'

'—Your father,' he stressed mockingly. 'Engaged in the sacred act of douchebaggery, I'd be richer than the estate-brokers on Wall Street.' He loosened his tie and exhaled sharply, 'Christ. Oh, Christ.'

'It's alright, really. Katie was with me, patched me up and everything afterward,' she smiled reassuringly. He softened at her gaze and reached across the table to take her hand in his gently.

'You're alright, then?' he whispered softly, stroking the back of her hand with the pad of his thumb. 'It's just that, you can't ask me to make peace with anyone who hurts you in anyway, Emily. Even if that man is your father. You deserve so much more, and you ought to know that. I love you,' he said helplessly. 'You mean the world to me, and it hurts me to see you hurt. You know that.'

Emily blushed faintly. She raised his hand and leaned her cheek against his palm, 'I love you, too. Thank you.' He smiled back and traced a finger underneath her eye affectionately. 'How're things between Paddy and your mum?' she asked, curious.

'Oh,' he frowned. 'Paddy's about sixteen, as it is, and a foot taller than I am, at least. He's 'round six-feet-and-two-quarters of an inch. Perfect for theater, really. Apparently, mum thinks so as well because she secured him auditions for West End's production of Les Mis, and The Phantom. Being the Chairman of the National Theater of the Arts has its perks, I suppose.'

Emily snorted bemusedly, 'Even if she knows he isn't the least bit interested? Bit shallow on both their parts, don't you think?' she sipped from her champagne flute delicately.

'It's precisely why she went through with it to begin with—thinks it might break him in properly,' he sounded almost wistful. 'He's a good kid, my Paddy. He'd give her the world if she asked for it. He's got reason to take a breather, though. Mum's in New York for the next three weeks, securing partnerships with Trump Enterprises, and Waldorf Group of Hotels. Ever since she bought out the Hyatt in last season's bid, she's had to fly in and out of Europe nonstop. She's considering taking Jetstar Airlines as a potential shareholder, that is, if she hasn't gotten 'round to buying them already.'

'You have to admire her one-track mind, though,' Emily laughed. 'She's literally taking the world by storm. What about you? What's new?' she laced her fingers under her chin and raised a brow expectantly.

'I won the bid for the Oakley Property auction last June, I can back-up the construction funding for the term now. Build an entire new wing for the general hospital,' he winked at her and she laughed at his crassness.

'That's wonderful! Finally, achieving something you've always wanted to do. I'm so proud of you,' she beamed at him brightly. He grinned and ran a hand through his tousled, sandy hair.

'I'm backing-up Harper & Row Publishing this year, too; along with Disney-Hyperion, and Dutton. That'll give me a decent portion of all their sales every time their shares profit in the market. And, I think you'll be pleased to find that I've perfected my latest line in the realm of software,' he flicked his cigarette case open and gazed at its contents, his expression hard. 'You'll benefit the most from it, I think—it's directed markets are print and publishing companies. For editing, yeah? And with mum docking from my account to fund major investments—'

Cook grew silent, his face a stony mask. She glanced at him concernedly and tilted her head to look at him properly. 'What's wrong, Cookie?' she asked, worried.

'I'm sorry, Em. It's just—it's my trust fund, right?' he said quietly, his jaw tautening. He gritted his teeth and rubbed his palm briskly against his brow, 'She's taking out bond after bond from my share in the family trust: to subsidize her new boyfriend's gambling habit, to invest in shit stocks, to finance her fucking ridiculous shopping trips. I'm not being selfish, Emily,' he pleaded. 'But, the trust fund—it's my father's. He set it aside for me. But, in the past three weeks alone, I've had to liquidate ten percent of my total assets, from my stock holdings to my bank shares to fund her 'business ventures,'' he rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. 'My trust fund,' his voice turned soft, his eyes sad. 'I placed a quarter of it in the hands of the stock market, to increase profit, you know? So I'd have some set aside, for myself—so I could look your father in the eyes when I ask him for your hand.'

Emily's eyes widened in disbelief and incredulity. She opened her mouth to say something, and closed it just as quickly. His brow furrowed, confused, 'You know,' he prompted, growing increasingly uncomfortable at her silence. 'In marriage?'

'Yeah,' she breathed in a rush. 'Yeah, I know. I just—Wow, that's. Marriage?' she squeaked.

