Title: Only a Northern Song
Author: Helene
e-mail: aishiteru@nightmail.ru
Rating: PG13
Timeline: Alternative Universe
Disclaimer: My prized possessions include the complete works of Oscar
Wild, and a collection of classic music. No Sailor Moon, or the Beatles,
or their "Yellow Submarine" album. Oh, yea, and no "Phantom of the Opera"
for me.
I also have to note that I've borrowed a few ideas from the fanfic by
MoonRyoko, which is absolutely fascinating. Go read her stuff minna,
mine is unfinished anyway.
Hey!
HEY!
Where did you go? Get Back Here!
Chapter III
Sunshine flooded the spacious studio, tinting pink the pastel wallpaper,
and reflecting from the golden-haired figure that occupied the spacious bed.
The figure's face was burrowed into the pillows as a result of several
valorous attempts to ward off the impending morning.
Either a fate begrudged the slumberer her quiescence, or it was simply the
time for the moirai to sever the short thread of the slumber term, but the
silence of the soundproofed apartment was shattered by a beeping noise. The
young woman in the bed stirred, hugging the pillow closer.
"No," she mumbled, moving her knees to her chest. "It's not time."
The source of the sound, however, being obviously an inanimate object, did
not acknowledge the words, and the noise continued.
"No." This time her tone was firm and unyielding, resembling that of an adamant
mother. Any child within any proximity would have obeyed, but there was none.
"Ooph."
The covers flew to the floor, as the disquieted tenant emerged from her haven.
Without paying any heed to her beeping purse, she stalked off towards the bathroom,
and slammed the door behind her. In a few moments, patter of running water echoed
through the place, drowning the previous sound.
Then there was some whirring of a hairdryer that was succeeded by clattering. A
half-an-hour pause, and the woman stepped back into the room. Her shiny hair cascaded
down her lithe body, adorned with a fluffy white towel. With a determined frown she
walked towards the fridge, opening it in one smooth motion.
Instantaneously, the frown was forgone in favor of an alarmed flinch.
"Oh no," she exclaimed melodramatically, "It's empty!"
Any further antics were nipped in the bud by a deafening banging on the apartment
door.
"Miss Serena Brighton, open door! This is the police," resounded a voice from the
corridor. "You don't have a right to remain silent; everything you don't say will
be used against you in court, and if you require a lawyer, I've got one right
here with me."
"And what sanguinary crime have I allegedly committed?"
"You defy you best friend by not calling her when she desperately pages you..."
"You, my dear," cut in the exasperated Serena, "relinquished all right to my friendship
when you made the rank decision to page me on my holiday."
"Well, then, what about disowning me in person?" inquired the voice solicitously.
"I'll never be able to disown you in person."
"I've brought donuts, and fresh coffee."
"Oh Raye..."
The towel-clad girl scurried to unlock the door, her mouth already watering
at the thought of food. A friend in need is a friend indeed, she reasoned
before swinging the door open.
Immediately, she wished she hadn't, staggering back and clutching the scanty
covering. Blood rushed to her cheeks as she regarded her friend, and a tall
man, standing next to her.
"Serena, this is Mr. Denis Diamant, the lawyer from Berry Ltd. Denis, this
is Miss Serena Brighton."
"Pleased to meet you," stammered the man, whose skin seemed to turn as pale
as his shoulder-long hair. "I'd better wait in the car."
His leave-taking was accompanied by giggling, and, had he listened, he would
have learned that it originated from the both females.
*********************************************************************
"OK," gasped Serena a few moments later, "Breath in, breath out, breath in,
breath out..."
"What's for?"
"That's supposed to calm you down."
"Does it work?"
"Not with my students."
"Oh."
"It has worked with you though. You're no longer simpering as a giddy
schoolgirl."
"Of course I'm not. I quit that habit right after the prom."
"Very cute. Anyway, what made you brave my morning rampage? And what does
the business-suited fellow have to do with this?"
"First of all, I wanted to congratulate you. Your picture has been printed
almost in all the morning papers. Everybody wishes to know who you are, what
is the real nature of your relationship with Darien Worthing, and whether you
are really going to train him."
