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.
AN: Another installment of my favorite project. I hope you enjoy it as much
as I do.
Chapter IV
Serena's tailored trousers went flying onto the malachite-green tiles, and
her dainty feet trampled into the half-filled bathtub, sending splatters
across the small room. Her unsteady hand pulled at the small knob right
under the tap, as its counterpart reached for the showerhead, directing
the tepid jet at her tense shoulders. But neither the massaging water nor
its soothing murmur were able to mitigate her vexation.
Money, money, MONEY! Was there anything in that bloody world that was not
solely about bloody banknotes? Raye agreeing to do the 'into-talking', Beatrice
with her reality show kick, and Darien ruining her feeble chance at retaining
her privacy... Boy did she hate it, the whole situation, the whole bunch of
people, including herself. Especially herself, herself more than anybody else,
for having proved a gullible fool and let her deepest convictions disappear
down the drain.
'Never Ever Allow Yourself to Dislike of Disregard a Student.' Was it only three
days ago that she had dictated the maxim to her current class? Was it only three
hours ago that she had breached it?
Moving the jet above her head, Serena painstakingly listened to the sound of
water pounding against her scalp. The mirror was long since covered with
frosted sheen, and the air had grown overly moist, but it wasn't until her
hand started to ache with exertion when she finally let her concentration
slip along with the showerhead.
It was crystal clear that some serious decision-making was in order, the
beginning of which was signaled by adding a generous portion of bath salts
into the water and lathering her hair with hop-scented shampoo.
The ink on the contract had undoubtedly dried, and the job was not to be
dismissed, she resolved, clawing at her skin as if attempting to punish
herself. Giving up was not an option.
*********************************************************************
Giving up was never a possibility. Life was about facing challenges, and
going on no matter what. That much had always been clear to him, from the
day he had walked out of the hospital after the accident, which had killed
his parents, to the day when he had walked into Berry Studios after his
scholarship had been withdrawn due to the bankruptcy of the granting fund.
And now when his persistence appeared to have been rewarded, it was definitely
not the time to deny his principles all because of a whimsical cormorant.
Which still left a bulk of pending problems, not the least of them being his
future course of actions, mulled Darien tilting his face towards the cool
stream and raking his fingers repeatedly through his soaking bangs.
The mentress, he recalled, feeling a bit calmer than moments ago, had seemed
rather determined to attain her ends, which, regrettably, had to have something
to do with his persona. Otherwise the she-cat wouldn't have insisted that he
attend the accompanist auditions. 'Consider it your first lesson,' she had
administered. As if!
An open confrontation, however, could very well backfire, so the temptation
to play hooky, attractive as it might be, was to be resisted. Beatrice would
have her little reality show, even if it meant pretending to heed the instructions
of Miss supposedly Bright and howling at the top of his lung capacity to reveal
the inefficiency of such training.
Well, if that was not a plan he didn't know what was. Nothing fancy, or
elaborate, but at least it was something to stick to, plus it was no longer
necessary to stand in the shower cabin waiting for the water to either cool
his steaming temper or make his skin shrivel. Thank the Supreme Being for
the healing power of rationalization.
Twisting the taps to stop the flow, Darien wrenched the shower cabin door,
and yanked a towel out off the rack. Not bothering to dry away the drops of
moisture from his body, the scowling singer wrapped the cloth around his hips
and stamped out onto the poor defenseless carpet of his living room without
a whit of remorse about leaving wet footprints on the handmade delicacy.
Anger often does that to people, and the occasions when it makes them stamp
onto infinitely more precious entities are unfortunately no less frequent.
*********************************************************************
Thank God for the healing power of relaxation, thought Serena after quite a
few more minutes of the bubbled bliss. If it were not for the relaxing affect
of the bath her pesky cognitive dissonance would have been still bugging her,
and the Worthing case would have still been unresolved, while the solution was
as obvious as they come.
From that moment and for the period of the contract validity Darien Worthing
is to be considered and treated as an ordinary pupil with all the rights and
responsibilities pertaining to the said position. He shall be addressed with
maximum politeness and instructed with maximum meticulousness. His headway in
the ways of singing shall be assigned the top priority among the tasks and
targets hereof, including the personal preferences of Serena Brighton. The
relationship between the said Darien Worthing and Serena Brighton shall be
of purely professional nature. The statement endorsed mentally by Serena
Brighton inside her bathtub on the date hereof. Signed, Serena Brighton,
period.