He smiled at her from across the table and took her hand in his tenderly, 'I love you, Emily. I want to be with you now, and if you'll have me, forever. The only hand I want to slip a ring on is the hand that managed to tame the infamous James Cook. I want to marry you, someday. Come home to you at the end of every night.'

'It's a little too early to talk about settling down, don't you think, James? The whole white-washed bungalow, picket-fence, and two point five kids talk's a bit overrated these days,' she laughed nervously, the tips of her ears flushed a deep red. 'I mean, you're only twenty-six, for fuck's sake. You've got your whole life ahead of you; a lot can change in a few months—who's to say that this time next year, you wouldn't be over me already?' she said wryly. He found no offense in her dry rebuttal and kissed the tips of her fingers as if to reassure her.

'I love you,' he said simply, shrugging.

They stumbled up the Manor's penthouse suite, where Cook had booked his stay for the next two weeks for the bi-monthly investors meeting at the Plaza down the boulevard. 'Fuck,' Emily whispered in awe as she gawked unashamedly at the sheer size of the room. 'It's even bigger than my sitting room. I could fit an entire branch of Fitch Fitness here.' She padded across the Persian carpet and glanced out the paneled windows overlooking the Thames. 'It's beautiful.'

'It's alright, I suppose,' he sniffed, affecting disdain. She looked at him skeptically and raised a brow. 'It pales in comparison,' he amended, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her closer against him. 'With you in the room, I wouldn't exactly throw the word beautiful around casually; it would take away the value of its meaning, describing something so flippantly like that.'

'Is that a compliment?' she laughed, cradling his face in her hands delicately. 'Are you complimenting me?' He leaned down and kissed her gently. She sighed contentedly against his mouth and kissed him back firmly, her fingers threading through his hair.

'I've got a few compliments in me,' he murmured against her lips, grinning when she wrapped her legs around his waist in response. He gripped the back of her thighs and hoisted her into his arms, steering them back carefully onto the couch in the sitting room. She straddled him as soon as he sat down, making quick work of his belt and the zip of his trousers. She slid them roughly down to his ankles and helped him shrug out of his morning coat.

'Keep it on,' she muttered quickly, pushing him back down when he made to unbutton his dress shirt. She kicked off her heels and hiked her dress up to her waist, leaning back to pull her knickers off. 'I want you so bad,' she nearly groaned, settling back down on him and rocking against his hardness, feeling it strain inside the thin cotton confines of his pants.

'Christ,' he hissed, throwing his head back. 'You're so wet, Ems. Stop,' he gripped her arms tightly, forcing her to stop. 'I can't take this, let me feel you,' he pleaded.

'You don't have a rubber,' she gasped breathlessly as he pushed her down on the cushions, spreading her legs beneath him. 'I'm not on the Pill, I haven't been for months now. I can't—' she watched with wide eyes as he reached down and pulled his pants down and off, tossing them aside unceremoniously. She cried out in pleasure as he dragged his length against her wetness, teasing his tip inside her.

'What d'you want to do, now, then?' Cook asked, glancing down at her playfully. He rocked against her, not quite sliding in as she met his rolling hips with hers. Emily whimpered, nearly delirious in ecstasy as his hardness slipped and slid through her folds easily.

'I want you inside me,' she pleaded, drawing him closer by his tie. Swiftly, she wrapped her legs around his waist and gripped his shoulders, pushing against his tip until he slid inside her to the hilt, easily. She released a long, drawn out groan, feeling him fill her completely, stretching her in all the right places. They stayed motionless for a beat or two, reveling in the sheer gratification of being physically connected. Then, slowly, he began thrusting inside her, gripping the back of the couch and the cushion by her ear for purchase. She clawed at his back frantically, helping him set the pace.

Emily's phone began ringing on the coffee table, clattering noisily against the lacquered wood. 'Ignore it,' he managed quietly, slamming into her with renewed haste. She nodded against his chest, relenting to the gentle push of his hands as he pulled her up to sit. She slouched down on the seat, her legs dangling on either side of his waist as he towered over her; she cried out in pleasure as he slid roughly back inside her, the angle he'd created inside her allowing him better access to all the places she needed him to be.

Her phone rang incessantly, showing no sign of letting up—as miffed as she was quickly growing, their persistence, whoever it was, impressed her. 'Turn it off,' Cook groaned as she reached down to stroke the bulk of him, guiding it nearly inside her.