"You know," mused Serena, "if you were my student I would have graded your
answer with an F. There's no single word that has anything to do with my
question."
"Well, excuse me for not wanting to shock you," exploded the journalist. "How
would you react if I had told you that Beatrice Berry demands that you attend
the press-conference she is calling at eleven o'clock this morning?"
"That's easy," came the instantaneous retort. "I'd inform you that I wouldn't
come."
"See?" Raye's voice was highly supercilious. "Now you understand the need to
prepare you! So get into that closet of yours and dig up something not overly
casual to wear while I call Denis back to the apartment. And don't you dare to
argue," she added authoritatively, noticing Serena's obstinate stance and open
mouth, "or I'll take away the donuts."
For a moment, when her friend shut her mouth and shrugged, Raye thought that
her friend was going to comply with the order. However, the blond proved her
ability to withstand both temptation and threat.
"Why?" questioned Serena, slightly cocking her head.
"Beatrice will give me exclusive rights to film your sessions with Darien if
I get you to cooperate with her publicity campaign."
"Yesterday you would have referred to that as a publicity scheme," accused the
mistress of the studio.
"Look, I won't be slanting her company positive or negative, and your impromptu
bet is the rage today. As a journalist, I have to get the scoop."
"Oh."
"I won't pressure you into anything, but please give it a chance. The draft of
your contract is quite fair, and Denis is here to change anything you wish," implored
Raye, "and you still will get to royally embarrass mister magic-spoiler."
"Yes," drawled Serena, "him. I still want my revenge, but I want it on my terms."
"Whatever, just dress up, and I'll get Denis."
*********************************************************************
The spunk of that girl, mulled Denis Diamant, smirking at the document in
his hand. The formerly pristine printed sheets of paper were streaked and
marred with blue ink. His labor had been lost, and, although he and Beatrice
stayed up all night to accomplish the perfect draft, he could not put the
blame on the second party to the contract.
The shrewd girl with ridiculously long hair established her presence in his
mind when he had entered her apartment for the second time. She had been
cool and collected, all traces of her earlier embarrassment gone. In a perfect
pattern of the business-like tone she had advised him on her decision to acquaint
herself with the contract in order to make the undoubtedly necessary amendments.
Half an hour later, he had realized that some of her ideas were inconsistent
with his employer's plan, and that he would do his best to alter the aforementioned
PR masterpiece, which could gain him the attention of Serena Brighton.
So he squared his shoulders and opened the heavy wooden door, the plate of which
said 'CEO of Berry Ltd'.
"Beatrice?"
"Morning, Denis," answered a wan voice from a leather sofa near the huge widow.
"Did she sign the contract?"
"No," he started, struggling to find the right words that would not infuriate his
boss.
"Thought so." Beatrice's remark was so casual that one would never guess she had
had elaborated the document. "But I had to try."
"She's..."
"I know. What are her terms?"
"No releasing personal information, including her last name. No press conferences
and public appearances until the whole ordeal is over. And she wants to choose an
accompanist herself."
"Good. She's sharp, but she never learned anything about my business. I'll play
the mystery card, and let the vultures, which they call reporters, make so many
insinuations as to fuel the public interest. She did not stipulate anything about
making insinuations, did she?"
"No."
"Perfect." This time her voice was animated. "Poor little Serena! She wants to protect
her personal life, but she can't protect herself from something she is not aware of.
After all, who cares what's to become of the ingrate when we're through."
I do, he almost blurted out. However, given the circumstances it was highly unwise
to upset Beatrice, and the knowledge that his new interest would eventually undergo
a crisis and need someone to support her served to justify his silent acquiescence
to the boss's last comment. It was not the right time to play a knight in shining
armor... yet.
*********************************************************************
A heavy wooden table, long enough to accommodate a whole board of Directors,
cushioned chairs, and a flattering lights system - Berry Southern Hall had
it all, and many things besides. In front of the table there sat dozens of
reporters, armed with the inherent pens, writing-pads, and Dictaphones.
Everything and everyone were ready for the much-awaited press conference, as
they had been forty five minutes ago. However, the four seats at the table
were still empty.
