Thank you for the reviews, they are much appreciated. Mentions of the bank hostage episode as it is a great early measure of their relationship. I've also changed the title, it wasn't doing it for me. I wanted to explore how Makepeace might cope alone and if she was put into a situation like The Burning.
How long does it take to change? This is the question on her mind tonight as she pushes rice around her plate. Only weeks ago she couldn't eat; her stomach full of butterflies.
She's meant to be thinking about the missing woman. Everyone is accounted for. The more she understands Danny and Rusty, the more value she places on their role in this stage show. It's not a promising career in the eye of society, but these women, in all their sizes, run The Electric Lady. Does this woman want to be found?
She could get lost in this life too. She's become something prized; an asset of her own making and surprisingly within her control.
In the shower, she wonders. How many identities does she have to scrub away to find who she wants to be? To shed the husk that shrouded her after a lifetime of men who wanted her to be someone else. Her family hoped for a son; the ex-husband who wanted a diligent housewife and betrayed her. Those flings who wanted a piece of her as if she was a trophy. Much like Dempsey, except he's taken everything she's thrown at him, literally and metaphorically, but somehow he's stayed.
Johnny Lupino appeared in six weeks.
As Spikings tried to, one could argue that it was the ludicrous face furniture that changed Dempsey, but it was more than that. Dempsey would never entertain a bedsit with a single bed, read porn and drink cheap beer. His flats were alarmingly expensive as he made NYPD pay for their corruption. He likes good stuff like a respectable bed, real women, good coffee, and cold champagne.
Six weeks. Habits are started in half the time. A person can die from an addiction in less than six minutes.
Dempsey became less by shutting himself away, refusing to entertain her company, fearful of his dark thoughts of committing a murder, obsessed with gaining justice, whatever that took. He'd drunk more than he should've, failed to bed the target, and almost locked himself up. He wasn't Dempsey anymore; however maddening the man was, he never lost his way. He never pointed a gun at an unarmed person.
She feels more than she was. This undercover job is addictive. She needs Dempsey to pull her out but he's not here and she wonders what he'd think of her like this.
Awkward and tense is how she'd describe their relationship. It's getting harder to ignore that their feelings are more than friendship or a partnership. She's made it her business to show Dempsey that she's capable when she shoudn't care one bit. They are at a standoff. Guns are drawn, but neither seems to want to draw.
He'd arrived at the hospital once with a stolen bunch of flowers that time. An afterthought, as if Chas had told him to go to keep the peace. Between being taken hostage and him raiding the bus, she was elevated to being deserving of a red rose and the effort of a disguise, as if he had to gain proof she was alright. He has taken to leaning over the desk with a pouty smile and wearing a cologne she once said she liked. He's become a safe place, despite everything he's risked; he's never failed to show up.
How was he managing when he had no idea where to show up?
XXXXXX
The space is typical of what he's come to expect. Not much different from America. Dempsey keeps an eye on the bar, waiting to see if Harry will appear. The waitresses are mingling at the front with the young, rowdy guys. It feels seedy up here, but he doesn't want to spook Harry and blow her cover. He knows to wait his time or maybe even find her after the shift.
He spots the VIP spaces, and a flicker of a curtain catches his eye. A guy about Dempsey's age swaggers out, punching the air, and sits down with his buddies. A woman follows him just as a group arrives from the street and Dempsey does a double-take. Was that Harry? He thinks it was, he'd know those legs. He's studied then long enough and dreamt about them. He's sure they just walked through the staff door. Was that his Harry, in a VIP room?
Nope. No goddammed way.
"You alright, mate, you look like you've seen a ghost?" A guy at the next table looks over. Dempsey must be horrified if the man has dared to speak to him. Nobody speaks up here unless it's a life threatening emergency, like a wife or girlfriend walking in...Christ, he mumbles.
He sits back down, unaware that he has risen to his feet. After looking for her, he didn't think about himself and how he'd feel. He'd created this idea in his head, but … there's no way on Earth that's Harry. If it was, he's no idea what to do about it or how that makes him feel. Horny and slightly depraved.
He tries to stop his leg bouncing with a flurry of nerves and pays vague attention to the dancer finishing her act. Starlight. He's seen a few photos of the Chancellor's daughter, a mousy young woman, and studies her as best can from here. It's hard to tell. He knows how easy it is to transform. He's seem the drag acts and their entourages in New York's East Village, passed Studio 54, unable to get inside.