'Leave it be,' she shook her head, spreading her palms across his chest. 'They'll go away.' She gripped his hips tightly and began to thrust against him. She was close, she could feel it building inside her, pulsing deeply inside her—she needed release, after the cards the week had dealt her. 'I'm so close,' she gasped, throwing her arms around his neck to kiss his ear. 'Don't stop.'

He stood up abruptly and Emily squeaked in surprise, he pulled her forward until her back settled nearly uncomfortably on the seat-cushions. 'Yes,' she cried as he bore down on her, spreading her legs as far as she could comfortably manage. He slid in and out of her gently, rolling his hips slowly, deep inside her. She screwed her eyes tightly in anticipation—she would come, and come hard, and he would—

'Fuck's sake!' she nearly screamed, her release coinciding with the renewed ringing of her mobile. She came with its incessant, vulgar tones pulsing in her ears. Thoroughly incensed and angered, she pushed Cook off her and strode over to the coffee table, briefly contemplating the practicality of smashing the offending object on the opposite wall. Her temper flared, seeing the unwelcome contact name flickering on the screen.

'What the fuck do you want now?' she demanded by way of a greeting, her voice shrill in her rage. Cook watched confusedly as Emily's expression melted from indignant fury to soft resignation in all of eight seconds. 'Fuck's sake,' she whispered, running a hand through her hair. 'She's not going to appreciate it, you know. Yeah. 'Course I do, I always have done, yeah? No, I will. Leave it to me, then. I'll call you when she's with me.' Emily clicked the phone off and pulled her clothes on carefully, brushing them down efficiently and checking her make-up cursorily in Cook's hallway mirror. He watched her putt about wordlessly, pulling his trousers on with regret.

'Where are you going, all in a hurry? Cookie hasn't had his, yet,' he said wistfully, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he followed her out the door.

She pecked him on the cheek gently and pulled back, 'I have to get home, Katie can't pick her up.'

'Oh,' his eyes softened and he allowed himself a small smile. 'So, you're going over there, then? To pick her up?' He scratched his chin thoughtfully, 'I could come with; she likes me, too, right? Treat you ladies for ice cream on the Hilton afterward?'

'That's sweet,' she patted his cheek fondly. 'But, not today, I think. I'll call you when I've got her, so you can say hi.'

'I'd like that,' he smiled.

Emily leaned over the center console and stuck her head out the window on the passenger's side, waving eagerly. A tiny, pink-faced figure squinted distrustfully at her before waddling over to her, as fast as her tiny legs would carry her.

'Emily!' she cried happily, throwing open the door and launching herself into Emily's waiting arms. Emily laughed, elated, burying her face in her niece's soft brown tresses.

'Hi, Jamie,' she greeted cheerfully, pulling back to look her over. 'Miss me?' Jamie shuffled back and settled back on the passenger seat, buckling the seat belt perfunctorily.

'Always,' Jamie mumbled around a mouthful of her scarf. Emily frowned and reached over to tug at her neon-green overcoat, which was three sizes too big on her.

'How many have you got on, sweetie? D'you want to take a couple off? It isn't forty below freezing in here, if its any consolation,' Emily unbuckled her swiftly and helped her out of her coat and two underlying layers of jumpers before she was satisfied.

'Mummy says I have to bundle up, or I'll freeze my tits off,' she said slowly, folding her coat over her jumpers haphazardly before throwing them in the backseat. Emily's eyes widened, horrified.

'Mum says tits, around you?' she choked. 'Just like that? Jesus, Jay. That isn't a very nice word to say out loud, and it isn't something I want to hear from a little lady like you. Tell your mum Auntie Em doesn't approve of her casual vocabulary,' she muttered, glancing back as she revved the car in reverse. They peeled out of St. Thomas' icy car park and sailed smoothly through the highway moments later.

'What does tits mean, Emsy?' Jamie looked up at her dolefully, slightly remorseful after being reproached earlier. She clapped her hands over her mouth at the slip-up and colored up. 'I mean, that word.'