Why?
One Beatrice Berry was greatly troubled. Four front table seats, and only
three people to accommodate them. Four seats, for Beatrice herself, her protegee,
Raye Flambee, and the uncooperative Serena Brighton. Four front table seats, and
a whole room, packed with witty sharks that would probably enjoy laughing at her
expense unless she figured out a way to distract them.
Let me tell you, though, that Beatrice Berry was quite a resourceful woman, and,
which is more expedient, she had no qualms about anything when it came to business.
Therefore, after careful consideration, and even more careful planning, the issue
was resolved.
Donning her most professional smile, Beatrice left her study to join Darien,
Denis, and Raye in the adjoining room.
"Raye?" she called out authoritatively.
"Yes, Ms Berry?" replied the journalist, arching a brow. Did Beatrice
Berry treat everyone as her propriety, she wondered incredulously. "Did
you want anything?"
"Would you take the second chair from Darien to the left?"
"The second?"
"Yes, the second on the left."
Raye was puzzled. Did the woman really mean to deliberately leave an empty
chair between Darien and herself? Why? Was it another public relations trick?
If it was, she hoped it wouldn't backfire against her best friend.
"Come," said Beatrice in the same dictatorial tone. "Let's get this show
on the road."
*********************************************************************
Let's get this show on the road, she said, walking brusquely into the
Southern Hall. Public appearances had been stipulated by his contract,
which left him no other option except to follow his overly industrious
manager.
Normally, he never sulked about that duty. This time, however, was
different. This time it was not all about a new record, and spouting
corny lines on having had a great time working on it, or having derived
inspiration from an exceptional experience. Instead, he was required to
fend off either unflattering to rude comments on his singing, or unflattering
to rude guesses as to the nature of his relationship with his new teacher.
Who, by the way, had wiggled her way out of the ordeal without as much as
stirring a finger. He could tell that the brash blond had received a handsome
sum for sitting there with a critical countenance while he exerted his vocal
cords, and allowing her photo to be put next to his in the most prominent
mass media. By the end of the bet period she would become a celebrity, all
thanks to a conniving sensation seeker who had planted her into the audience
of that talk show, and his own mistake of attempting to taunt her in front
of the camera.
Sitting down on the chair next to Beatrice's, he flashed a smile in the
direction of the cameras, another disagreeable duty. It made him feel as
if he was selling himself rather than a record that had not been produced
yet. The feeling intensified at a thought that in a few moments he would
also be expected to lie, and the smile became even more arduous to hold.
"And where is Serena? Is she coming?" yelled a voice from the hall.
It was immediately joined by other voices, but then Beatrice stood up and
the cacophony subsided.
"Serena, as you had all been informed," she began calmly, "was supposed to
attend the press conference, and a seat had been reserved for her. However,
in the last moment she confided that she felt uncomfortable with being
subjected to close scrutiny, and we decided to accommodate her wish to remain
anonymous. Now would you raise your hands before asking the questions? I'm
sure you're all familiar with the procedure. Yes, please," she said, indicating
a reporter from the front row.
"What is Serena's last name?"
"Berry ltd prefers to keep it a secret. Moreover, if any medium discloses
this information, Berry ltd will sue it for intrusion into the private
life of its employee. Serena is very valuable to us. Yes?" Another reporter
was chosen.
"Don't you feel threatened by her? She could take Darien away from you."
"Darien and I were never an item," grinned the redhead. "However, I am
not sure about him and Serena. For all I know, they could have staged
the scene in the studio to spend more time together thanks to the bet.
Next question, please."
"Darien, is it true? Are you in a relationship with Serena?"
"That's ridiculous," he said, having expected the question and rehearsed
the response. "We're not even friends, although that can be rectified after
we spend some time together."
He scanned the room to make sure that his point had been understood. But
when his gaze landed on the door, his smile almost slipped.
For in the doorway there stood his adversary in all her golden glory. Her
defiant smirk told him that her intentions were not at all honorable, and
that they did not entail becoming friends. The squirt was clearly mocking
both himself and his employer. What galled him even more, she was enjoying
herself immensely.
