Chapter 24 - You're This Far From Famous
During the week leading up to the TELSAs, every time Violet's phone had rung with an unidentified number, she thought it could be Jake. Sherlock, of course, had noticed her apprehension, and finally told her to store the numbers in her phone so she'd have a better chance at identifying who was calling next time. It turned out the repeated callers belonged to only two parties that she should've stored in her contacts anyway: another assistant to Polly Stoper, Violet's talent agent, and the studio's publicist, whose name kept eluding Violet. And she was usually very good with names. It must be the stress, she had thought.
The phone calls resulted in a handful of pre-TELSA interviews, the knowledge of which bemused Sherlock. Two of them were to take place in coffee shops, and Violet had fluttered about wondering what to wear, and should she order tea or coffee, and if she did, should she drink it in front of them? It was the teaspoons, you see, she'd explained to Sherlock. She might sip from her teaspoon. It was a bad habit, she knew, and one she did without thinking. Sherlock had just rolled his eyes and tutted, returning to his microscope, doing his best to ignore Violet.
And then there was the annoyingly casual attitude Sherlock had taken in regard to picking up his tuxedo. Violet had stressed that he should keep on top of these things, because she didn't know how he had managed to request a bespoke suit with only one week's notice when Spencer had to order one a month ago. She had become frustrated by Sherlock's enigmatic smile and kept threatening to buy him one off the rack.
He had replied indifferently, "Look, do that if it makes you feel better, but rest assured I won't be needing it."
Violet hadn't gone shopping for a backup suit, because she'd been far too busy anyway. But while she was out on Friday, firstly to attend a group interview on Brekky TV for Regency Road's nominated actors, and later getting her hair dyed back to her natural shade of blonde having shot her last scenes, apparently Victor Trevor from Trevor & Vernet had personally come around to the flat for Sherlock's final fitting, with assurances that the suit would then be delivered to the hotel on Saturday.
Violet didn't get to see the suit in advance, and Sherlock had not commented on her hair.
"But what if it doesn't match?" Violet had asked Sherlock, referring to her gown and his tux.
"An award-winning fashion designer has ensured that it does, Violet. Stop worrying about nothing. And don't think I haven't noticed your hair. Just remember that I never fail to tell you anything I dislike in the most brutal and succinct manner possible. The fact that I've said nothing should tell you that I view your colour change in a positive light."
"What?"
"It softens your face. And anything that achieves that feat can only be a good thing in my book."
Violet had struggled with curbing her growing annoyance, but she managed to disengage. She silently shot Sherlock a look then had retreated to his bathroom, disrobed and drew herself a hot bath. There she stayed for over an hour, even going so far as to let some of the water out and refill it so that it stayed at a comfortable temperature. She had known that Sherlock's remarks were probably as complimentary as they were going to get, but she had still wanted to remove herself from his company before she said something she'd regret.
Sherlock did brave an appearance eventually, asking if she'd like a cup of tea, or would she prefer him? One corner of his mouth had quirked into a smile indicating all sorts of promises if only she'd take him up on his offer. She declared that she'd consumed more than enough of caffeinated drinks that day, and not so much of a detective-genius.
Sherlock's smile had spread across his face at her response and he said he'd just go lock all the doors. That statement alone gave Violet shivers. It meant that Sherlock was in one of those moods. And she would be the sole beneficiary, of this she was sure.
But his casual attitude had extended into the next day, the day of the TELSAs. Naturally, this had caused Violet even more stress, despite his selfless attention to her needs the night before. Violet had to be at the hotel hours earlier, as the studio had provided a whole day of pampering for their nominated stars and studio executives, which included hair, make-up, massages, manicures and pedicures, lunch and gift bags.
On her departure from the flat, Violet had called out to Sherlock to remember to bring her overnight bag, as well as purchase for her a little purse pack of tissues in case she became emotional later. She should've known his response of "mm" meant he hadn't been listening. Would she never learn?
