Trauma
I don't own anything from either Mad Dogs or Ashes to Ashes - meddling with the characters - just for fun.
Apologies for the length between updates to this story. Didn't mean for it to be this long.
Afternoon Tea.
She's meeting him. In the afternoon. It's not a date. Not really. It's something on the edge, a fingertip away from touching.
She's told Molly, 'We're just two adults of opposite sexes deciding if we want to get to know each other better.'
Molly was appalled.
In hindsight Alex regrets using the word 'sex' in the sentence which introduced the idea of her meeting a 'man' to her daughter. The combined images of sex and parents creates something of an oxymoron even for a fourteen-year old used to constantly adjusting to difficult circumstances.
They're due to meet at 1 o'clock in a park, in a fashionable part of town. She imagines they'll go from there to somewhere innocuous, somewhere where they can talk but with people around so she doesn't feel pressured by their intimacy. She imagines he would be considerate like that.
They could be two old friends simply spending time together.
Only - she thinks - they're not friends - not really. Besides their shared profession and him being as physically like the one person she's ever felt a real connection to as it is ever possible to be, AND him telling her something it probably took years of marriage for his wife to figure out...she knows nothing about him at all…
Who is she trying to kid?
At their first meeting Quinn let her in further in two hours than Gene did in as many years, but does that make him the better man for it?
She flicks through the clothes occupying her wardrobe. She's searching for something appropriate but she feels estranged from the plain white shirts and blue trouser suits, her old workwear, and her casual wear of t-shirts and jogging bottoms.
She fights off images of her Geneworld self in off-the-shoulder tops and skin-tight jeans. She felt strong and vibrant in her eighties clothes - or was that Gene, did he give her the power? She'd arrived in his world dressed as a prostitute, but the awareness of her sexuality had continued. Initially she'd thought her clothes were a 'fuck you, I'll be whoever I want to be'- to the world she found herself in, but it wasn't her, not really, it was a reflection of Gene. The Alpha in him had made her put everything out there too. Everything on the line. His balls, her breasts.
It was only when she started using her brains that she'd relaxed and learned to appreciate his finer qualities, and hell how she missed them - missed him.
But here was Quinn with other kinds of fine qualities: cultured, polite, and gently playing the game. She might miss the direct approach but post comma she wouldn't be strong enough for a relationship built on confrontation. Gentle and slow is good.
She turns her attention back to her wardrobe.
It would help if she knew exactly where they might go after their stroll in the park, but she doesn't. At least with Gene she had a clear idea what he would like - slutty but not too slutty. She almost smiles as she recalls him asserting his opinion on her undercover outfit when they were going after Simon Neary, taking off her earrings and adjusting her neckline. Then the look of approval on his face when she'd worn that gold lame number to Viv's birthday -
God, why can't she get him out of her head? And why does it hurt so much to remember him?
She's nothing slutty in her wardrobe now and the nearest thing to a little black dress is a finely tailored black silk shirt. She decides to team it with a pair of figure hugging jeans, some strappy heels and a long business jacket - casual yet elegant, a spritz of perfume to give her confidence. She wears her hair down, surprised by it's length. It's spent too long being scraped back from her face it's formed kinks. It gives her hair body, waves rather than curls. The feminine softness suits her mood.
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He's asked her to meet him in a park the day after. It was the first place he'd thought of after Margery came to collect her. Galvanised into action but the prospect of her departure he knew he shouldn't let the opportunity of getting to know her better pass - not after the frankness they'd shared. A little voice might whisper 'she's only agreed to meet you because you look like 'Gene',' but he ignores it.
From his chosen bench he has a good view of her approach. He sits inhaling the scent of cherry blossom from the tree settling him with dappled shade, letting her come to him, enjoying just watching her. She doesn't realise but she wears her vulnerability like an aura, plain for all to see. It makes him want to draw her to him and wrap her in a protective embrace. He can't tell when he became so gallant.
He decides to make an appraisal of what she's wearing - just in case he's required to comment. She's wearing enormous heels with the ease of a ballroom dancer. Of that he approves. It's only when she's closer and turns to face him that he sees the black of her shirt.
The resemblance to another woman, a woman he shot dead, paralyses him. He gapes, his mouth dropped open, limbs limp in shock. He's only brought out of his terror by her huge smile. He starts and stands. Almost on automatic he reaches out for her hand, her arm. Pulling her gently closer to him he bends forward to kiss her cheeks, one after the other, a continental greeting. For once he doesn't think of ponsey foreigners as he does it but wonders why kissing with tongues is called French…
'You look nice,' He falters.