"Why didn't miss Flambee take the seat next to Darien?" he heard someone ask.
"That seat belongs to Serena, and only to Serena. I believe that she will take
it when she is ready." That, of course, was Beatrice. It was just like her to
emphasize the human factor, and veil the fact that it was all about money.
"Darien, during Raye's show you seemed quite anxious to have Serena help you,
and now you confide that you want to become her friend," told another reporter
smugly. "Perhaps, you are interested in her? Romantically, I mean?"
A quick glance at the source of his predicament (out of sheer curiosity, he
assured himself) revealed her shoulders to be shaking with suppressed laughter,
although why would she laugh at the obscene insinuations was beyond his
understanding. Well, if they did not bother her...
"No comment," he said firmly. His charmingly sly grin, however, had belied both
the tone and the meaning of his words. "You can ask me again when Serena takes
her rightful place," he added with a nod at the empty seat.
*********************************************************************
Beatrice could not believe her luck. The unmanageable singer was cooperating
with her scheme without even being privy to it. With one look at his would be
mentor in the ways of singing Beatrice could tell that Darien's initiative
could very well cost him a limb or two. The girl was seething with sheer rage.
The sparks of animosity between the two, however, did not disconcert the PR
expert. Given their contracts, the pair would carefully consider any action
that could endanger the potential profit of Berry ltd.
*********************************************************************
"What? Was! That!?"
Darien could swear he heard Serena grit her teeth as she had spat the
question. Her eyes were narrowed, and her previously rosy lips were blood
red, probably because she had bitten them, since he hadn't seen her apply
a different lipstick. Right after the journalists had dispersed she had
stormed into the Hall, looming over the table where he still had been sitting.
"What was what, pardon," he inquired courteously, flashing her a winning
smile to deliberately add to her frustration.
"That!" she bellowed. "That stunt you pulled in here that will make my life
a hell on Earth!"
"I was doing my job, specified in my contract with Berry ltd," he told her
smugly, forgoing the speech on giving as good as he had gotten during Raye's
show. "Would you like to look at it?"
"Don't drag me and my company into that, Darien," said Beatrice with a weary
sigh. She really didn't want to deal with the incensed blond, and she didn't
see fit to do so at that moment. "Would you join me in my office, Raye? We
still have a few things to discuss. Let's leave them alone so that they arrange
for the accompanists' audition." With a warning glance in the direction of her
cumbersome client, Beatrice glided out of the room with Raye in tow.
Serena watched her friend exit, fury and fear vying for supremacy in her mind.
Fury with Raye for conning her into accepting the bet; fear for the peaceful
lifestyle she loved to lead. Since the moment Darien had hinted at a possible
affair between them, the implications of the insinuation were weighing heavily
upon her. If it had not been for the ever-present irritation with the raven headed
man, she would have long since bolted.
But it was there, a potent tug, urging her to go at him, claiming retribution she
knew she would not get, and demanding explanations, which she knew she would not
find sufficient. The deed had been done, and there was nothing she could do to
secure her future.
"Did you really say it because Beatrice told you to?"
"Nope." He had the gall to smirk triumphantly, rising from his chair.
"Then why?"
"You were laughing at me," he explained casually, "and now it's my turn to laugh
at your expense."
"This Saturday, nine a.m.," she said coldly. The objective of the mission was to him
realize exactly how bad he was, and the first step was to find an accomplice,
preferably one who knew a lot about music. "Arrange for a studio with a grand piano,
and tell Ms. Berry to post an ad for the audition. And don't forget to attend."
"What's for? Don't tell me you will actually have a say in the decision."
"Consider that to be your first lesson. Your proud mistress will undoubtedly want to
flaunt you along with yet another new member of the crew."
"Since when do you care what Beatrice would want," he demanded scathingly. "No,
don't answer. It's your contract isn't it? For all your talking about singing
being an art, there's actually only one thing you want. Money. And you dare call
Beatrice MY mistress when she was the one to plant you into the audience at the
show."
With those words, Darien swung on his heel and stalked away.
*********************************************************************
Well, is it at all believable? I do hope to get an answer to that question.