But perhaps Sherlock hadn't been so relaxed after all. Once Gordon had attended to Sherlock's hair and had left them alone for the few minutes before they were required in the hotel lobby downstairs, Sherlock had begun pacing—one sure sign that he was now entering meltdown mode himself. Violet had witnessed this once before: just before Alice's play when Sherlock confessed that he was unable to attend the theatre because, he had said, it was "too contrived, full of idiots, and devoid of all that's disturbing and evil in this world and therefore excruciatingly painful to watch."
Violet had thought she'd circumvent his possible meltdown by suggesting he have one drink in the lobby while they waited for the limousines to arrive. Watching him return from the bathroom now, she wondered just how many drinks he'd managed to consume while she had been getting her photo taken. He was having a good time, and that was the most alarming realisation of all.
"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked once he'd stopped in front of Violet.
"You look so handsome," she replied, reaching up to straighten the bow-tie that didn't need straightening.
"I know," Sherlock replied, his eyes dulled by inebriation.
Violet sighed, knowing that a return compliment would not be forthcoming.
"But know this," Sherlock said, bowing his head and speaking directly into Violet's ear. "I am the luckiest man here tonight."
Perhaps she was wrong about the return compliment. As he straightened up, Violet fixed her boyfriend with a tender loving smile and waited for further terms of endearment. But then he added, "So… is snogging allowed in this… limo?"
"Sherlock! No!"
His face fell.
"Why not?"
"Because we're sharing a limo with—"
"Sharing?"
Violet should've known that her explanation about the day's logistics had fallen on deaf ears that morning. She'd already turned up to the hotel room to find that Sherlock had forgotten to bring her overnight bag along.
She sighed heavily, then continued. "Yes. Sharing. With Priyal and Chenoa and their dates. Although with Chenoa not being here yet, I don't know if we should wait for her."
"Chenoa? But that means…What'sHisName…"
"Yes. Stuart Jire. If that's who she's bringing."
"No," Sherlock said, moving closer to Violet to speak at a confidential pitch. "That's not what I was going to say. That could mean she's no longer with him. Look."
They both turned to stare in the same direction at the exact moment that the studio's seediest executive, Stuart Jire, turned to face them. He gave a small wave in recognition and, to Violet's horror, made a beeline for them.
Sherlock stood taller and cleared his throat.
"Violet Hunter!" Jire said, waggling a finger at her as if she were a mischievous child. "Blonde again."
Violet ignored whatever that poor excuse for a compliment was (was it?) and quickly introduced Sherlock.
"Stuart Jire," the older man said, firmly shaking Sherlock's hand. Then he immediately turned back to the actress and added, with a wink, "Daisy Firmington." And then he left, immediately seizing another hapless young actor's hand and greeting him with "Stuart Jire." The studio executive left bemused actors in his wake as he pressed hands with everybody in the near vicinity.
"Fucking hell," Violet muttered.
"Daisy Firmington?" Sherlock asked.
"You know… Black Daisy? The password Alice chose for me when she created a fake Twitter account on my behalf?"
Sherlock knitted his brows together. "Mmm. I remember the password, but not its origin."
Violet exhaled deeply. It was a long story. Well, not that long—just.. stupid.
"Spence's brother, Jesse," she began. "You've never met him. He once mentioned that I look like this American actress called Daisy Firmington. She's dead, by the way. Died of a drug overdose…"
"Charming."
"And when I dyed my hair black for Regency Road, Alice thought it would be funny to call me Black Daisy."
"Hilarious."
"I know. It's stupid, but she knew the whole Daisy Firmington thing annoyed me so she took great joy in giving me a new nickname."
"And Jire heard about this?"
"No. Not at all. He just thinks the same thing, independently."
"Right," said Sherlock, determinedly pulling out his phone.
"What?"
"Let's settle this once and for all."