'You too.' She replies with honesty. This time he's wearing shoes and he's looking very dapper in a pale beige suit and dark blue shirt and a loose tie with hints of yellow. Something Gene wouldn't have chosen for himself - she thinks, then berates herself for thinking about Gene again.
He feels impelled to walk, to lead her through the avenue of trees to the river. He makes a gesture with his arm like an old retainer bowing, after you ma'am. She moves ahead graciously and they fall into a slow paced stroll.
'How are you?' He asks awkwardly.
'Fine. And you?' She hoovers between making direct eye contact and stealing sly sideways glances at him. If she could marry all her feelings for Gene and meld them onto this man would she be happy?
'Yes, fine.' Hell even his voice is the same. Will she be able to do it though, fall into a relationship based on her attraction to another man? People keep telling her she needs to move on, but what if in embarking on a relationship with Quinn she forgets Gene, if Quinn overwrites the past - is that what she wants - or needs?
'It's a lovely day.' He comments.
'Yes, lovely.' She responds quietly.
She shouldn't be surprised they're getting stuck on small talk. If she's brutally honest with herself she's only agreed to meet him because he looks like Gene and he's kind but it's not strictly fair of her. Her acceptance could be construed as selfishly manipulative.
She wonders what he's getting out of their meeting, what he wants to get out of their meeting.
'Where are we going?' She asks.
'I thought we'd go to my hotel - ' Her gasp of surprise interrupts his train of conversation and infers a sordid inference - not that he doesn't have designs in that regard, just that he planned on taking a sensitive timely approach - 'no nothing like that' he blusters, realising he's in danger of appearing to protest too much, 'they have a reputation for doing the best afternoon teas in London'.
'Tea and cake, sounds delightful.'
'And rows of little triangle sandwiches…'
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She allows him to place a hand on her back and guide her gently into the entrance foyer and on to the tea rooms. Already their nostrils are being assailed by the aroma of fresh baking. In the airy room the mellow tinkling of a piano being played to relax the listener accompanies the clatter of cutlery and hum of low conversations. It's all very British.
They're welcomed in and shown to a table by a referential waiter with a pleasant smile. Alex feels slightly out of place in jeans but once they're seated she's happier. They take a menu each. She's dazzled by the number of choices on offer.
'Have you been here before, is there anything you can recommend?' She asks him, amused and slightly impressed by his choice of watering hole.
'No, on both counts.' He answers. He must appear more at home in this environment than he feels.
After allowing them time to settle the ever helpful and alert waiter comes to ask their opinion on tea before recommending one of the seventeen or so house varieties.
She watches Quinn answering each question with patience and care, never once appearing rushed or annoyed at the length of the process. She catches sight of his long fingers stroking down the menu and shivers. The memory of her other man, a hot wet and ten sugars man, comes unbidden.
The waiter turns his attention to her, and he's grateful that the ordeal of choosing is over.
'Did you know,' he starts, as they wait for their order to arrive, 'Did you know that Rudyard Kippling started writing Jungle Book in this very room.' She's impressed.
'I wonder what particular aspect of the behaviour of his fellow tea drinkers inspired him.'
'Who knows. It's difficult to imagine the uptight Victorian British letting loose any animalistic behaviours here.'
She considers the gently cultured surroundings, 'No, quite.'
Their tea arrives, exquisite bone china cups and silver service ware.
They each sip their tea -
'What's yours like?' He asks.
'Invigorating. What's yours like?'
'Stimulating.' Their gazes flit from each others eyes to their mouthes and back again - but it's a little too intense. She's thankful to the waiter interrupting the moment with a three tiered stand of sandwiches, warm scones and delicate pastries.
'That looks lovely,' she gasps, throwing him an excited smile. He's pleased beyond words by her response.
'It does indeed. What shall we try first?' He rubs his hands in anticipation.
'I think I'll forgo the sandwiches and try the scones. Would be a shame to let them go cold.'
She helps herself to a scone nestling under a napkin and transfers it to her plate. He watches her as she expertly cuts it open into equal halves. She spreads the thick cream on one half then lifts a helping of strawberry jam onto her knife. She's mid transfer to the scone when a child dashing across the floor bumps her elbow sending the precariously balanced jam onto her black shirt.
'Urgh!' She cries, half in annoyance and half amused - but then she sees his face. Something is very wrong. He's shaking as if in deep shock, his eyes locked onto the jam on her breast as if he's seeing something else there, re-living another event that she has no part of.