Author: Helene
e-mail: aishiteru@nightmail.ru
Rating: PG13
Timeline: Alternative Universe
Disclaimer: My prized possessions include the complete works of Oscar
Wild, and a collection of classic music. No Sailor Moon, or the Beatles,
or their "Yellow Submarine" album. Oh, yea, and no "Phantom of the Opera"
for me.
I also have to note that I've borrowed a few ideas from the fanfic by
MoonRyoko, which is absolutely fascinating. Go read her stuff minna,
mine is unfinished anyway.
Hey!
HEY!
Where did you go? Get Back Here!
Chapter III
Sunshine flooded the spacious studio, tinting pink the pastel wallpaper,
and reflecting from the golden-haired figure that occupied the spacious bed.
The figure's face was burrowed into the pillows as a result of several
valorous attempts to ward off the impending morning.
Either a fate begrudged the slumberer her quiescence, or it was simply the
time for the moirai to sever the short thread of the slumber term, but the
silence of the soundproofed apartment was shattered by a beeping noise. The
young woman in the bed stirred, hugging the pillow closer.
"No," she mumbled, moving her knees to her chest. "It's not time."
The source of the sound, however, being obviously an inanimate object, did
not acknowledge the words, and the noise continued.
"No." This time her tone was firm and unyielding, resembling that of an adamant
mother. Any child within any proximity would have obeyed, but there was none.
"Ooph."
The covers flew to the floor, as the disquieted tenant emerged from her haven.
Without paying any heed to her beeping purse, she stalked off towards the bathroom,
and slammed the door behind her. In a few moments, patter of running water echoed
through the place, drowning the previous sound.
Then there was some whirring of a hairdryer that was succeeded by clattering. A
half-an-hour pause, and the woman stepped back into the room. Her shiny hair cascaded
down her lithe body, adorned with a fluffy white towel. With a determined frown she
walked towards the fridge, opening it in one smooth motion.
Instantaneously, the frown was forgone in favor of an alarmed flinch.
"Oh no," she exclaimed melodramatically, "It's empty!"
Any further antics were nipped in the bud by a deafening banging on the apartment
door.
"Miss Serena Brighton, open door! This is the police," resounded a voice from the
corridor. "You don't have a right to remain silent; everything you don't say will
be used against you in court, and if you require a lawyer, I've got one right
here with me."
"And what sanguinary crime have I allegedly committed?"
"You defy you best friend by not calling her when she desperately pages you..."
"You, my dear," cut in the exasperated Serena, "relinquished all right to my friendship
when you made the rank decision to page me on my holiday."
"Well, then, what about disowning me in person?" inquired the voice solicitously.
"I'll never be able to disown you in person."
"I've brought donuts, and fresh coffee."
"Oh Raye..."
The towel-clad girl scurried to unlock the door, her mouth already watering
at the thought of food. A friend in need is a friend indeed, she reasoned
before swinging the door open.
Immediately, she wished she hadn't, staggering back and clutching the scanty
covering. Blood rushed to her cheeks as she regarded her friend, and a tall
man, standing next to her.
"Serena, this is Mr. Denis Diamant, the lawyer from Berry Ltd. Denis, this
is Miss Serena Brighton."
"Pleased to meet you," stammered the man, whose skin seemed to turn as pale
as his shoulder-long hair. "I'd better wait in the car."
His leave-taking was accompanied by giggling, and, had he listened, he would
have learned that it originated from the both females.
*********************************************************************
"OK," gasped Serena a few moments later, "Breath in, breath out, breath in,
breath out..."
"What's for?"
"That's supposed to calm you down."
"Does it work?"
"Not with my students."
"Oh."
"It has worked with you though. You're no longer simpering as a giddy
schoolgirl."
"Of course I'm not. I quit that habit right after the prom."
"Very cute. Anyway, what made you brave my morning rampage? And what does
the business-suited fellow have to do with this?"
"First of all, I wanted to congratulate you. Your picture has been printed
almost in all the morning papers. Everybody wishes to know who you are, what
is the real nature of your relationship with Darien Worthing, and whether you
are really going to train him."
