New York City, USA
October 2010
Go on pretending
"…but it's a masterpiece, darling. It's one of the premier novels of the 20th century, maybe ever!" Mum exclaims through the loudspeaker of my phone.
"You have to say that," I point out, as I move to open the door and wave Ken inside with a motion of my hand. "You're the English professor."
She laughs brightly. "I liked it long before becoming an English professor."
"Well, and I don't like it. It's all over the place," I huff, shaking my head at Ken's questioningly raised eyebrows.
"It's called a stream of consciousness," Mum informs me, clearly amused.
I roll my eyes for Ken's benefit and he smiles. "I know what it's called. I still don't like it," I persist. "And I have absolutely no idea how I'm supposed to write an essay on it. Nan said to write about how he set the novel on June 16th because that's when he first went out with his future wife, but she was laughing when she advised to do that, and I don't think I trust her."
"Normally, I'd ask you to be more trusting of your sister, but in this case, you might be right not to do that," Mum agrees and she, too, is laughing.
Clearly, there's a joke there I'm not getting. I look to Ken for help, but he is grinning as well, his head turned slightly to the side.
"Why's that?" I ask Mum instead.
"Ah, well… how to put this delicately?" she ponders. "Let's just say she put her hand where girls in 1904 didn't usually put their hands when going out with a boy for the first time."
So that means…
I'm going to kill Nan.
"Are you telling me that when people are celebrating Bloomsday…?" I begin, letting the question hang unfinished.
Mum chuckles. "Uh-huh. That's exactly what they are celebrating."
Well.
I wonder if that's common knowledge?
"So, I won't write about that," I conclude.
"Best not," agrees Mum. Ken backs her up with a nod.
"Any better advice?" I ask.
She makes a thoughtful sound. "You might write about Molly. Nabokov considered her monologue the weakest chapter of the novel, but I always thought it quite compelling in places."
"That's right at the end where Joyce forgets about the proper use of punctuation altogether, isn't it?" I clarify. "No, thanks. I'm going to stand with Nabokov on that one." (Not that I stand with Nabokov on very many other things. Lolita is all kinds of disturbing, whatever everyone else says!)
"In that case, you might honour your father and write your essay on the Gilbert schema," Mum suggests.
I frown at the phone. "For one, I don't think Dad would consider it an honour," I point out. "For another, he'll have notes on you jumping from Nabokov to him as quickly as that." Because there's subtext there, isn't it?
Mum laughs. "Yes, he will," she concedes. "So, write about the use of time in the novel, then. Not even you can take offense at that one."
I wrinkle my nose. "Not offense, no. But I still have absolutely nothing to say on the matter."
Mum sighs. "I suppose I can send you some of my notes," she remarks, though clearly reluctant.
"That would be amazing," I beam. "You're the best!"
"But that'll be the last time," Mum warns. "You really should do your studies on your own."
"Sure, Mum. Whatever you say, Mum," I agree, not meaning a word of it.
"I'm serious, Rilla," she adds, picking up on my very thinly-veiled insincerity. (But we both know she's not going to stick to it. She hasn't in the past, why start now?)
"Of course, you are," I nod. "You're still the best though. And I've got to run. Love you!"
"I love you, too, daughter of mine," Mum concedes with a long-suffering sigh.
I blow the phone a kiss she can't see, before I cut the call and turn back to Ken. He's watching me with evident amusement.
"Ulysses?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.
I groan. "Ulysses. Mum just tried to convince me of its general amazingness for close to an hour, but I still think Joyce was trolling when he wrote that one."
"Or tripping," Ken adds. "He was a known drunk."
"Or tripping," I agree as I take his helmet from him and set it down on a free space on the kitchen counter.
"Why are you subjecting yourself to it anyway?" he wants to know. When I turn back to look at him, I see that he has picked up the copy of Ulysses from where it lay on the floor next to my bed.
I grimace. "Not voluntarily. I was just naïve enough to choose a course on Irish literature this term."
"An English scholar, then?" he asks, putting the book down again.
"Minor," I clarify. "My major is economics." With a nod towards it, I invite him to sit down on the bed (prepared into its sofa-like state in advance this time).
"What made you pick those subjects?" he enquires as he sits down, sounding genuinely interested.
I shrug. "Truth to be told, after graduating school, I didn't have the foggiest what I wanted to study. I took a gap year first but while that was nice, it didn't get me any further in figuring out a subject of study. I ended up choosing English Literature because I like to read. Economics, I originally tagged on as a minor because it seemed useful to know a thing or two about numbers."
"Compelling reasoning," he smiles.
