Chapter 10 – Oh, You're Angry With Me
Sherlock's eyes flicked over to Violet while he paid for her pre-made salad at the self-service checkout. She was pretending to be interested in the gift chocolates, but he saw her eyes drift upwards toward the shelves of liquor. He didn't know why that concerned him so much, but he wished Violet had waited outside in the street for him. He only came in to pay because she hadn't brought along her purse to their surveillance of Chenoa Burton.
Violet had picked up the salad she wanted, then placed it down again, so Sherlock knew which one to buy. With her hoody pulled up over her head, and her intention not to purchase anything, she came off looking like a dodgy shoplifter, and definitely not like a TV soap star. Although the two weren't exactly mutually exclusive, Sherlock thought in hindsight.
Out on the street, Sherlock signaled for a cab. They employed the routine they had thought up on the night of Saturday's dinner party, for getting them both discreetly back to Baker Street using the same cab. When the taxi pulled up, Sherlock opened the door for himself, but left a wide enough gap for some rude female to push her way in before him. Still, no reason why they couldn't share a cab, so he had climbed in after her.
This evening, Violet was lost in her own thoughts, and she stared out of the cab window at London's night life, as if they were strangers anyway.
"Are you sure you wanted this one?" Sherlock asked, holding out the salad. "Looks like it's got broken bits of noodles in it."
"It's an Asian salad," Violet replied, her attention remaining firmly fixed on the view outside the cab.
Sherlock's insides flip-flopped. He wanted to reach for her but she had been putting some distance between them ever since the week began, and incident after incident had occurred to put Violet in this dark place that she kept defaulting to whenever Sherlock couldn't distract her with something else. The surveillance of her co-star had been the biggest distraction this week, but now its results only added to Violet's growing list of things to be pissed off about.
The week began with the bogus Twitter account, and a confrontation with Alice, resulting in Alice kicking Violet out of the flat they shared with Spencer in Crouch End. While Violet and Alice were at their respective jobs on Tuesday, Sherlock Holmes—who obviously had nothing better to do, being a well-respected, brilliant but self-employed detective-genius—had the unenviable task of hiring a moving van, and getting all of Violet's possessions packed up, and transported to her dad's flat at the Brassworks. Not Baker Street.
"Don't get upset that I'm not moving in with you, Sherlock. We've already discussed this, and this week, of all weeks, I don't need another argument."
Cue Tuesday afternoon's disappointment: Violet's agent informed her that she didn't get a call back for the mini-series Catherine Hilderness, in which she had been put up for the role of the younger version of the titular character. Violet had said to Sherlock that it was fine, and clearly she was all wrong for the part, and anyway, Sir Henry Masters, as both Executive Producer and leading male, had never made a secret of his dislike of young soap actors, and all the hype that went with them, especially ones who hadn't been through drama school. And obviously, Violet looked nothing like a young Ursula Aldman, the award-winning actress rumoured to have snared the main role as Catherine in her mature years.
Sherlock had bit his tongue at the mention of the names Sir Henry Masters, Ursula Aldman and even Damian Oakeshott, apparently a renowned and respected director, who had attended Violet's audition. Violet was bloody lucky Sherlock was even listening to her. Every name was now stored permanently in his Mind Palace, taking up precious storage space. But what did she care. At least she was fine, and her boyfriend was being very supportive by not saying a word against this ridiculous industry in which she strived to exist.
So they had arrived at Wednesday evening, bristling with unspoken words and arguments Sherlock longed to have, even just to clear the air. With Violet venting about how smug and mysterious Chenoa had been acting of late, about her unnamed new lover, Sherlock had suggested this evening's surveillance, reminding Violet of his promise to teach her how to stalk someone properly.
But now she was all sullen again as a result of finding out that her co-star was more than likely having an affair with one of Regency Road's Executive Producers—and more alarmingly, a possible murderer—and she was ignoring Sherlock as they took a cab back to Baker Street.
