Things went downhill from there. Emma's unease started to build soon after they had entered her home, and the family had gone through the standard greetings. While mother and her older sister worked on dinner, the two daughters and fathers sat down at the table, one family on each side. After a brief period of uneasy silence, Taylor broke the ice, asking what they thought about Chinese food, something both men turned out to have opinions on. And once the conversation had started, it kept on going, and the uneasiness built in Emma.
It took an embarrassing amount of time for her to figure out why: Taylor wasn't. Uneasy, that is. She wasn't acting like she was sitting at the table with her tormentor, an old friend who had betrayed her, or like one who desperately wished to be somewhere else, away from people and prying eyes. Instead, she was acting like this was a totally normal evening. In fact, if she didn't know better, and it was very hard to see the signs, it seemed like Taylor was enjoying herself. She was almost acting like she had before her mother had died. No, even back then, Taylor had preferred to fade into the background at any social event, even a small one like this. Instead, she was leading the conversation, becoming the center of attention. Taylor had never been this confident.
"And what about you Emma? How's the modeling going?" Did, did Taylor just ask how she was doing? What the hell was with that tone? How the hell could that wimpy twerp sound friendly! What the hell was going on!?
And she realized she had been staring slack jawed at the wimp like she'd just seen a unicorn. She did her best to recover. "Oh, it's going very well. I'm starting to learn the terminology of the business, lots of insider speak one has to learn to really fit in."
"Have you been getting paid much yet? You're so lucky to have a job, given the conditions of Brockton Bay."
Ugh, just fake it girl, you know you can do that. Don't let that bitch pull another embarrassment like that on you. "Well, I'm paid on a commission per shoot. Mostly I'm still at the, how do you call it, intern stage of my career, so shoots are currently paid worse than minimum wage given how much time they really take, but I'm getting exposure, and just this month I'm going to be getting my first real modeling job. Going to be front and center in an ad for a new phone coming out. How about you Taylor, how's your life going? I'd really like to hear some more about this 'Kirby' fellow." She gave a smirk. That would trip the arrogant bitch up and wipe that far too friendly smile off her face.
And it did, for about five seconds. "Oh, him. He's a pretty great guy, as far as I can tell. I didn't meet him all that long ago, and I've actually talked with him even less, but the time I've spent with him so far has been utterly wonderful. He's well spoken, strong willed, a persuasive speaker, funny, and has a very sexy British accent, at least if I say so myself. A bit on the lanky side for my tastes, but it's a strong dignified lanky, and no one's perfect, though he does seem to come close." She caught a worried look from her father. " At least from the pictures he's sent, he lives too far away to actually visit in person, which I must say is quite a shame, don't you agree?"
The whole table could do nothing but stare. Where the hell had that come from? Emma, for once, had no idea how to springboard off of that. She had been prepared for evasion, or denial, or muted acknowledgement of the affair. But a full throated declaration of, what? Was that love? Adoration? Hots for British people? Where the hell did she go from that?
Taylor seemed a bit at a loss as well, bearing a look first of confusion, then muted anger, which she did very well to hide. "Excuse me, but I have to go wash my, well, hand. Let me know when dinner is ready. This might take a while . . . learning to wash with one hand."
"Um, do you need help, darling?"
"No no father, just stay here and enjoy the company. I'll manage on my own just fine." And at that she rushed out of the room as quickly as she could without appearing to be rushing out of the room.
"Emma, go help your mother and sister in the Kitchen." That had been her father.
"But-"
"No." He let out a tired sigh. "I'm not in the mood to fight you. Now, go help your mother with the food." Catching the change in the wind, Emma begrudgingly left, stopping in the hallway just around the corner to listen in a bit on the two fathers, with Danny starting an impassioned conversation while her dad tried to serve as the voice of reason. Figures.
She decided to "take the long way" from the dining room to the Kitchen, which just so happened to take her past the bathroom Taylor had retreated to, in which she was engaged in a bit of incomprehensible, borderline incoherent yelling, which suddenly ceased when she got close. Emma took that as her cue to keep moving on, and quickly.
Taylor arrived back at the table five minutes late, but she seemed to have re-centered herself and was back to that disorienting, cheerful and friendly mood. Emma tried, but couldn't trip her up, and she seemed to be winning everyone else over. Taylor was, figuratively speaking, the life of the party, and that made absolutely no sense.
The worst part remained whenever Taylor tried to talk to her, sounding just like- just like her old friend, as if nothing bad had ever happened to, or between, either of them. She would even fracking reminisce about the old times, and her stupid parents were helping her, talking about that adventure out in the woods when they were 10, that disastrous birthday party they attended in the 6th grade, that sort of accidental prank they pulled on her sister and the righteous vengeance she meted against them in return. It was more than she could take, and she asked to be excused from the table, though she didn't wait for permission, and quickly retreated to her room, and locked herself in.
Once she was safely locked away, alone, she let out a frustrated growl and tugged at her hair. What game was that girl playing. Emma had lost. She knew that much, the one who retreats and locks themselves away is rarely the winner, but she couldn't figure out how she had lost, because she couldn't figure out what the game was. And if she didn't know what game Taylor was playing here, there was no way she could know what the rules and goals were.
That was the problem, she realized. Somehow, at least tonight, the two for them were no longer playing Emma's game, playing by her rules and her goals, where Taylor never stood a chance. Taylor had changed the rules, changed the game, and was on the offensive, a predator going after its prey. And there was only one possible prey tonight.
She had to do something, had to turn the tables. Call Sophia? She was supposed to come over sometime tonight anyways, once she had finished up some ward stuff. No, Sophia didn't like to be called while at work, and what would she tell her? That Taylor was being happy and talking to me? She could hear it now: "oh, of course Emma, I'll rush over there to protect you from Taylor's big, scary smile. Be careful to not let her overpower you with her one unbroken hand." There was no way she could word this without coming across as weak and pathetic.
Jump out the window? Run away? No, retreating more was not how one recovered from an already disastrous retreat. That would merely change a . . . a tactical withdrawal into a rout. No, she had to think up a good counterattack, and soon. So why couldn't she think of anything to do?
And then there was a knock at the door.