Now how to reach for the hair conditioner without fully emerging from the
water?
*********************************************************************
By Saturday morning everything was ready. Studio number one had been given
a complete makeover: the mercury blue walls had been covered with a layer
of saffron-yellow paint, stained with various shades of brown, red and orange;
all the furniture was changed for more accommodating models, and the meager
illumination had been replaced with special TV lights, designed to flatter any
face that would come within a shooting range of the cameras, that were to be
brought by the TV crew. The brand new Yamaha piano, acquired for the particular
occasion, preened in the middle of the recording room right next to the microphone,
and the wall behind them was adorned with a poster with Michel Crawford in a white
domino mask and a bulky cape. The ornamental plants in two opposite corners made
for a nice finishing touch.
Plopping onto one of the two armchairs near the console, Raye nodded approvingly
at the handiwork of her set designers. The formerly forbidding place was finally
ready for filming something other than a dismal clip or a scene out of a horror
movie. Not that she was sure that such scene would not take place in the now homely
studio, given the defiant disposition of her main characters, who were busy arguing
at the adjacent office.
They had arrived almost simultaneously, Darien preceding Serena by mere minutes.
Come to think of it, their reactions to their new workplace were amusingly similar,
and similarly amusing. Both had seemed to freeze on their tracks upon opening the
door, and both had been barely able to verbalize their first impressions. The looks
on their faces, however, had been more than enough, and she sniffled dramatically
at the memory that the moments had been lost to her audience.
Why, the ever-so-suave Darien stood gaping as a landed sole before squeezing his
eyes, leaning on the wall with an actually pitiful moan and sliding down to sit on
the floor. And Serena, the infamously sweet Serena, who prided herself on being
unable to inflict any kind of disciplinary punishment upon her students, gripped
the doorframe and glared daggers at the almost sobbing man, her cheeks inflating
as she let off puffs of air in a labored attempt to assuage the impending fit.
What a pity that the two had opted to take the ventilation of their feelings
somewhere else, the defiant Darien surprisingly following the sweet Serena's
lead. Oh what would she give to witness that discussion, or, better still, to
film the whole thing! They had to be screaming themselves hoarse, and being away
was immensely frustrating.
*********************************************************************
The keen journalist would have been even more frustrated if she were to find
out what was really going on in the small office of one of the producers, to
where the two adversaries had retired. Having crossed the room in a few confident
strides, they settled at the opposite sides of the desk, Serena authoritatively
taking the leather armchair of the owner, and Darien sitting in front of her.
Both had their hands folded on the polished surface of the bureau, and their
features schooled into sulky frowns, which they imagined to be purely professional
expressions.
"I trust it was you who instructed the staff to furnish the studio with that Yamaha
rather than the required grand?" queried Serena in a diligently enforced low pitch,
which she had been practicing for the duration of good three hours to attain the
present perfection.
"A grand would not have fit into the door, so they decided the Yamaha would have to
do," related Darien, whose nonchalance was about as genuine as Serena's calm. "After
all, the place was already being refurbished to meet your other requirements, I
believe."
"My only requirements were the ones that I asked you to communicate. I don't care
much for colors and wallpapers."
"Well, neither do I. I'd rather the studio remained as it was."
"And I'd rather the grand was provided. Its range of sound is bigger than the one
of a common forte piano."
Serena's disappointed sigh was followed by Darien's, each taking the time to dwell
on the new reason to be upset rather than the surprising ease with which they
accomplished the feat of conducting a civil conversation without a single acid
remark, or causing a detrimental scene they had individually resolved to avoid
at all cost. But then, it is quite a challenging task to acknowledge any goodness
about the person one deems his or her personal reminder of the existence of evil in
their otherwise agreeable world.
Their nearly companionable reverie was broken only by an external interference
courtesy of an impatient journalist and a rabid executive, who barged through
the door as if expecting to find a couple of cooling corpses.
"What's taking you so long?" questioned the irate women, casting disbelieving
glances at the forlorn pair. "What's there to talk about for so long? Everything
is ready for the audition, so get going for God's sake."
"We need another few minutes."
"Whatever for?"
"Didn't I insist upon having the last say in all matters concerning my designated
job?"
"I see," drawled Beatrice derisively. "Well, I'm glad you're finally getting along,
so we'll leave you two to whatever you want. You have three minutes."
"Thank you."
