Chapter IV
When Satine woke the next morning, there was a dull ache in her temples. Two fingers pressed against her temple on either side of her head, massaging clockwise for a minute. Finally, Satine climbed from the bed and wrapped her robe around her, then moved towards the bathroom to get ready.
Thirty five minutes later, Satine emerged from her room and made her way to the busy London streets. After looking left, then right, she finally decided to go the former direction -- left. Her sense of direction had always been rather keen, but Satine knew next to nothing about the streets of London; she could only hope that she didn't get lost, and that if she did, someone would be kind enough to turn her in the right direction.
Any normal person would peruse the classified ads in the daily paper, but not Satine. She knew how she wanted to make her living in London, though she wasn't sure that it'd be so easy to find a job. Of course, Satine knew that if worse came to worse, she could always find a pub in a dark alleyway somewhere that would hire her. That was the last thing she wanted to do, though.
By some stroke of luck, a piano bar just two blocks ahead was holding auditions for a new singer. Their last one had quit rather suddenly, and it was of utmost importance that they find a replacement that day. A table covered with a black table cloth was set up in the street, a rather attractive young woman sitting behind it with pristine posture. She had three stacks of paper before her -- one of applications, one of a job description, and one of the lyrics to the try-out song.
Satine crossed the street quickly to avoid being hit by a car, and then caught site of the table. Her steps carried her to the very edge of the sidewalk, gaze drifting upwards to read the sign above the building in which the table belonged -- Martin's was all it said, and relayed little information as to what it was or why there'd be a table in the middle of the sidewalk. Curiosity got the best of her, and Satine slowly sauntered to the table, hands clasping together in front of her.
"Excuse me."
The woman was already gathering papers for Satine. "Fill these out," she said stoically, shoving the papers in Satine's face. Taken aback by her bluntness, Satine steped back and then awkwardly accepted the papers.
"What are they?"
"Oh, I'm sorry," the woman apologized, though she hardly meant it, and began to reach back for the papers. "I though you were here for the auditions."
Satine held the papers, reluctant to give them back now that she'd heard the word audition. "Audition for what?"
"For the singing position."
"Thank you!" Satine replied quickly with a brilliant smile, stepping past the table and woman, into the piano bar. At first, she was rather stunned by the amount of girls inside the room. Most were dressed rather formally, and Satine suddenly felt terribly underdressed. If she had the time to go back to her hotel to change, she most certainly would have. As she entered, many of the women turned to survey the competition, making Satine feel as if she were two inches tall, despite the fact that she towered over most woman (and even most men).
When interest in her dwindled, Satine moved towards the table situated just slightly to her left. The registration process went quickly, and she received barely more than a passing glance from the man sitting there – something she wasn't quite accustomed to, that much was for sure – before being told to wait amongst the other ladies until her number was called. Satine did as she was told, offering only a word here and there to thank the appropriate people, and settled into a chair to think about what song she wanted to use.
"Two-twenty-three!" Satine stood up and quickly made her way onto the stage, brushing off a few pieces of lint that she was suddenly aware of, thanks to the bright stage lights. "Your music, please." The interviewer looked rather stoic and unemotional, holding a clipboard on his lap rigidly.
"I haven't any," Satine replied softly.
"Then what do you expect us to do with you?" He asked harshly, almost elliciting a wince from his neighboring interviewer.
"I'd ... I'd like to sing without music, if it's not too much trouble." Satine received from the interviewer only a wave of the hand, signalling that she was free to begin whenever she pleased.
"A mountain of stone, a door of steel Can't stand in my way; I'd go on Brutal machines, unbending laws Can't slow me down; I'd go on I've learned how to deal and when to fight I know what's real, I know what's right I'm not afraid, a wounded dove I can be tender in a world so tough."
Her eyes fell shut, images flashing behind her eyelids.
You knew who I was.
I don't expect you to understand.
That's how the story really ends.
"I'm sure I could face the bitter cold But life without you--I don't know ...I don't know."
Just leave, Christian.
"The winds of the heart can blow me down But I get right up and I stand my ground I've tasted fear, my share of pain The wasted tears of love in vain I've held you tight, pushed you away Now, with all my might, I beg you to stay."
Go. Please go.
As Satine finished her the last line of her song, she opened her eyes. She blinked at the bright lights that she'd grown unaccustomed to since parting with the Moulin Rouge, trying to see the faces of those who had been watching her in stunned silence. Even the main interviewer sat and stared in awe.
"Thank you," he managed to choke out. Satine nodded humbly to him, then left the stage and the piano bar.
Once outside, Satine exhaled a deep breath, releasing with it a few tears that she'd been struggling to hold back. Didn't Christian know that she was trying to protect him? Maybe Harold was right when he said that she was a great actress – maybe too great an actress. Satine had relived that day so many times before, and her words echoed inside her head. Despite the words of some, she convicted herself guilty of Christian's murder, even if she hadn't held the gun.
After wiping away her tears, Satine hurried back down the street, towards her hotel room.
"Who was that?" The second interviewer asked, leaning towards the first to whisper.
After a brief glance to his clipboard, the first looked back to his colleague. "Satine James."
"James?" The second interviewer, Eric Ainsworth, echoed, thick brows furrowing as he sort through his memory to figure out just why the last name seemed to familiar. There were probably millions of people with that last name in London, but something about Satine struck Eric – she was different somehow, familiar.
"Don, I have to go. I'll be back later," Eric whispered quickly, getting out of his seat to quickly exit the piano bar from the same door that Satine had used.
There was something about her, and he had to know what.
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Song credit to Celine Dion, "I Don't Know." Had to cut it off a bit earlier so that I could use it to serve my purpose, heh. It's a rough chaper, I know, and I'd appreciate reviews and constructive criticism so that I can maybe rewrite it.