"You know," mused Serena, "if you were my student I would have graded your
answer with an F. There's no single word that has anything to do with my
question."
"Well, excuse me for not wanting to shock you," exploded the journalist. "How
would you react if I had told you that Beatrice Berry demands that you attend
the press-conference she is calling at eleven o'clock this morning?"
"That's easy," came the instantaneous retort. "I'd inform you that I wouldn't
come."
"See?" Raye's voice was highly supercilious. "Now you understand the need to
prepare you! So get into that closet of yours and dig up something not overly
casual to wear while I call Denis back to the apartment. And don't you dare to
argue," she added authoritatively, noticing Serena's obstinate stance and open
mouth, "or I'll take away the donuts."
For a moment, when her friend shut her mouth and shrugged, Raye thought that
her friend was going to comply with the order. However, the blond proved her
ability to withstand both temptation and threat.
"Why?" questioned Serena, slightly cocking her head.
"Beatrice will give me exclusive rights to film your sessions with Darien if
I get you to cooperate with her publicity campaign."
"Yesterday you would have referred to that as a publicity scheme," accused the
mistress of the studio.
"Look, I won't be slanting her company positive or negative, and your impromptu
bet is the rage today. As a journalist, I have to get the scoop."
"Oh."
"I won't pressure you into anything, but please give it a chance. The draft of
your contract is quite fair, and Denis is here to change anything you wish," implored
Raye, "and you still will get to royally embarrass mister magic-spoiler."
"Yes," drawled Serena, "him. I still want my revenge, but I want it on my terms."
"Whatever, just dress up, and I'll get Denis."
*********************************************************************
The spunk of that girl, mulled Denis Diamant, smirking at the document in
his hand. The formerly pristine printed sheets of paper were streaked and
marred with blue ink. His labor had been lost, and, although he and Beatrice
stayed up all night to accomplish the perfect draft, he could not put the
blame on the second party to the contract.
The shrewd girl with ridiculously long hair established her presence in his
mind when he had entered her apartment for the second time. She had been
cool and collected, all traces of her earlier embarrassment gone. In a perfect
pattern of the business-like tone she had advised him on her decision to acquaint
herself with the contract in order to make the undoubtedly necessary amendments.
Half an hour later, he had realized that some of her ideas were inconsistent
with his employer's plan, and that he would do his best to alter the aforementioned
PR masterpiece, which could gain him the attention of Serena Brighton.
So he squared his shoulders and opened the heavy wooden door, the plate of which
said 'CEO of Berry Ltd'.
"Beatrice?"
"Morning, Denis," answered a wan voice from a leather sofa near the huge widow.
"Did she sign the contract?"
"No," he started, struggling to find the right words that would not infuriate his
boss.
"Thought so." Beatrice's remark was so casual that one would never guess she had
had elaborated the document. "But I had to try."
"She's..."
"I know. What are her terms?"
"No releasing personal information, including her last name. No press conferences
and public appearances until the whole ordeal is over. And she wants to choose an
accompanist herself."
"Good. She's sharp, but she never learned anything about my business. I'll play
the mystery card, and let the vultures, which they call reporters, make so many
insinuations as to fuel the public interest. She did not stipulate anything about
making insinuations, did she?"
"No."
"Perfect." This time her voice was animated. "Poor little Serena! She wants to protect
her personal life, but she can't protect herself from something she is not aware of.
After all, who cares what's to become of the ingrate when we're through."
I do, he almost blurted out. However, given the circumstances it was highly unwise
to upset Beatrice, and the knowledge that his new interest would eventually undergo
a crisis and need someone to support her served to justify his silent acquiescence
to the boss's last comment. It was not the right time to play a knight in shining
armor... yet.
*********************************************************************
A heavy wooden table, long enough to accommodate a whole board of Directors,
cushioned chairs, and a flattering lights system - Berry Southern Hall had
it all, and many things besides. In front of the table there sat dozens of
reporters, armed with the inherent pens, writing-pads, and Dictaphones.
Everything and everyone were ready for the much-awaited press conference, as
they had been forty five minutes ago. However, the four seats at the table
were still empty.