Violet stood by patiently while she waited for Sherlock to navigate the internet on his phone. At that moment, Lila, Priyal's girlfriend, rushed up to them.
"The car's here," she bid Violet.
"But Chenoa…?" Violet replied.
Lila reassured Violet that Chenoa had just arrived and was waiting at the entrance with her date.
"Cute guy. Nice arse," Lila said, laughing. "She only met him a few days ago."
Lila turned and sped off ahead of them.
"Sherlock, come on!" Violet urged her boyfriend, gently tugging on his arm.
Sherlock allowed himself to be directed across the lobby as he deposited his phone back into his pocket. Violet clasped his hand and was walking at a break-neck speed for one so high in heel.
"I see it now," Sherlock ventured.
"What?" Violet said, pulling up at the hotel's revolving doors. There was a bit of a bottleneck with the group trying to exit.
"Why people say you resemble her."
"What?" Violet said again, half-distracted by the crowd. "Oh," she added, when she finally realised that Sherlock was referring to their previous topic of conversation.
"You look like Daisy Firmington when you do that fake smile," he explained.
"What fake smile?"
"The one you use on people you don't like."
It took a few seconds for Violet to register what Sherlock was saying. She gave him a tiny smile in response. Of course he knew how to read her expressions, on occasion. When it pertained to something he'd done wrong, naturally he remained clueless. But he'd know when she felt uncomfortable in someone else's presence, and her accompanying expression wouldn't be a look she'd ever direct at him personally.
But these people... Violet quickly glanced around, her face leeching of colour. These people were her peers, mentors, bosses, and toughest critics. And there would be a theatre full of them. Her type of people, but not necessarily with her. Quite possibly against her, and scrutinising her.
Violet's chest began to feel tight and the surrounding air, oppressive. Her skin prickled and a flush crept across her cheeks. Violet knew that within a minute, she could succumb to a full-blown panic attack. It had happened on several occasions in her past. But in this moment, she felt Sherlock's hand grasp hers and squeeze. She looked up at him. He had a faint smile on his lips. He knows exactly what I'm going through, she thought.
As the crowd of Regency Road entertainment industry types squeezed through the revolving door, Violet concentrated on her breathing and the warmth of Sherlock's hand. When they reached the fresh air outside the hotel she inhaled deeply.
"You'll be fine," Sherlock murmured to her as they stopped on the pavement as the procession of limousines snaking their way along the hotel's driveway idled in front of them.
Violet leant in closer to Sherlock and felt his arm band around her. Of course she would be fine.
-o-
John Watson fiercely shushed everyone and said, "It's starting!" He reached over and un-muted the television.
"Oh, it's the red carpet!" Mrs Hudson said, stating the obvious. "Quick keep an eye out!"
"Don't worry, Mrs Hudson," the doctor reassured his former landlady. "Sherlock just texted. They're twenty minutes away, and they're in some sort of limousine queue."
The TELSAs telecast broke for advertisements, the last one in the segment being a trailer for Regency Road.
"Oh," Molly Hooper exclaimed. "Is that the show she was on?"
"Have you never watched Regency Road, Moll?" Lestrade asked Sherlock Holmes's favourite pathologist.
They were seated together on one of Mrs Hudson's comfortable sofas. Molly wrinkled her nose and shook her head.
"I haven't seen it in years," Lestrade continued, stretching out his legs comfortably in front of him. "It's one of those shows you could miss for a whole decade, and when you catch it again, it's got the same people faffing about doing much the same thing."
Mrs Hudson clucked her tongue. "Oh, that's not really fair," she said, frowning at the Detective Inspector. "There are only three original characters left now that old Mr Pederson had a heart attack last month."
"You know," the DI said, ignoring his hostess's remark and punctuating the air with his glass as he propped his elbow on the arm of the sofa. "I wouldn't have recognised Violet on the show if John hadn't pointed her out to me."
"I think she plays the part well," Mary offered. "Petulant teenage girl, if a bit heavy on the eye-liner."