Baker Street. Now that was another sore point. Violet had stayed at the Brassworks on Monday and Tuesday nights, since she had moved out of Crouch End, and Sherlock had declined invitations to stay over both nights.
"There's nobody else there," Violet had argued. "Dad's practically living in Bristol now, for work, and I don't have any annoying flatmates."
"But you still only have a single bed."
"So we can cuddle."
"And I like to roll away from you… on occasion."
And then there was the silence that followed every such 'discussion.'
Sherlock studied Violet as she continued looking away from him. He could reach out and hold her hand, giving her a reassuring smile that told her of his unwavering support for all of her stupid decisions, or he could prod and poke her while she was in a vulnerable state until she broke down and told him things he wouldn't normally get out of her.
Like anecdotes about Jacob Venucci.
Sherlock had banished both his Mind Palace alter-egos long ago—the ones that had persisted on taking the forms of his brother and his former flatmate, but he still found himself struggling to motivate himself out of reasons of logic or reasons of love.
Sherlock reached out and clasped Violet's hand. She turned her head and met his warm, affectionate, supportive boyfriend gaze.
"I'm thinking of going to Manchester," he said.
-o-
Violet had to clear the air. The weekend was looming and she and Sherlock were not talking. She hated that he'd left for the North on Thursday after they'd exchanged heated words on Wednesday night, resulting in Violet storming out of Baker Street. She knew she'd been a pain in the arse since the start of the week, and as Sherlock had quite rightly pointed out, none of it had been his fault, yet he bore the brunt of her foul mood.
Her telltale response of "fine" on Wednesday night was the last straw for Sherlock. He had become sullen himself in the cab at her reaction, or lack of reaction, to his suggestion that he travel to Manchester to investigate the cold case of John Douglas's murder.
Neither of them spoke for the rest of the cab journey back to Baker Street. On reaching Sherlock's flat, Violet had asked Sherlock if he wanted any of the salad, and he'd replied, "No, I'll be fine for a bit."
This had prompted Violet to snap at his lack of care for his health, and the issue over whether there was even enough salad to share between the two of them escalated into a general argument about who took whom for granted. Sherlock then highlighted all of the things he'd done for Violet that week, which included, but was not limited to, making small-talk with moronic flatmates, hacking a Twitter account for her, co-ordinating removalists—"and folding all of your clothes that had been hastily shoved into your wardrobe, while loose tampons spilled out from their boxes. Did you know they'd multiplied in the back of your wardrobe?"— stalking a soap star, and having to put up with her dad's neighbour threatening to call the police on him for breaking into the Brassworks, even though Sherlock now possessed an access card, courtesy of Violet's dad.
"And how many actual cases have I worked on in the past week? Hmm? Just the one, on Saturday, and even then I incurred your wrath over it. I'm a Consulting Detective for Christ's sake. Not Violet Hunter's personal assistant."
And so Violet had left Baker Street that night, and Sherlock had departed London for Manchester the very next morning.
Violet spent all day Thursday at the studio dwelling on and replaying her argument with Sherlock in her head. With every passing minute, her heart would stutter and stall, and she knew she was at fault. She rang him as soon as she left her dressing room and was out of the studio lot, to ask him if she could come over and apologise. Naturally, she was stunned to learn that he wasn't in London.
"Why are you in Manchester?" she'd asked. "We didn't discuss it... we didn't even agree that you could go."
"And why would we? I don't need your permission to work on a case, Violet."
"But Jake—"
"—is clearly the centre of your fucking universe, but he hardly rates as anything in mine."
She'd hung up on him after his comment, then immediately regretted it—both the hanging up and the mentioning of Jake. She carried that regret like a dull period pain all the next day. So Sherlock had still been angry with her, so much so that he had cursed. The centre of her universe? Was it so wrong that she had been concerned about Sherlock and Jake existing in the same city? Jake had been to London quite a few times now, but she hadn't feared for Sherlock then. There was, however, something unsettling about Sherlock visiting Manchester.