Why?
One Beatrice Berry was greatly troubled. Four front table seats, and only
three people to accommodate them. Four seats, for Beatrice herself, her protegee,
Raye Flambee, and the uncooperative Serena Brighton. Four front table seats, and
a whole room, packed with witty sharks that would probably enjoy laughing at her
expense unless she figured out a way to distract them.
Let me tell you, though, that Beatrice Berry was quite a resourceful woman, and,
which is more expedient, she had no qualms about anything when it came to business.
Therefore, after careful consideration, and even more careful planning, the issue
was resolved.
Donning her most professional smile, Beatrice left her study to join Darien,
Denis, and Raye in the adjoining room.
"Raye?" she called out authoritatively.
"Yes, Ms Berry?" replied the journalist, arching a brow. Did Beatrice
Berry treat everyone as her propriety, she wondered incredulously. "Did
you want anything?"
"Would you take the second chair from Darien to the left?"
"The second?"
"Yes, the second on the left."
Raye was puzzled. Did the woman really mean to deliberately leave an empty
chair between Darien and herself? Why? Was it another public relations trick?
If it was, she hoped it wouldn't backfire against her best friend.
"Come," said Beatrice in the same dictatorial tone. "Let's get this show
on the road."
*********************************************************************
Let's get this show on the road, she said, walking brusquely into the
Southern Hall. Public appearances had been stipulated by his contract,
which left him no other option except to follow his overly industrious
manager.
Normally, he never sulked about that duty. This time, however, was
different. This time it was not all about a new record, and spouting
corny lines on having had a great time working on it, or having derived
inspiration from an exceptional experience. Instead, he was required to
fend off either unflattering to rude comments on his singing, or unflattering
to rude guesses as to the nature of his relationship with his new teacher.
Who, by the way, had wiggled her way out of the ordeal without as much as
stirring a finger. He could tell that the brash blond had received a handsome
sum for sitting there with a critical countenance while he exerted his vocal
cords, and allowing her photo to be put next to his in the most prominent
mass media. By the end of the bet period she would become a celebrity, all
thanks to a conniving sensation seeker who had planted her into the audience
of that talk show, and his own mistake of attempting to taunt her in front
of the camera.
Sitting down on the chair next to Beatrice's, he flashed a smile in the
direction of the cameras, another disagreeable duty. It made him feel as
if he was selling himself rather than a record that had not been produced
yet. The feeling intensified at a thought that in a few moments he would
also be expected to lie, and the smile became even more arduous to hold.
"And where is Serena? Is she coming?" yelled a voice from the hall.
It was immediately joined by other voices, but then Beatrice stood up and
the cacophony subsided.
"Serena, as you had all been informed," she began calmly, "was supposed to
attend the press conference, and a seat had been reserved for her. However,
in the last moment she confided that she felt uncomfortable with being
subjected to close scrutiny, and we decided to accommodate her wish to remain
anonymous. Now would you raise your hands before asking the questions? I'm
sure you're all familiar with the procedure. Yes, please," she said, indicating
a reporter from the front row.
"What is Serena's last name?"
"Berry ltd prefers to keep it a secret. Moreover, if any medium discloses
this information, Berry ltd will sue it for intrusion into the private
life of its employee. Serena is very valuable to us. Yes?" Another reporter
was chosen.
"Don't you feel threatened by her? She could take Darien away from you."
"Darien and I were never an item," grinned the redhead. "However, I am
not sure about him and Serena. For all I know, they could have staged
the scene in the studio to spend more time together thanks to the bet.
Next question, please."
"Darien, is it true? Are you in a relationship with Serena?"
"That's ridiculous," he said, having expected the question and rehearsed
the response. "We're not even friends, although that can be rectified after
we spend some time together."
He scanned the room to make sure that his point had been understood. But
when his gaze landed on the door, his smile almost slipped.
For in the doorway there stood his adversary in all her golden glory. Her
defiant smirk told him that her intentions were not at all honorable, and
that they did not entail becoming friends. The squirt was clearly mocking
both himself and his employer. What galled him even more, she was enjoying
herself immensely.