'Oh,' Emily started uncomfortably, tapping her fingers agitatedly on the steering wheel. 'It's a rude word, for your, uh. Chest. Your, um,' she glanced down at Jamie's watery gray eyes, hanging onto her every word, and sighed resignedly. 'Breasts. Everyone has breasts,' she said quickly, internally beating herself up for the crassness of her poor attempt at watered-down sex education for six-year-olds. 'I have breasts, your mum has breasts, and I'm pretty sure your English teacher has breasts, too? Grown women have breasts, and someday, you'll have breasts, too. And, its okay, you know, if they're not as large as other women's are—there isn't any need to feel inferior, or anything. I mean, look at my breasts; they aren't big, but they're fine. I mean, I think they're fine. They're fine, right? They aren't offensive in their hugeness, so they're appropriate. And, having appropriately sized breasts is an asset, Jamie, it really is. Only porn glorifies size as an asset, and it's all a big misogynistic lie,' Jamie's eyes widened like saucers and she caught herself out, resisting the urge to clap a hand over her mouth and bang her forehead against the dashboard. Repeatedly.

'—Er, that is to say—did I say po—? I meant corn, because corn isn't the least bit, ah. Patriarchal, 'cause women can grow it, too. As opposed to like, men-farmers growing things like, um. Barley. Which is distinctly patriarchal, 'cause in the Bible, there's this bit where this guy named Boaz, and this girl named Ruth were in the field, and—anyway, big breasts look weird, and I'm not just saying that 'cause my breasts aren't big. I feel pretty confident about my breasts, I can wear anything with them and not feel, you know, awkward. Think about how awkward it would be if your breasts were hanging out of your top every time you decided to undo a button, sun-bathing by the pool in the summer heat? But, then, why would you be wearing a button-down top by the pool? You should've worn a bikini, Christ,' she laughed shrilly, slightly breathless after her impromptu monologue. She bit her lip, sweat breaking out across her forehead—Katie was never going to forgive her if she found out. Ever.

Jamie glanced down at her own chest thoughtfully and bit her thumb, 'Will I get breasteses, too?' Emily ground her teeth and swallowed back a moan.

'Yes, Jamie,' she breathed, gripping the steering wheel a little harder than necessary. 'Girls have breasts. You'll have breasts, too. Not any time soon, but,' she swallowed. 'You'll have them, too.' Jamie lightened up marginally and sat back a little straighter in her seat, humming an indistinct tune softly to herself. 'How was school?' she asked, eager to steer the subject back into safer territory. 'What'd you do today?'

'Talked 'bout firemen, today. And, doctors,' Jamie took to biting her thumb again, worrying the skin between her teeth gently. 'Learned 'bout the continents, and Africa's green. And, the oceans. Learned a song 'bout the oceans,' she lisped over her words, and Emily felt a sudden wave of fondness well up inside her.

'Can I hear it?' she asked, smiling. Jamie shook her head a bit too violently and crossed her arms, huffing.

'Later,' she muttered sullenly. 'When mum's with us, later.' She peered out the window, ignoring Emily's little hum of concern. 'Mum said she'd pick me up,' she said quietly.

Emily tensed, 'I know, Jay. But, mummy had somewhere to go to. She wanted me to tell you she's sorry, and that she would've, if she could, but she couldn't miss this meeting, sweetie. You know she's sorry, don't you?' Jamie sat silently, huffing little clouds of mist against the glass and drawing patterns in the condensation with the tip of her finger. 'Besides,' she cleared her throat hopefully. 'Aren't you happy to see me? I missed you, you know? I missed you lots and lots and lots.'

Jamie turned back to look at her, reaching over to stroke the back of Emily's hand across the handbrake with the back of her own gently. 'I missed you, too, Emsy. I missed you lots and lots and lots,' she whispered, a little sadly. They coasted to a stop at the red light and Emily leaned down to brush the tip of her nose against Jamie's.

'I know this place down the street that makes killer malts, with huge scoops of ice cream and fudge. And, treacle so thick your teeth stick together. And, clotted cream,' she ducked her head swiftly and lifted her niece's starched white uniform to blow a raspberry against her stomach, grinning when Jamie laughed delightedly at the sensation, literally tickled pink. 'What d'you say?' she queried playfully.

'I want a knickerbocker glory,' Jamie giggled, batting Emily's face away as she fluttered butterfly kisses against her cheeks. Emily's smile wavered briefly before slipping back, wider than ever.

'You could ask for the moon and I'd give it to you,' she swept a hand grandiloquently, threading their fingers together across the center console, Jamie practically bouncing in her seat as they sped down the hill.

'It's Cookie on the line,' Emily waved her phone in front of Jamie, winking. 'He wants to speak to you.' Jamie flushed a bright, brick red and reached over to take it. Emily tucked her straw between her teeth and watched amusedly as her niece blushed darker with each passing second, nodding every now and then and giggling nervously as Cook's tinny raucous peals of laughter rang from the speakers.

