Christian sat at a table outside of a bustling café. His hands were wrapped around a cup of coffee; a half eaten baguette sat on a plate next to the cup. His mind swirled as he thought over the conversation he'd just had.
Somehow, Zidler had located him. He couldn't imagine how, as he'd thought he'd lost himself pretty well in the mess that was called Paris. Never writing under his real name, never coming into the Moulin Rouge. His only downfall was probably that he still spoke to Toulouse, and still lived in that same damned building. He supposed it shouldn't have surprised him.
"We need you back, boy," Zidler had said in his gravelly voice.
Christian had stared at him. "I'm hardly a boy anymore, Harold," he'd said.
Zidler had flushed. "Yes, yes, well, of course, you're right…Christian." His rouged cheeks had blushed prettily as he folded his hands on the table. "We need you at the Moulin Rouge."
"You know I can't…" Christian had stopped, taken a deep breath. "I don't want to be there again."
"It's been 7 years, Christian. Satine wouldn't…"
Christian had leaned forward abruptly and stared Zidler in the eyes. "Don't you dare…" he hissed. "Don't you dare speak her name to me. Don't dare to tell me what she would or would not want. You never knew her, not the way I did. If you had, you wouldn't have forced her to live that life. She's…she was better than that. Better than you."
Zidler had sat back. "Yes, well, perhaps you are right. She deserved better than the Moulin Rouge." He had paused. "You made her happy, and I never thanked you for that."
"You have no need to."
"I do." Zidler had tapped his fingers nervously on the table. "You loved her, like no man ever had. For that short time, she was happy."
"Yes, well…" Christian had fumbled for words, feeling himself tumbling back in time, and finally gave up. "Do you…do you have a script?"
Zidler had met his eyes. "You'll come back?"
"I'll look at your script. I'll see if I can do anything. I can't promise you anything more."
"Thank you!" Zidler had beamed, reaching into a large bag he carried and rummaging around. "Now, where…ahh yes, here it is…" He pulled out a large sheaf of papers. "Now, what else do you need to know?…oh, yes, well, we start auditions tomorrow morning." He'd looked up sheepishly.
"Tomorrow?" Christian had echoed, staring at the stack in his hands. "You want me to fix this by tomorrow?"
"Well, yes, well, see what you can do with it!" Zidler had stood up, slapped Christian robustly on the back, hitched up his bright suspenders. "Eight thirty, my boy!" And strolled off jauntily, his hat tipped atop his head.
That was how Christian had found himself sitting with the coffee that he desperately wished was something stronger, and the script next to it. What was he thinking, agreeing to write for the Moulin Rouge again? Did he have a death wish? Just looking at the windmill made his gut clench, his heart trip…how could he walk in there, look at the stage, the people, and not remember her? Darling Satine….with her flame hair, her lovely face, and core of courage…he'd loved her so much. 'Come what may…I will love you, until my dying day…' How could he have known his words would come true, so quickly?
He sighed, resigning himself to the fact that he'd given his word, and didn't want to break it. Not even to Harold Zidler. The man had, after all, given him his first break--writing 'Spectacular, Spectacular'--which had led to Satine…and in the end the man had come through, taking care of the Duke at the performance…the day it all ended…
Christian shook his head, chasing away the past. He took a sip of coffee, now cold, sighed again as he picked up the first few pages of the script. 'Untitled,' he read to himself, and groaned this time. Great. He'd probably have to write the whole damned play over if it went on like this.
And it did. By the fifth page he was squirming uncomfortably in his chair. God, but somebody had no talent whatsoever! He was scribbling like mad with the fat pencil that never left his pocket when he happened to glance up.
The girl had just stepped outside from the café. She balanced a cup and saucer, a croissant, a handbag and a suitcase. She didn't look harried, though. She just stood there, looking around, a smile on her face.
The writer in him noticed the details. If she was 5'2" and 105 pounds soaking wet, he'd be entirely shocked. Petite was the best word for her. She was dressed in a long dress, fairly classy and modestly cut, but a bright blue colour that set off wide eyes of the same colour. Her hair was half pinned up, half hanging down her back to her waist in a riot of white-blonde curls that she had clearly tried to tame. Her skin was porcelain clear and at the moment, lightly flushed. She had an aura of grace to her that he rarely saw in someone so young as her--because he could certainly tell she was young.
The man in him saw an extraordinarily beautiful woman--and it surprised him to notice, because he hadn't noticed a woman's beauty in such a long time. Not since Satine had left him.
*Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place...*
He shook his head to clear out the song, and looked back to the pages in his hand. He made himself focus on them, but suddenly his mind was not on his work. He tapped the pencil on the paper, then stilled as a shadow stopped over his table…the sound of skirts whispered in his ear.