John Watson snorted at a recent memory, and said, "You've should've seen Sherlock poring over magazine pictures of her. Quite a bizarre sight really. Grown man. Teenage girl."
"Well I thought it was very sweet," Mrs Hudson said. "Keeping an eye on her like that. He even bought me a magazine subscription to—"
"That wasn't for you, Mrs Hudson," John interjected, chuckling lightly.
"Well I give them a year," Lestrade declared.
There was an explosion of protests around the room, so the DI sought to explain himself.
"You know how these celebrity romances go. And Baker Street's finest has got an ego bigger than most of the celebrities on the telly. I can't see them lasting at all. Sorry, but it's best to be realistic about these things. Didn't they already break up after dating for like, what... two minutes?"
"That..." John began, pointing a finger into the air, "...wasn't because of anything either one of them did. Put that breakup down to an interfering sibling."
But Lestrade clearly wouldn't let the matter rest. He shrugged and said, "Look, I know Sherlock's a good man and all that, and I wish him the very best. I really do. I just don't think this relationship is a match made in heaven."
Mary leant forward in her seat and said, "You know, Greg, you really—"
"To be fair, I've only met Violet a couple of times..."
"Exactly," Mary remarked pointedly.
"But they're a bit like chalk and cheese aren't they?"
"Ah," Mrs Hudson added, tilting her head and bringing her hand to her throat. She stared thoughtfully into the air and said, dreamily, "That was the way with Frank and I."
Four pairs of eyes all widened simultaneously, and John hastened to exclaim, "Oh, is that Violet's limo?"
Of course it wasn't, but the doctor turned up the volume on the TV anyway as the presenters announced the arrival of a couple from a rival soap.
-o-
Sherlock struggled to recall a snippet, any snippet, of what Violet had possibly told him about the schedule for the evening. It was lucky that Priyal's girlfriend, Lila, was telling Chenoa's date, Rick, Mick or Dick—Sherlock couldn't remember, nor did he care—about what was required of the actors' escorts once they arrived at the theatre. Violet was staring silently out of the window, but she hadn't let go of Sherlock's hand once they'd seated themselves in the limousine.
By the time the car had inched forward alongside the theatre, excitement inside the limousine had reached a peak. Sherlock had successfully filtered most, if not all, of the enthusiastic conversation, except whenever Violet would contribute. Thankfully, his girlfriend kept her comments only one notch above delighted.
Sherlock examined the scene out of the car window, taking in the security and various event personnel standing by. A steward stood examining a clipboard in expectation of referencing the VIPs who were arriving in this particular vehicle. Behind the event personnel stretched the red carpet. The red carpet, Sherlock noted, and until now, he had wondered why John Watson had made such a big deal about it. Because up until now, Sherlock had just assumed that the carpet, regardless of colour, would be merely a surface upon which they'd tread from limousine door to theatre door. With the number of people milling about on said carpet and curiously another significant number restricted by barricades on either side, Sherlock couldn't even see the theatre door.
Their limo door was opened by a steward, and prior to climbing out, Violet turned to Sherlock and said, "Are you right? Do you know where to go?"
"Yes. Perfectly fine," he answered.
Actors to the left, accessories to the right, he mused, as Violet, Priyal and Chenoa all climbed out to be set upon by meeters and greeters, while he, Lila, and Chenoa's anonymous date left the car via the right-hand side, and rounded the rear of the limo, before stepping up onto the pavement.
A steward directed Sherlock's group to stand on the left-hand side of the red carpet while the Regency Road actresses posed for a photograph before a burly, bearded man in a long black coat. The photographer wore at least two other SLR cameras around in his neck in addition to the one he now pointed at Sherlock's girlfriend.
"And the circus begins," Lila murmured to Sherlock, while Chenoa's date craned his neck in order to see along the red carpet.
Circus, indeed, Sherlock thought, his stomach clenching in a mild horror.
-oOo-