Starlight is off the stage, and men holler, hoping for an encore. Dempsey sees that it's the dancer in charge as the large guy from the door hauls a young buck off the rail and to the street side door. Stupid men throwing their wages on a brief flash of a pair of tits. But he's here, and he's done it too.
Maybe he'd imagined he saw Harry? He's done that before when he drove the car at Coltrane. He was desperate to see his partner alive, but imagined her dead; he's not unpacking that thought. There are blondes, but there is only one Harry. He's barely functioned since she left and lately hasn't been sleeping so good.
A voice booms from above, through powerful speakers, announcing the next act.
"You'll like this next one; she's mint." His neighbour comments, moving in his seat as he cups a pair of imaginary breasts. Dempsey feels sick, and a passing waitress looks over, concerned.
The voice welcomes Marilyn and he remembers the new dancer's name. He hears the opening song, he can't recall it, but it's a song about sex.
A lithe figure slinks on the stage like a cat. Dempsey forgets to breathe. It's Harry, but it's not her. Her face is changed by her makeup into a woman who demands a response. He knows that look; it's just before she tells him off and if he makes his body stir in the office... he wills himself to cool it down. Dempsey can't see her eyes, those windows to her world that would tell him how she really is. The apology of a blue dress is decorated with glitter. Her hair is teased into dramatic curls, and he breathes hard. This is wrong; he's not the dammed guy who hid in the closet for a look at her in that champagne getup just to top up the endless dirty dreams he'd had.
But he is.
Harry moves her body in a way that's not unlike that night at Stringfellows. She has all the confidence of Sharon at the nightclub when he first saw her. She bends and scoots across the floor, writhing like she's done this a million times before, and… Christ he's missed those times, when he could've been protecting her. He wasn't her beside her, doing what, he's not sure. A million chat-up lines fizz and die on his cat-caught tongue.
"She's beautiful, isn't she?" The waitress is collecting the glasses.
"Yeah, yes, she is." He croaks, hands on his lap; he daren't move.
Harry's face is deep in concentration when she's not throwing a grin to taunt the audience. Dempsey is thinking how she sits like this on a Monday over a file; sometimes chewing a pencil or did he do that? SI10 seems a world from here. Then - how in the hell did she do that - her dress is thrown across the stage to reveal matching underwear. Her knickers are stuffed with notes; he's incensed by wild men at the front and holy shit… there's her. Jesus, she's on the pole now and her bra has gone. Will it never end? He can't see her like this, not that perfect body, and in front of those assholes. He feels exposed; it should be every fantasy he's had come true but it's like she's reached inside his mind, and dragged out his last brain cell. He can't think straight, he's too angry at Spiking and Edwards, and she's so fucking brave.
Then she's gone. Barely four minutes; God knows how much cash she's made, notes flitter like Monopoly on a well played board. He's lost, and she's won.
He has to get her out of here; screw the dammed daughter. This is not in her job detail. He's gonna wait outside and take her home, and she can tell Spiking it wasn't for her. He'll get her home and …
She's back in that skimpy dress, moving through the crowd, working her curves around the joint. His whole body aches at the sight of her and Dempsey thinks she might come up to the back. He holds his breath, he's not wearing disguise. She'll kick his arse for this.
She changes direction - thank you, fate - and heads to the mid-row, saunters to a man in his fifties, and smiles at him. Dempsey notes that it doesn't reach her eyes, but then again, not many of his own actions made her really smile either. The asshole nods at whatever she's saying, and Dempsey is amazed to see her hold out her hand and lead the scrote to a VIP room, strutting across the floor like she owns the space.
Dempsey is horrified and impressed. She has guts, his Harry. He remembers her confidently handling the entire bed-sharing with 'Danny' and putting on his shirt, robbing him of any quips about 'the morning after' and beguiling him in one sexy, intimate move. He's longed for her ever since.
The Harry at her desk, who always dresses ready to throw herself into the chase, was never without a bra. The Harry who tolerates his presence at her home with satin bedclothes, always covered with enough to tempt him. A million versions of his clever partner who holds all the power.
If he blows the cover, he'll put her in danger. Harry is here for a good reason. If a hundred come-ons from him have yielded nothing, the red dress at the club aside, then this is business.
She'll never forgive him, and he'll never forget her on that stage.
He's seriously underestimated everything.