Was it needy that she wanted to call him again? Why didn't he phone her? What if he'd decided he didn't want this relationship anymore? That his cases were more important than his high-maintenance girlfriend? What if this was Poland all over again, and he didn't return for three weeks? Would he be cold to her again?
Their current argument had lasted two days now, and anxiety and panic had crept into her heart and had made themselves at home.
Violet secretly hoped that Sherlock would be back in London now. She curled her legs underneath her as she sat on her dad's sofa and dialled his number.
Please answer. Don't let it go to Messages.
"Hello."
His voice was pitched low, but it exuded warmth, tenderness, affection.
Love.
A tiny bubble of joy swelled inside her heart.
"I'm sorry." Her voice felt thin and wispy. Grow some, Violet! "It's just that I worry about you unnecessarily. I've got no right to tell you where you can and can't go, and you know I respect your work enormously—"
"Violet."
"But I've just got so much on my mind and I can't compartmentalise like you can. I know that's not a good enough excuse for treating you—"
"Violet, it's fine."
Sherlock's reassuring tone soothed and comforted directly into her ear through the phone's speaker. Violet closed her eyes briefly and exhaled slowly when she felt a pressure building up behind her tear ducts. She'd been worrying for nothing. Of course he still loved her. You idiot, Vi!
"Perhaps when you're having a break from your case," she said, "we can spend some time together."
"I'd like that."
This was beginning to sound like she was asking for a second date. She added, quite pathetically, "So, whenever you're free…"
"I won't be back in London until tomorrow, or Sunday…"
Tomorrow! He's not back in London yet?
"But, actually, I was thinking," Sherlock continued, oblivious to Violet's disappointment. "I've been doing a bit of research, and I've uncovered that Lauren Myrtle was murdered in a seedy little hotel on the outskirts of Birmingham."
"Yes, I know that."
"So I could stop there and check around. I have contacts in the West Midlands CID. See if I can dig up anything about her case."
Violet's immediate reaction was purely selfish, she knew that. She wanted him home!
"That's… that's a good idea," she replied—to herself, unconvincingly, to Sherlock? Who knew, for the detective's tone immediately changed.
He quickly told Violet had he had to go. She learnt that he was standing on the banks of the River Irwell, and he was waiting for a Greater Manchester Police CID detective to retrieve a map from the car. With promises to phone her over the weekend to keep her updated on his movements, Sherlock ended the call.
Violet snuggled deeper into the back of the sofa. She was hoping Sherlock had been sitting in some lonely hotel room in Manchester, and they would settle in for the night with him telling her quite detailed deductions and theories, while she curled up and drifted off to sleep listening to his voice.
Of course, she would've had to make excuses to Mandi for standing her up tonight, but now there would be no need.
Violet wearily took herself to the bathroom to get ready for the night ahead. Mandi was taking her to a Hen Party for a woman Violet only vaguely knew. Mandi and the Hen worked together behind the Cleo de Thebes perfume counter in Selfridges. A Hen Party was probably the worst kind of night out for someone who was trying to curb their alcohol intake, but Violet quite successfully stuck to three white wines before extricating herself when the shot glasses came out.
When she returned to her dad's flat at the Brassworks, she felt she had to stay awake and alert, or at least sleep on the sofa. Mandi was supposed to be staying the night, it being a closer place to crash than travelling all the way to her flat in the Aylesbury Estate. Violet dutifully made herself available and buzzed Mandi in at a little after 2am.
She then spent most of Saturday morning getting Mandi into some kind of acceptable state for a fashion show, Selfridges Spring Collection, in the afternoon. Violet and a handful of her Regency co-stars were invited to attend. Their invitations stated that they could bring one guest, and Violet had promised to take Mandi weeks ago—not that Violet would've wanted to bring along her boyfriend instead, now that they'd reconciled. Violet smiled to herself at the idea that Sherlock Holmes, with his aloof demeanour and sharp looks, would be better suited to strutting the catwalk than sitting in the audience of a fashion show.