Darien turned to watch his boss withdraw at Serena's mild request, and yet again
felt his chest inflate with familiar resentment towards the girl, who was going
to effectively control his work life unless he succeeded to prove that the chit's
presence in the studio was all but expedient.
"What do you want from me?" he demanded, this time forgetting to mind his tone or
take the bite out of his words.
"Nothing," ensued Serena's quiet answer. "However, I would like to make a trivial
request, which you may very well choose to disregard."
"And have you run to complain to Beatrice about my unruly behavior?"
Not having anticipated the hostile outburst, Serena barely choked a pained gasp.
What could have possibly provoked him to act that way? It couldn't have been something
she had said, could it? After all, there was not a single word that she had uttered
without weighing it, and, until the last few days, her judgment had certainly been
sound. But, the her trained eye had noticed no symptoms of a mental instability in
her new pupil meant that it was she who had committed a mistake that led them to that
point, and that it was up to her to mend it.
"I shall never complain to Beatrice about anything you do," she started, fixing her
gaze on his stony face to impart her honest intent to gain his confidence. "I just
want to do my job, because I can't just walk away or simulate industriousness. I am
aware of the fact that I'm no musician, and that shall never be able to instruct you
professionally, but, may be I can help you with the emotional aspect of singing, which
I can deal with as a psychologist."
"Help me? I don't need your help, Serena. Beatrice herself has told you as much. We
are here to play our designated parts, and if I'm going to listen to you, it will be
only because this is my duty to Berry ltd, not for any other reason."
"But Darien..."
"What did you want to say?"
What kind of determination could endure such callous treatment, she asked herself,
closing her eyes to keep the harsh reality at bay. What kind of job required such
strain? What kind of teacher would proceed under such circumstances? What kind of...
What kind of psychologist would talk to herself, and what kind of literate person
would ask so many rhetorical questions in one paragraph anyway?
As a self-mocking smirk etched itself on her face as a result of the unexpected
associations, Serena allowed her mood to uplift. Not all was lost, after all, if
her thoughts still strayed to less than depressing subjects.
"It's about the audition. I'd like you to try interpreting the emotions of the
pieces you're going to hear. It may be helpful if you notice when they change
the tempo, the volume and the rhythm, because these are what musicians use to
convey their own understanding of the piece they perform."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but..."
"Just have a little faith in me, Darien. Please. It's not like it's going to harm
you."
She stood up from the armchair to indicate that the conversation was over, and strode
into the corridor, leaving a dumbfounded performer in her wake.
So the mentress intended for him to actually participate in the whole ordeal, which
was rather flattering. She clearly deemed him able to understand what she was on about,
and that would have proven a balm to his self-esteem had it really been dented during
their first encounter. And she wanted him to have faith in her. To give his unconditional
trust, if only in the matters of singing. It wasn't too much to ask, considering that
she might have made a scene after he had snapped at her. Heck, she might have really
complained to Beatrice.
Why hadn't she, though? Was she too proud to resort to such lowly measures? The theory
was unlikely to prove true, as a person who had resorted to begging him to have faith
in her couldn't be too proud.
Maybe she was loath to appear incompetent? Regrettably, that did not seem to be the
case. She had been the first one to point out her lack of experience in the field
during the talk show, which ruled out his second hypothesis, which, accidentally, had
also been his last one, save for the assumption that she had been sincere.
That, however, was not an assumption Darien was prepared to make, not when everything
about the midget still reminded him about the near infatuation he had experienced before
she had started badmouthing him. Neither her earnest mien nor her soothing voice would
sway him again. She was just another fraud, he determined, and would be dealt with as
such. She did not deserve his trust, for she had done nothing to earn it except coining
a couple of corny phrases about having faith. And who was she to decide whether
cooperating was going to harm him, his late mother, or his wife, God forbid? She wasn't
even his friend, and until she merited his attention, her request would not be granted.
Her second request. Since the plan was to at least pretend to heed her suggestions, and
nothing had happened to prompt amending the whole thing. The plan would be adhered to,
no matter how foolish he might appear because of it.
His mind made up, Darien sauntered towards studio number one, where the auditions were
about to commence. The procedure would be entertaining, he realized, and one he was kind
of looking forward to. Serena would not enjoy his comments, and it would be interesting
to see what persuasion devices she would come up with to make him see her point. If her
agitated mug the moment when he had spurned her was anything to judge by, her expressions
would prove capable of performing the impossible, namely distracting him from despairing
because of the damage, inflicted on his favorite place in the entire building.