"Would you mind terribly if I sat here?"
Somehow, Zidler had located him. He couldn't imagine how, as he'd thought he'd lost himself pretty well in the mess that was called Paris. Never writing under his real name, never coming into the Moulin Rouge. His only downfall was probably that he still spoke to Toulouse, and still lived in that same damned building. He supposed it shouldn't have surprised him.
"We need you back, boy," Zidler had said in his gravelly voice.
Christian had stared at him. "I'm hardly a boy anymore, Harold," he'd said.
Zidler had flushed. "Yes, yes, well, of course, you're right…Christian." His rouged cheeks had blushed prettily as he folded his hands on the table. "We need you at the Moulin Rouge."
"You know I can't…" Christian had stopped, taken a deep breath. "I don't want to be there again."
"It's been 7 years, Christian. Satine wouldn't…"
Christian had leaned forward abruptly and stared Zidler in the eyes. "Don't you dare…" he hissed. "Don't you dare speak her name to me. Don't dare to tell me what she would or would not want. You never knew her, not the way I did. If you had, you wouldn't have forced her to live that life. She's…she was better than that. Better than you."
Zidler had sat back. "Yes, well, perhaps you are right. She deserved better than the Moulin Rouge." He had paused. "You made her happy, and I never thanked you for that."
"You have no need to."
"I do." Zidler had tapped his fingers nervously on the table. "You loved her, like no man ever had. For that short time, she was happy."
"Yes, well…" Christian had fumbled for words, feeling himself tumbling back in time, and finally gave up. "Do you…do you have a script?"
Zidler had met his eyes. "You'll come back?"
"I'll look at your script. I'll see if I can do anything. I can't promise you anything more."
"Thank you!" Zidler had beamed, reaching into a large bag he carried and rummaging around. "Now, where…ahh yes, here it is…" He pulled out a large sheaf of papers. "Now, what else do you need to know?…oh, yes, well, we start auditions tomorrow morning." He'd looked up sheepishly.
"Tomorrow?" Christian had echoed, staring at the stack in his hands. "You want me to fix this by tomorrow?"
"Well, yes, well, see what you can do with it!" Zidler had stood up, slapped Christian robustly on the back, hitched up his bright suspenders. "Eight thirty, my boy!" And strolled off jauntily, his hat tipped atop his head.
That was how Christian had found himself sitting with the coffee that he desperately wished was something stronger, and the script next to it. What was he thinking, agreeing to write for the Moulin Rouge again? Did he have a death wish? Just looking at the windmill made his gut clench, his heart trip…how could he walk in there, look at the stage, the people, and not remember her? Darling Satine….with her flame hair, her lovely face, and core of courage…he'd loved her so much. 'Come what may…I will love you, until my dying day…' How could he have known his words would come true, so quickly?
He sighed, resigning himself to the fact that he'd given his word, and didn't want to break it. Not even to Harold Zidler. The man had, after all, given him his first break--writing 'Spectacular, Spectacular'--which had led to Satine…and in the end the man had come through, taking care of the Duke at the performance…the day it all ended…
Christian shook his head, chasing away the past. He took a sip of coffee, now cold, sighed again as he picked up the first few pages of the script. 'Untitled,' he read to himself, and groaned this time. Great. He'd probably have to write the whole damned play over if it went on like this.
And it did. By the fifth page he was squirming uncomfortably in his chair. God, but somebody had no talent whatsoever! He was scribbling like mad with the fat pencil that never left his pocket when he happened to glance up.
The girl had just stepped outside from the café. She balanced a cup and saucer, a croissant, a handbag and a suitcase. She didn't look harried, though. She just stood there, looking around, a smile on her face.
The writer in him noticed the details. If she was 5'2" and 105 pounds soaking wet, he'd be entirely shocked. Petite was the best word for her. She was dressed in a long dress, fairly classy and modestly cut, but a bright blue colour that set off wide eyes of the same colour. Her hair was half pinned up, half hanging down her back to her waist in a riot of white-blonde curls that she had clearly tried to tame. Her skin was porcelain clear and at the moment, lightly flushed. She had an aura of grace to her that he rarely saw in someone so young as her--because he could certainly tell she was young.
The man in him saw an extraordinarily beautiful woman--and it surprised him to notice, because he hadn't noticed a woman's beauty in such a long time. Not since Satine had left him.
*Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place...*
He shook his head to clear out the song, and looked back to the pages in his hand. He made himself focus on them, but suddenly his mind was not on his work. He tapped the pencil on the paper, then stilled as a shadow stopped over his table…the sound of skirts whispered in his ear.
"Would you mind terribly if I sat here?"