'Cookie,' she announced halfheartedly, clearly reluctant to end the conversation as she handed the phone back. Emily grinned and nodded at Jamie, glancing down at the table. Jamie laughed delightedly and scrambled off her seat eagerly, scooping up the tokens and giving Emily a quick kiss on the cheek before running off.

'She's madly in love with you, you know,' she said, matter-of-factly. She popped a malt in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully, 'I can't compete with that—four glorious feet of adorable.'

'Mm,' Cook mused playfully. 'She's a keeper, she is. It's flattering; at least one Fitch likes me. Where'd she run off to?'

'I bought her some tokens; it's highly likely she's sold her soul to the claw machine by now, so I ought to check up on her in a bit. See how much of her humanity I can salvage,' she chuckled, swirling the froth absentmindedly with a straw.

'You took her downtown, then? To the diner you used to go to all the time with the Fitches? The arcade?'

'Yeah,' Emily shrugged, scratching her nose a bit awkwardly. 'It's our haunt, now, anyhow. Giving her a bit of my childhood to go on with. I used to go here all the time with Katie and James, and—' she trailed off and coughed. 'Anyway, it doesn't look like she's having much luck,' she frowned, leaning forward to squint at her distraught niece. 'I might have to take it out, you know. Whatever it is she wants from that thing. Ask someone to open the case up when she isn't looking, give her what she wants.'

'You know I love her, too. But, don't you think, you know, that sometimes—maybe you overdo it a bit? You spoil her senseless,' he reproached gently. She rolled her eyes and scoffed.

'I adore her; I have every right to,' she stood up quickly and loosened her scarf about her throat. 'I'll call you when we get back. I'm taking her home in thirty.'

'I love you,' he offered cheerfully, hanging up on her without another word. She strode over to her niece by the claw machine and batted her away gently.

'Let a professional have a go,' she said, mock-haughtily. Jamie laughed and moved away, settling herself beside the miniature carousel and pointing to the glass case eagerly.

'Can I have that one? The pink one? With the purple stripes?' she pointed to a faded, off-pink turtle lying on its back atop a green overstuffed elephant. Emily glanced back at her, confused.

'Wouldn't you rather have the giraffe instead? Or, the, uh. I don't know—the hippo? The hippo's looking pretty lonely,' she mused, turning back to the machine and gesturing to a massive blob of neon orange pushed back against the glass. Jamie shook her head adamantly and bit her thumb.

'The hippo's too pretty. So are the giraffe, and the elephant, and the lion, and the penguin. They're too pretty,' she shrugged, as if that explained everything perfectly.

Emily sagged against the machine and frowned in bewilderment, 'What's their prettiness got to do with anything? I like pretty things.' She rapped the glass smartly with her knuckles, 'Besides, hippos make great best friends. You can bring them anywhere and have everyone coo at you.'

Jamie's brows creased together, 'But, it's too pretty. Everyone wants the pretty ones; so everyone wants the hippo, and the giraffe, and the penguin, and the lion, and the elephant, so they'll be okay after we leave. But, no one wants the turtle 'cause it isn't pretty enough; it's going to stay in that glass case until the man behind the counter changes the toys inside the machine. Then, it gets thrown away.' She walked over to the glass case and pressed her face against it, hands cupped around her eyes to peer closer at the toys on display. She tapped the glass next to the turtle and hummed softly to herself. 'It feels sad,' she said eventually. ''Cause no one wants it, 'cause it isn't big or pink enough. But, I want it. And, I don't want it to get thrown away, or feel alone in that thing when all its friends get taken away. So, I want to save the turtle.'

Emily lapsed into quiet thought and tensed her jaw, 'Even if it's all faded and scrawny? Even if it looks like it'll wear out quickly? You sure?' Jamie stuck her thumb back in her mouth and nodded mutely. Emily sighed and turned back to the machine, 'You could ask for the moon and I'd give it to you.'

'Thanks for taking her out, she's been talking nonstop about it since she walked through the door. What'd you get her? A turtle?' Katie snorted, clearing the dishes. She pulled down two champagne flutes from the cupboard and set them down on the counter. 'You know she'll get tired of it after a week, right? That's why I never buy her toys.'

'It doesn't matter, at least she's in love with it now. Hell of a lot better than giving a little girl leopard-print underwear for Christmas, don't you think?' Emily smirked, toweling off the cutlery on a flannel by the oven.