As it was, Mandi sat next to Violet, and complained, in a volume only just one notch below discreet, that they should be sitting in the front row, not the third.
"It's a fashion show in a department store, not the Burberry Collection," Violet murmured back. "And I'm not an A-lister."
"Well why is the Member for Whatever getting to sit in the front row with her husband, for God's sake! What do politicians have to do with fashion?"
"Mandi, shush!"
Violet was thankful that Mandi felt re-energised for a second big night out with another group of friends. This gave Violet the chance to have a quiet night in, grab her favourite pre-made salad from the local Tesco Express, and settle in to read Canning Town. She had put Catherine Hilderness aside.
The whole audition process and subsequent wait to find out she wasn't going to be seen again for the mini-series was ego-crushingly disappointing. She had tried to convince herself of the benefits of the audition—she had met and impressed Jamie Rho-Katten, who was quite a successful casting director, contracted quite a few times by the BBC, and she was sure the director, Damian Oakeshott thought favourably of Violet as well. It was just a pity the producer and male lead, Sir Henry Masters, had no interest in even seeing her. What an old-school, snooty bastard! What ever happened to trusting the opinion of the casting director? Wasn't that their job—casting?
Violet eventually threw aside her novel, and scoured both Netflix on her computer and Sky Movies on her dad's TV for a movie featuring Ursula Aldman in her heyday. She watched snippets on YouTube, then spent a bit of time, probably too long actually, pulling faces in the bathroom mirror—Ursula Aldman-type faces—and thinking she could definitely match Aldman's adult Catherine with her own younger version.
Cunts! she thought viciously, then immediately felt guilty at her show of poor sportsmanship. No, it was only poor sportsmanship if she felt ill of the actress who won the part over her, and they hadn't announced the casting for the role yet.
Violet flopped onto her bed, feeling the exhaustion of a day spent molly-coddling her best friend. The prospect of unemployment loomed, that empty void between roles, that could stretch endlessly til the rest of her days. It was the unknown that terrified her.
She vowed to shut that down, just like she always did; she'd prop herself up with positive self-talk, promises to eat healthily and take regular exercise. With this in mind, Violet decided to turn in early and wake refreshed with enough enthusiasm to go for a jog around Hyde Park. She no longer had the convenience of the Islington Boxing club just up the road. When she had lived with her dad last year, she had jogged on a few occasions on a five mile route through the north to the east of the park that also took her alongside the Serpentine in the middle. It was quite pleasant in the early hours. Perhaps if she stuck to a regular routine, she could work up to the ten mile route.
True to her plans, Violet rose the next morning full of energy. She quickly dressed before the burdens of her negative self could weigh her down. After splashing cold water on her face, she regarded her reflection in the mirror above the basin. Violet displayed her best Ursula Aldman expression, circa 1990, and delivered her killer line to the Hilderness antagonist, Mr Milverton, to be portrayed by Sir Henry. She frowned, laughed to herself, then hastily left the Brassworks.
So hastily, in fact, that she had forgotten her music. But at least she remembered her drink bottle. It was ultimately fine though, as she listened to the rhythm of her trainers pounding the pavement. It brought her focus.
She should ring Jamie Rho-Katten, the casting director, she thought as she jogged along. And ask to read for Sir Henry. No… demand. Take control of her own destiny, and cut out the middle man, in this case her agent, Polly Stoper. Did successful actors do that? Or was she crossing the line? Could she be blacklisted by the casting director for being overly demanding?
It wasn't long before Violet had settled into a good rhythm along North Carriage Drive, the road that skirted the northern perimeter of Hyde Park. Lost in her own thoughts she eventually became aware of a car slowing down beside her. She willed it to continue past and hoped it wasn't some Regency fan who had recognised her. But the car accelerated a little before pulling up at the kerb a few metres in front of her. The rear door swung open.
Violet was in two minds about sprinting past the car, or veering off the footpath and taking off into the park.
"Vi."
His voice was unmistakeable.
Jake.
-oOo-