Disclaimer: I don't own Aurelia, Jamie, the story, or anything else from Love Actually, but maybe, if I wish hard enough, I will get it for Christmas. Probably not. I'll be lucky enough to get that Christmas song by Britney Spears out of my head.

Thank You to organized-chaos for your wonderful review!

Happy Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza, Yule, Eid, Diwali, and any other holiday you may be celebrating to anyone who took the time to read this far! I love you to bits for even taking a peek at this.

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Chapter Three: Meeting Aurelia

Jamie 

            It seemed she had everyone on her side. Men were known as heart-breakers who had no feelings whatsoever, perverts, or complete dorks. How often did you hear a song about a guy whose girlfriend slept with his brother? I couldn't remember any, and it was no wonder why. Women were made out to be the victims or the people who were too smart to become victims. They were never the attackers. Men didn't get broken hearts in movies, unless they were homosexual. How on Earth was I supposed to get over her if there was no one telling me, It's okay. It happens to the best of us. That girl was completely heartless. You'll get over it. The answer was simply this: not easily.

            My situation looked even more depressing when I got there. "Alone again, naturally," I commented to the room, too miserable to care that I really should have been questioning my sanity.

            So it was understandable that I felt pretty suicidal when I opened that door and put on a fake smile. Eleonore was standing at the door, a smile that made me feel even more suicidal (if you can't even smile wider than someone else, what can you do?)

            "Ah," I said, trying to widen the smile. "Bonjour, Eleonore."

            "Bonjour, Monsieur Bennett," she replied, "Welcome back. And this year you bring lady friend?"

            The smile faltered for just a moment. "Oh, ah, no. There's been a change of situation." I took a deep breath. "Just me." I almost winced. The sad excuse for a smile was just a shadow of what it should have been now.

            "Am I sad or not sad?" she asked, smiling still.

            "Well, I— I think you're not surprised."

            She nodded understandingly. "And you stay here till Christmas?"

            "Yeah," I muttered. Yep, all chance of appearing happy gone. "Yeah."

            "Good," she smiled reassuringly. "Well," she turned around, bringing my attention to the woman standing by the door of her car. "I find you the perfect lady to clean the house. This is Aurelia."

            Aurelia looked nervous, jumping from one foot to another, her hands shoved into the pockets of her coat. Her hair was pulled back a bit messily, as if she had gotten dressed in a hurry, but it looked almost glamorous— more so than if she had made it perfect. Her eyes kept jumping up and down, and there was a hint of a smile in her eyes so faint I wasn't sure if I was imagining it or not.

            "Ah," I said, stepping outside and extending my hand. She walked up, her eyes locking on mine. The jumping of her eyes ceased, but for some reason that made it harder to catch the glimmer of a laugh I though I had seen before. "Uh, bonjour, Aurelia."

            "Bonjour." She bit her lip, nodding slightly.

            "Uh, je suis trés—"

            "Unfortunately she cannot speak French," said Eleonore. She gave a little laugh. "Just like you. She is Portuguese."

            Aurelia looked about uneasily between the pair of us.

            I tried to say something, honestly, I really did try, but I was shortly informed that I wasn't speaking Portuguese at all.

            "Right," I said, embarrassed. "Well, anyways, nice to meet you and, uh..." I swung my arm round to indicate the door. She nodded again, smiled, averted her eyes and walked inside.

            "Perhaps you can drive her home at the end of her work," suggested Eleonore. I shrugged.

            "Oh, absolutely, uh," I turned to Aurelia. "Comme grande ple-plesora."

            "Which is what?" laughed Eleonore. "Turkish?"

            I felt myself sagging. This woman was out to murder my ego.

            "Well, um, yeah," I said, wondering why I was suddenly inarticulate the moment the listener couldn't understand what I was saying. Did this mean I was only a good speaker under pressure? Were all people this way, or was this my own special little defect?

            My mood hadn't improved much.

            Still, I thought, watching her say something in Portuguese (seemingly suffering the same illness as me), she seems nice enough.

            Another little voice in my head laughed.

            Yeah, she probably thinks you're an idiot. Which, considering the circumstances, isn't too unjust an assumption.

            No, she seems nice.

            She's rather pretty, you know.

            WHAT?!

            My shock must have shown on my face, because she immediately started saying something very fast, and had I known Portuguese, I highly doubt that I would understand a word she said.

            "Oh, no," I said, my mouth trying to make a smile but only managing a grimace. "No, nothing's wrong, you're lovely— I mean, you're wonderful— I mean, you know, you haven't done anything wrong, it's all me, I'm an idiot."

            Why is it that when you call yourself an idiot, you don't care, but whenever you think she's calling you an idiot, you get defensive?

            Oh, bugger off.

             "When I said you're lovely, I didn't mean that— I mean, you are lovely, but I don't want to marry you or anything. Not that I would hate to marry you, but I don't know you at all, but, I mean, you're pretty and— well, not pretty— I mean, you are pretty, just in your own strange way— not that you're strange, it's just..." She was staring at me now. I felt my face grow hot. "Well, it's not like you... like you know what I'm saying so I might as well just shut up, right?" She bit her lip again and gave me a small smile. Then, quietly, she said something in Portuguese, turned around and walked off into another room.

            Just shut up and let her be.

            I sighed and ran my hands through my hair, sitting down in front of my typewriter.

            "Right."

            She popped her head through the door.

            "Sim?"

            Oh, great. Now she thinks you're insane. You'll have to stop talking to yourself, Jamie, or she'll ring the mental hospital.

            "Nothing, nothing, sorry," I said, forcing a smile.

            She nodded and tilted her head to the side, looking amused.

            "Yeah," I muttered, cursing the awkward silence.

            "Bem," she said, walking out of the room again and I felt this need to understand everything she had said. My ego had taken a beating or two and I wanted to make sure that she, added to the woman I loved and my only brother, didn't think I was a useless nobody with no feelings or thoughts.

            And I certainly didn't want her to think I was a sissy, either, which was I made sure my sobs were as close to silent as possible, and that I had removed any trace of my tears before I looked at her again.

            Things were not looking too bright.

~*~

Sim?— Yes?

Bem— Okay.

I'm not 100% sure on these. I got them from an online translator, and I know for a fact those can be very inaccurate. I don't think it would screw up on something like 'yes', but if I'm wrong, please correct me.