I cast a half-hearted glare into his direction. "Not really. And I know it, too. But it's not an easy thing, having to choose your career at eighteen. I mean, who has their life figured out that young?"
Looking to him for an answer, I can see his expression shift just the tiniest bit. It's only then that I realise that by necessity, he had his life figured out much earlier than that. He was born to be King, wasn't he?
"Right. Sorry," I apologise.
He shakes his head. "It's fine."
Truth to be told, I don't think it is, but I don't want to pry either.
Instead, I prattle on, "That my reasoning was pretty shoddy is evident in the fact that, just a couple of months into my first year, I realised that I'm not cut out to be an English scholar. More often than not, the characters in those reading assignments made me want to scream at them. Or hit them over the head, preferably with something sharp. Whereas the maths I had to do for my economics courses wasn't quite as bad as I thought it would be."
"So, you switched," concludes Ken.
I nod confirmation. "Not that my economic courses are all that interesting, but at least they don't make me want to scream – much."
"It's hardly riveting stuff," he agrees. "I had some economic courses as part of my degree as well and they could be… dry."
"What did you study anyway?" I ask curiously.
"PPE," is his answer, which, let's be honest, is no answer at all.
"What's that?" I want to know, frowning in confusion. "The study of the Purple People Eater?"
For a moment, he just stares at me, unblinking. Then – "Excuse me, but… the what now?"
"The Purple People Eater," I supply helpfully. "He eats purple people, see?"
"Evidently," Ken nods, though still clearly disbelieving.
"Makes him very unfrightening, if you think about it," I muse. "If he only eats purple people, not very many humans have anything to fear from him."
"None at all, I should think?" he asks, his eyebrows rising to almost touch his hairline.
I incline my head pensively. "We can't be sure. The world is a strange place with strange people in it. I wouldn't want to bet on there not being a purple one somewhere."
"No. No, me either," he agrees, shaking his head lightly.
"Either way, I take it you didn't study the Purple People Eater then?" I ask, eyeing him with some amusement.
He laughs. "No. PPE is short for 'Philosophy, politics and economics'. It's Oxford's course for people planning to enter politics or civil service," he explains. "Ask any three politicians in the UK and I guarantee you one of them studied PPE."
"Why did you choose it?" I ask.
Now he's the one shrugging. "It was deemed a worthwhile addition to my training," he answers simply.
His training for Kingship, that is.
Weird.
"What would you have studied if it had been up to you?" I want to know. I'm not altogether sure whether I'm not overstepping a line with that question, but if I'm the only one talking about myself, this conversation is in danger of becoming rather skewed, isn't it?
He, however, looks thoughtful more than anything. "I can't really tell you," he admits after a moment. "As you said, it's not like most people have their professional interests all figured out at eighteen. And PPE wasn't a bad choice by any means. There was lots of variety and opportunities to explore things that interested you. It was fine."
Once more, I'm not wholly convinced that 'fine' really does mean fine in this context, but I also don't want to push him after having just gotten an honest answer.
"My siblings got to choose their own subjects and those are decidedly not useful," he adds. "So maybe PPE really was for the best."
"What are they studying?" I ask. (Because let's be honest, he fed me that question, didn't he?)
I know both his siblings are some years younger than he is (more my age than his, I gather), so I assume that whatever they choose to study, they're still in the process of doing so.
"Teddy is up in Edinburgh studying architecture. Which is a proper degree to have at least, though of limited use to someone destined for a life of representation," he answers. "Persis, predictably, found herself a course specialising in equestrianism at some weird little college close to the Welsh border."
"She's quite a good rider, isn't she?" To the point that I think she got chosen to represent the UK at some eventing competition or another a couple of month ago, despite being just… nineteen or something. I remember it being all over the news, though I don't think she won anything.
"She is. Ought to be, really, considering how much time she spends with those horses," Ken confirms. "And you can rest easy in the knowledge that studying equestrian sciences because one likes to ride is no worse than studying English because one likes to read."
I roll my eyes at him and he laughs.
With a quick glance over towards the microwave (which remains the only clock I have in this apartment), I get to my feet. "Are you good on your own for a moment? I still have to change before we leave." This with a wave at my clothes – a formfitting pair of jeans and cute little top, because as long as I have a say on the matter, I'm sure as anything not going to let him catch me looking a mess ever again.
"Is the ear-biting cat around?" Ken asks with a wary glance around the room.
"No worries, you're safe from him," I assure with a laugh. "He's out romancing yet another cat. I think his current conquest is the black and white one from number 75, but I might be wrong. He moves through them rather quickly."