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.
AN: Another installment of my favorite project. I hope you enjoy it as much
as I do.
Chapter IV
Serena's tailored trousers went flying onto the malachite-green tiles, and
her dainty feet trampled into the half-filled bathtub, sending splatters
across the small room. Her unsteady hand pulled at the small knob right
under the tap, as its counterpart reached for the showerhead, directing
the tepid jet at her tense shoulders. But neither the massaging water nor
its soothing murmur were able to mitigate her vexation.
Money, money, MONEY! Was there anything in that bloody world that was not
solely about bloody banknotes? Raye agreeing to do the 'into-talking', Beatrice
with her reality show kick, and Darien ruining her feeble chance at retaining
her privacy... Boy did she hate it, the whole situation, the whole bunch of
people, including herself. Especially herself, herself more than anybody else,
for having proved a gullible fool and let her deepest convictions disappear
down the drain.
'Never Ever Allow Yourself to Dislike of Disregard a Student.' Was it only three
days ago that she had dictated the maxim to her current class? Was it only three
hours ago that she had breached it?
Moving the jet above her head, Serena painstakingly listened to the sound of
water pounding against her scalp. The mirror was long since covered with
frosted sheen, and the air had grown overly moist, but it wasn't until her
hand started to ache with exertion when she finally let her concentration
slip along with the showerhead.
It was crystal clear that some serious decision-making was in order, the
beginning of which was signaled by adding a generous portion of bath salts
into the water and lathering her hair with hop-scented shampoo.
The ink on the contract had undoubtedly dried, and the job was not to be
dismissed, she resolved, clawing at her skin as if attempting to punish
herself. Giving up was not an option.
*********************************************************************
Giving up was never a possibility. Life was about facing challenges, and
going on no matter what. That much had always been clear to him, from the
day he had walked out of the hospital after the accident, which had killed
his parents, to the day when he had walked into Berry Studios after his
scholarship had been withdrawn due to the bankruptcy of the granting fund.
And now when his persistence appeared to have been rewarded, it was definitely
not the time to deny his principles all because of a whimsical cormorant.
Which still left a bulk of pending problems, not the least of them being his
future course of actions, mulled Darien tilting his face towards the cool
stream and raking his fingers repeatedly through his soaking bangs.
The mentress, he recalled, feeling a bit calmer than moments ago, had seemed
rather determined to attain her ends, which, regrettably, had to have something
to do with his persona. Otherwise the she-cat wouldn't have insisted that he
attend the accompanist auditions. 'Consider it your first lesson,' she had
administered. As if!
An open confrontation, however, could very well backfire, so the temptation
to play hooky, attractive as it might be, was to be resisted. Beatrice would
have her little reality show, even if it meant pretending to heed the instructions
of Miss supposedly Bright and howling at the top of his lung capacity to reveal
the inefficiency of such training.
Well, if that was not a plan he didn't know what was. Nothing fancy, or
elaborate, but at least it was something to stick to, plus it was no longer
necessary to stand in the shower cabin waiting for the water to either cool
his steaming temper or make his skin shrivel. Thank the Supreme Being for
the healing power of rationalization.
Twisting the taps to stop the flow, Darien wrenched the shower cabin door,
and yanked a towel out off the rack. Not bothering to dry away the drops of
moisture from his body, the scowling singer wrapped the cloth around his hips
and stamped out onto the poor defenseless carpet of his living room without
a whit of remorse about leaving wet footprints on the handmade delicacy.
Anger often does that to people, and the occasions when it makes them stamp
onto infinitely more precious entities are unfortunately no less frequent.
*********************************************************************
Thank God for the healing power of relaxation, thought Serena after quite a
few more minutes of the bubbled bliss. If it were not for the relaxing affect
of the bath her pesky cognitive dissonance would have been still bugging her,
and the Worthing case would have still been unresolved, while the solution was
as obvious as they come.
From that moment and for the period of the contract validity Darien Worthing
is to be considered and treated as an ordinary pupil with all the rights and
responsibilities pertaining to the said position. He shall be addressed with
maximum politeness and instructed with maximum meticulousness. His headway in
the ways of singing shall be assigned the top priority among the tasks and
targets hereof, including the personal preferences of Serena Brighton. The
relationship between the said Darien Worthing and Serena Brighton shall be
of purely professional nature. The statement endorsed mentally by Serena
Brighton inside her bathtub on the date hereof. Signed, Serena Brighton,
period.