'Those were from fucking Harrods,' Katie snarled. She topped a flute off with Merlot and thrust it at her affectedly, 'And they were like, ninety quid a pair!'

Emily choked on the alcohol, her eyes watering involuntarily as it seared its way back up her throat. 'Ninety quid? Ninety fucking quid for a pair of knickers? Jesus, Katie, what the actual fuck?' she spluttered. She wiped her mouth carefully and glared at her sister, 'You could've gotten what she actually wanted, for fuck's sake. I mean, if cost isn't the issue here after all!'

'What, Harry Potter? You're saying I should've gotten her the entire boxed set? A six-year-old? Oh, grow up, Ems. She's too young for that sort; she isn't like you,' Katie remarked dryly. 'Don't treat her like your second fucking reincarnation or something. Let her hold her own.'

'She likes to read, Katie! If you'd only bother to talk to her for at least five minutes a bloody day, you'd know that, too. And I am letting her hold her own! She's independent, as it is—we just happen to have the same interests—'

'You spoil her! Look at her,' Katie hissed, dragging Emily by the collar of her jumper and pointing to the sitting room. Jamie lay on her stomach on the carpet, the turtle's scrawny, nearly stuffing-less pink legs slung across her shoulders, and her Barbie dolls scattered about her. She crawled towards a tin of ginger thins by the hearth and stuck her hand in eagerly. 'The dolls, the biscuits, and now, the turtle—you're like, her Father Christmas, for Christ's sake,' Katie muttered grudgingly. 'Oh, my God,' she closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose: Jamie inhaled handful after handful of thins from the tin, the crumbs dropping onto the edge of the carpet. 'She's going to get fat. This is all your fault.'

'Let her eat; just because you're an international cover model with postpartum, doesn't mean your daughter has to be, too,' Emily smiled as Jamie glanced up at her, her mouth smeared with streaks of sugar and cookie crumbs. She returned the little wave sent her way and turned back to look at Katie, 'I'm all she's got. You know I love her senseless; look at her.' She nodded towards her niece fondly, 'When she's got that—'

'Right, that's it,' Katie brushed past her suddenly, striding into the sitting room purposefully. 'Playtime's over, Jamie. Enough of that,' she pushed the tin away from Jamie with her foot and bent down to pull her up rather roughly from the floor. She swept the dolls up and thrust them at her, pushing the turtle down at the top of the pile. 'Go on, say goodnight to your aunt and go to bed. Don't stay up late; go to bed immediately, you understand? Go on, say goodnight,' she nudged Jamie forward with a less-than-gentle push and crossed her arms. Jamie padded tentatively over to Emily, wiping the crumbs from her face with the back of her hand almost ashamedly before leaning up to kiss her.

'I'll see you upstairs, alright?' Emily whispered, bending down to wrap her in a warm hug. 'Don't lock your window.' Jamie beamed brightly and swiveled back, closing a wide detour around the sitting room to avoid contact with her mother before racing up the stairs.

'You could try harder, you know,' Emily muttered quietly, following her niece's retreating back with regretful eyes. 'It isn't any easier for her either.'

'I am trying,' Katie rubbed her forehead in frustration. 'Isn't it obvious? I'm fucking trying. It's gotten a lot better since last year, when I couldn't look at her without wanting to hit her. I'm taking therapy, I'm taking medication—I'm trying,' she sighed tiredly. 'It's difficult for me, too, Emily. It's difficult. When you see her, all you see is a ray of fucking sunshine; I look at her, and—' she closed her eyes and bit her lip. '—I look at her, all I see is him, and everything I've ever done wrong—'

'She's not a fucking mistake,' Emily snapped angrily. 'She's a goddamn blessing, and the best thing that's ever happened to you, to me, to mum—'

'I know, I know,' Katie amended quickly. 'I didn't say she was. I made a mistake, and she's paying for it—it isn't fair, is all. Look,' she glanced at her watch and shuffled her feet restlessly. 'It's getting late, and you need to get back, yeah? We'll be okay. I'm trying, Emily,' she pleaded softly. 'You know I am.'

I had to lop off the second half of this chapter because it was far, far too long as a whole, even for my standards. You probably would've fallen asleep halfway through if I'd slung it all in one go.

How was it? Let me know, my lovelies! You know how I love hearing from you! x