"So, he's a veritable Casanova," Ken concludes earnestly. "Lots of little Georges running around the place, I assume?"
I shake my head forcefully. "I have opinions on people letting their animals run around and procreate uncontrolled," I inform him a little indignantly. "We have enough homeless cats out on the streets as it is. I had George neutered before he was old enough to realise he was missing anything."
Ken pulls a face in sympathy. "Ouch."
"He got over it," I reply mercilessly.
"Had to, by the sound of it," Ken points out. "It's not like you asked him for permission, is it?"
"Well, you don't usually, do you? Takes away the element of surprise," I remark with a fine little smile.
I wait just long enough for astonishment to register on his face, then duck into the bathroom, holding back laughter.
Quite how we got talking about Halloween back when he brought me the substitute dress a couple of days ago, I don't remember, but he mentioned that he'd like to experience a proper American Halloween party just once. And seeing as I got invited to not one but several such parties tonight, that's a wish I can actually easily fulfil. Normally, I'd worry he doesn't quite know what he was signing up for, attending a boozy party full of college students, but evidence points to him being able to handle himself just fine.
Seeing as I already did my hair and makeup earlier when talking to mum – complete with fake blood-splatter and some very dark circles under my eyes – I only need to swap my clothes for today's costume, being careful not to smudge my makeup in doing so. It's not made easier by the fact that my bathroom is only just big enough to turn around in it, but the dress pulls on easily enough and I just about manage.
When I step out of the bathroom, I pause in the doorway for just long enough to let Ken recognise the dress. When he does, he bursts out laughing.
I handed off the substitute dress to Joy yesterday, making a bit of a show about having always forgotten it earlier. Not that Joy gave it a second thought anyway. Only Dan's face showed some quiet confusion at the pristine state of the dress, because he, after all, saw the wine-induced mess. He's far too discreet to mention it to Joy though, and far too polite to question my aside about that great dry cleaner's down the road, so there's little to fear from him.
With the new dress safely tucked away in Joy's wardrobe, I was, of course, still left with the old one. And while I still entertain some vague plans about dyeing it somehow (I must remember to ask Grandmother Marilla how one goes about dyeing a dress), I first decided to utilise it as a Halloween costume. Because while the wine stains look like wine stains in stark light, they should pass muster as blood stains at a dimly lit party.
"What are you supposed to be, then?" asks Ken, still chuckling to himself.
"Why, I'm a sexy murder victim, of course," I answer, quite as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Far be it from me to call this fact into question but is the 'sexy' part vital to the costume?" he wants to know.
I nod earnestly. "Yes. It's what makes it a Halloween costume in the first place. Otherwise, it would merely be a simple costume, but tag 'sexy' in front and almost everything turns into an adequate Halloween costume. I mean, there's sexy nurse, sexy teacher, sexy accountant, sexy smurf –"
"Wait," he interrupts. "Do people really dress up as sexy smurfs?"
"What did you think? Sexy smurf is nothing. This is, after all, the one night in the year when hotdog suddenly becomes an adequate couple's costume," I inform him.
A moment passes in silence.
"Hotdog," he then repeats slowly.
"Uh-huh," I nod.
"So, you mean…"
"Uh-huh."
He blinks. "Subtle."
"Isn't it?"
Our eyes meet, and I feel a giggle rising up within me. He, too, is obviously fighting a smile threatening to break through his sombre façade. We hold it together for a moment or two longer, then both start laughing.
"Some people, I swear," he states, his expression veering between amusement and slight disbelief.
"See, that's why I won't bet again some people turning themselves purple either," I point out with a shrug. "But now do tell, what's your costume? Motorcycle-riding kidnapper?" Because he looks no different from last time when he was here – all darkly clothed, but otherwise pretty normal-looking.
"Ah, no," he shakes his head, reaching for a bag sitting by his feet. Out of it he pulls a black cape, a yellow emblem he proceeds to stick to his chest and a familiar black mask with pointy… things attached to it.
"I'm Batman," he clarifies. "Or should that be sexy Batman?"
I incline my head and consider him for a moment. As far as costumes go, his is a rather simple one – lacklustre, some might call it – but it suffices. "You're good either way," I decide.
He bends his head in a mock-bow. "Thank you very much, milady."
"Why Batman?" I inquire, while taking a pair of shoes from the floor beside my wardrobe and sitting back down next to him so I can put them on. I kept the pretty purple ones I originally wore with this dress (because let's be honest, they'd just gather dust in Joy's closet), but much as I wanted to wear them again, I decided on an older, far cheaper pair instead. I've had beer sloshed over my feet far too often at these parties to risk those shoes.