"Why didn't miss Flambee take the seat next to Darien?" he heard someone ask.
"That seat belongs to Serena, and only to Serena. I believe that she will take
it when she is ready." That, of course, was Beatrice. It was just like her to
emphasize the human factor, and veil the fact that it was all about money.
"Darien, during Raye's show you seemed quite anxious to have Serena help you,
and now you confide that you want to become her friend," told another reporter
smugly. "Perhaps, you are interested in her? Romantically, I mean?"
A quick glance at the source of his predicament (out of sheer curiosity, he
assured himself) revealed her shoulders to be shaking with suppressed laughter,
although why would she laugh at the obscene insinuations was beyond his
understanding. Well, if they did not bother her...
"No comment," he said firmly. His charmingly sly grin, however, had belied both
the tone and the meaning of his words. "You can ask me again when Serena takes
her rightful place," he added with a nod at the empty seat.
*********************************************************************
Beatrice could not believe her luck. The unmanageable singer was cooperating
with her scheme without even being privy to it. With one look at his would be
mentor in the ways of singing Beatrice could tell that Darien's initiative
could very well cost him a limb or two. The girl was seething with sheer rage.
The sparks of animosity between the two, however, did not disconcert the PR
expert. Given their contracts, the pair would carefully consider any action
that could endanger the potential profit of Berry ltd.
*********************************************************************
"What? Was! That!?"
Darien could swear he heard Serena grit her teeth as she had spat the
question. Her eyes were narrowed, and her previously rosy lips were blood
red, probably because she had bitten them, since he hadn't seen her apply
a different lipstick. Right after the journalists had dispersed she had
stormed into the Hall, looming over the table where he still had been sitting.
"What was what, pardon," he inquired courteously, flashing her a winning
smile to deliberately add to her frustration.
"That!" she bellowed. "That stunt you pulled in here that will make my life
a hell on Earth!"
"I was doing my job, specified in my contract with Berry ltd," he told her
smugly, forgoing the speech on giving as good as he had gotten during Raye's
show. "Would you like to look at it?"
"Don't drag me and my company into that, Darien," said Beatrice with a weary
sigh. She really didn't want to deal with the incensed blond, and she didn't
see fit to do so at that moment. "Would you join me in my office, Raye? We
still have a few things to discuss. Let's leave them alone so that they arrange
for the accompanists' audition." With a warning glance in the direction of her
cumbersome client, Beatrice glided out of the room with Raye in tow.
Serena watched her friend exit, fury and fear vying for supremacy in her mind.
Fury with Raye for conning her into accepting the bet; fear for the peaceful
lifestyle she loved to lead. Since the moment Darien had hinted at a possible
affair between them, the implications of the insinuation were weighing heavily
upon her. If it had not been for the ever-present irritation with the raven headed
man, she would have long since bolted.
But it was there, a potent tug, urging her to go at him, claiming retribution she
knew she would not get, and demanding explanations, which she knew she would not
find sufficient. The deed had been done, and there was nothing she could do to
secure her future.
"Did you really say it because Beatrice told you to?"
"Nope." He had the gall to smirk triumphantly, rising from his chair.
"Then why?"
"You were laughing at me," he explained casually, "and now it's my turn to laugh
at your expense."
"This Saturday, nine a.m.," she said coldly. The objective of the mission was to him
realize exactly how bad he was, and the first step was to find an accomplice,
preferably one who knew a lot about music. "Arrange for a studio with a grand piano,
and tell Ms. Berry to post an ad for the audition. And don't forget to attend."
"What's for? Don't tell me you will actually have a say in the decision."
"Consider that to be your first lesson. Your proud mistress will undoubtedly want to
flaunt you along with yet another new member of the crew."
"Since when do you care what Beatrice would want," he demanded scathingly. "No,
don't answer. It's your contract isn't it? For all your talking about singing
being an art, there's actually only one thing you want. Money. And you dare call
Beatrice MY mistress when she was the one to plant you into the audience at the
show."
With those words, Darien swung on his heel and stalked away.
*********************************************************************
Well, is it at all believable? I do hope to get an answer to that question.