Now how to reach for the hair conditioner without fully emerging from the
water?
*********************************************************************
By Saturday morning everything was ready. Studio number one had been given
a complete makeover: the mercury blue walls had been covered with a layer
of saffron-yellow paint, stained with various shades of brown, red and orange;
all the furniture was changed for more accommodating models, and the meager
illumination had been replaced with special TV lights, designed to flatter any
face that would come within a shooting range of the cameras, that were to be
brought by the TV crew. The brand new Yamaha piano, acquired for the particular
occasion, preened in the middle of the recording room right next to the microphone,
and the wall behind them was adorned with a poster with Michel Crawford in a white
domino mask and a bulky cape. The ornamental plants in two opposite corners made
for a nice finishing touch.
Plopping onto one of the two armchairs near the console, Raye nodded approvingly
at the handiwork of her set designers. The formerly forbidding place was finally
ready for filming something other than a dismal clip or a scene out of a horror
movie. Not that she was sure that such scene would not take place in the now homely
studio, given the defiant disposition of her main characters, who were busy arguing
at the adjacent office.
They had arrived almost simultaneously, Darien preceding Serena by mere minutes.
Come to think of it, their reactions to their new workplace were amusingly similar,
and similarly amusing. Both had seemed to freeze on their tracks upon opening the
door, and both had been barely able to verbalize their first impressions. The looks
on their faces, however, had been more than enough, and she sniffled dramatically
at the memory that the moments had been lost to her audience.
Why, the ever-so-suave Darien stood gaping as a landed sole before squeezing his
eyes, leaning on the wall with an actually pitiful moan and sliding down to sit on
the floor. And Serena, the infamously sweet Serena, who prided herself on being
unable to inflict any kind of disciplinary punishment upon her students, gripped
the doorframe and glared daggers at the almost sobbing man, her cheeks inflating
as she let off puffs of air in a labored attempt to assuage the impending fit.
What a pity that the two had opted to take the ventilation of their feelings
somewhere else, the defiant Darien surprisingly following the sweet Serena's
lead. Oh what would she give to witness that discussion, or, better still, to
film the whole thing! They had to be screaming themselves hoarse, and being away
was immensely frustrating.
*********************************************************************
The keen journalist would have been even more frustrated if she were to find
out what was really going on in the small office of one of the producers, to
where the two adversaries had retired. Having crossed the room in a few confident
strides, they settled at the opposite sides of the desk, Serena authoritatively
taking the leather armchair of the owner, and Darien sitting in front of her.
Both had their hands folded on the polished surface of the bureau, and their
features schooled into sulky frowns, which they imagined to be purely professional
expressions.
"I trust it was you who instructed the staff to furnish the studio with that Yamaha
rather than the required grand?" queried Serena in a diligently enforced low pitch,
which she had been practicing for the duration of good three hours to attain the
present perfection.
"A grand would not have fit into the door, so they decided the Yamaha would have to
do," related Darien, whose nonchalance was about as genuine as Serena's calm. "After
all, the place was already being refurbished to meet your other requirements, I
believe."
"My only requirements were the ones that I asked you to communicate. I don't care
much for colors and wallpapers."
"Well, neither do I. I'd rather the studio remained as it was."
"And I'd rather the grand was provided. Its range of sound is bigger than the one
of a common forte piano."
Serena's disappointed sigh was followed by Darien's, each taking the time to dwell
on the new reason to be upset rather than the surprising ease with which they
accomplished the feat of conducting a civil conversation without a single acid
remark, or causing a detrimental scene they had individually resolved to avoid
at all cost. But then, it is quite a challenging task to acknowledge any goodness
about the person one deems his or her personal reminder of the existence of evil in
their otherwise agreeable world.
Their nearly companionable reverie was broken only by an external interference
courtesy of an impatient journalist and a rabid executive, who barged through
the door as if expecting to find a couple of cooling corpses.
"What's taking you so long?" questioned the irate women, casting disbelieving
glances at the forlorn pair. "What's there to talk about for so long? Everything
is ready for the audition, so get going for God's sake."
"We need another few minutes."
"Whatever for?"
"Didn't I insist upon having the last say in all matters concerning my designated
job?"
"I see," drawled Beatrice derisively. "Well, I'm glad you're finally getting along,
so we'll leave you two to whatever you want. You have three minutes."
"Thank you."
Darien turned to watch his boss withdraw at Serena's mild request, and yet again
felt his chest inflate with familiar resentment towards the girl, who was going
to effectively control his work life unless he succeeded to prove that the chit's
presence in the studio was all but expedient.
"What do you want from me?" he demanded, this time forgetting to mind his tone or
take the bite out of his words.
"Nothing," ensued Serena's quiet answer. "However, I would like to make a trivial
request, which you may very well choose to disregard."
"And have you run to complain to Beatrice about my unruly behavior?"
Not having anticipated the hostile outburst, Serena barely choked a pained gasp.
What could have possibly provoked him to act that way? It couldn't have been something
she had said, could it? After all, there was not a single word that she had uttered
without weighing it, and, until the last few days, her judgment had certainly been
sound. But, the her trained eye had noticed no symptoms of a mental instability in
her new pupil meant that it was she who had committed a mistake that led them to that
point, and that it was up to her to mend it.
"I shall never complain to Beatrice about anything you do," she started, fixing her
gaze on his stony face to impart her honest intent to gain his confidence. "I just
want to do my job, because I can't just walk away or simulate industriousness. I am
aware of the fact that I'm no musician, and that shall never be able to instruct you
professionally, but, may be I can help you with the emotional aspect of singing, which
I can deal with as a psychologist."
"Help me? I don't need your help, Serena. Beatrice herself has told you as much. We
are here to play our designated parts, and if I'm going to listen to you, it will be
only because this is my duty to Berry ltd, not for any other reason."
"But Darien..."
"What did you want to say?"
What kind of determination could endure such callous treatment, she asked herself,
closing her eyes to keep the harsh reality at bay. What kind of job required such
strain? What kind of teacher would proceed under such circumstances? What kind of...
What kind of psychologist would talk to herself, and what kind of literate person
would ask so many rhetorical questions in one paragraph anyway?
As a self-mocking smirk etched itself on her face as a result of the unexpected
associations, Serena allowed her mood to uplift. Not all was lost, after all, if
her thoughts still strayed to less than depressing subjects.
"It's about the audition. I'd like you to try interpreting the emotions of the
pieces you're going to hear. It may be helpful if you notice when they change
the tempo, the volume and the rhythm, because these are what musicians use to
convey their own understanding of the piece they perform."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but..."
"Just have a little faith in me, Darien. Please. It's not like it's going to harm
you."
She stood up from the armchair to indicate that the conversation was over, and strode
into the corridor, leaving a dumbfounded performer in her wake.
So the mentress intended for him to actually participate in the whole ordeal, which
was rather flattering. She clearly deemed him able to understand what she was on about,
and that would have proven a balm to his self-esteem had it really been dented during
their first encounter. And she wanted him to have faith in her. To give his unconditional
trust, if only in the matters of singing. It wasn't too much to ask, considering that
she might have made a scene after he had snapped at her. Heck, she might have really
complained to Beatrice.
Why hadn't she, though? Was she too proud to resort to such lowly measures? The theory
was unlikely to prove true, as a person who had resorted to begging him to have faith
in her couldn't be too proud.
Maybe she was loath to appear incompetent? Regrettably, that did not seem to be the
case. She had been the first one to point out her lack of experience in the field
during the talk show, which ruled out his second hypothesis, which, accidentally, had
also been his last one, save for the assumption that she had been sincere.
That, however, was not an assumption Darien was prepared to make, not when everything
about the midget still reminded him about the near infatuation he had experienced before
she had started badmouthing him. Neither her earnest mien nor her soothing voice would
sway him again. She was just another fraud, he determined, and would be dealt with as
such. She did not deserve his trust, for she had done nothing to earn it except coining
a couple of corny phrases about having faith. And who was she to decide whether
cooperating was going to harm him, his late mother, or his wife, God forbid? She wasn't
even his friend, and until she merited his attention, her request would not be granted.
Her second request. Since the plan was to at least pretend to heed her suggestions, and
nothing had happened to prompt amending the whole thing. The plan would be adhered to,
no matter how foolish he might appear because of it.
His mind made up, Darien sauntered towards studio number one, where the auditions were
about to commence. The procedure would be entertaining, he realized, and one he was kind
of looking forward to. Serena would not enjoy his comments, and it would be interesting
to see what persuasion devices she would come up with to make him see her point. If her
agitated mug the moment when he had spurned her was anything to judge by, her expressions
would prove capable of performing the impossible, namely distracting him from despairing
because of the damage, inflicted on his favorite place in the entire building.