"It's pretty much my go-to costume for the admittedly seldom events when I need one," Ken explains with a shrug. "The mask keeps enough of my face covered so that people who don't expect me to be there don't recognise me, while still not forcing me to drink out of a straw like some two-year-old."
"Clever," I acknowledge as I get to my feet again.
Ken inclines his head slightly in reply, before pointing to my phone sitting on the windowsill. "I think you got a message while you were in there. It beeped, anyway."
Quickly collecting my phone, I click to open the unread message, frowning as I read it.
"Bad news?" asks Ken, obviously having seen the frown.
Making a conscious effort to clear my expression, I shake my head. "No, just some guy." Then, after a second thought – "Actually, you might remember him. I was talking to him at that reception just before deciding to barrel into the poor waiter."
"I do remember him, actually. He looked quite keen," Ken notes thoughtfully. "What's his name?"
"Robert. He's from…" I break off, the frown back in place.
"From?" Ken prompts with a little smile.
I sigh. "Well, I know it's not Mombasa and not Kinshasa, but I can't seem to remember the actual place. It sounded similar, though."
"Not Awasa, by any chance?" he supplies.
I look at him, surprised. "Yes, that's it, actually. How do you know it?"
Ken shrugs. "It's a city in Ethiopia. Quarter of a million inhabitants, or thereabouts. I went there when I did an official tour of some Eastern African countries some years back. They have the only football club outside of Addis Ababa that ever won their National League," he answers.
I blink. "Well, the more you know…"
"My people always feed me trivia before sending me anywhere. Helps with the small talk," Ken explains with a laugh. "Lots of it is both useful and meaningful, but for some reason, only the odd facts seem to stick."
The curious thing about him is that I increasingly find myself forgetting that he is who he is until things like this come up to remind me and I want to pinch myself again.
"Speaking of your people", I begin slowly. "Are your martial arts-trained hitmen alright with you attending a college party? I imagine they wouldn't like it much."
"Oh, they don't. The words 'security nightmare' were thrown around a lot," Ken agrees, though he seems quite unconcerned by the fact.
"How come they let you go?" I want to know.
"Mostly because no-one expects me to be there. You and they are the only people who are aware of me going to that party, so if I manage to keep my face hidden, my chances of being found out are slim. People tend to see what they expect to see, so even if someone notices a resemblance, they won't think I'm the real me."
"Just an imposter in a Batman costume?" I suggest with a smile.
"A sexy Batman costume," he corrects, and I laugh. "But yes," he adds, "That's the general idea. As long as I'm not recognised, the PPOs – the Personal Protection Officers, that is – won't have much to do. They'll still stick close and I had to swear not to take off the tracker, but –"
I interrupt him before he gets any further. "A tracker? Not a GPS tracker, surely?"
"Actually, yes," he nods, quite matter-of-fact. "They don't put one on me all the time, but in situations like this one, it makes for a good compromise."
How he can be so calm about getting tracked leaves me a bit aghast, but then… I guess he's used to his every step being followed, isn't he?
"Does that agreement with your hitmen also extend to us riding the Underground to get to the party?" I wonder as I grab hold of my coat.
He actually scoffs. "Only if we want to give them an apoplectic shock."
"Do we?" I ask innocently, drawing a smile from him.
"We might consider it at times, but they're only doing their jobs, after all" Ken relents. "We won't needlessly complicate that by going anywhere near places like the Underground."
"So, we'll be good then," I conclude. "Noted. How else do we intend to get to the party? I'm not getting on any motorcycles in this dress, lest that was the idea."
"I can see how that would be a complicated endeavour," Ken agrees after a look at my dress. Then he takes my coat from me and holds it open for me to step into it. (Twenty-one years and this is the first time ever that a man has helped me into my coat!)
"I thought we might take a cab," he adds as he pulls his mask into place, checking his reflection in my window, turned into a mirror by the dark behind it.
I actually laugh. "I thought you wanted to be incognito?"
He turns to look at me and though it's hard to read is expression with half of his face covered up like that, I think I detect confusion. "Yes. Why?"
"College students don't take cabs. College students don't have money for cabs," I inform him. "The best way to draw attention to us is to ride to the front door in a cab."
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, obviously stumped. I let a second pass before taking pity on him. "But I suppose we could have the cab drop us off around the corner and walk the rest of the way."
Under the mask, his face brightens. "That should work," he agrees.
Dropping my phone into my bag and grabbing hold of my keys, I point him towards the front door. "We also need a cover story," I remind him. "There'll be some classmates of mine running around for sure and I promised a couple of friends I'd meet them there."
I pull the door shut behind us both and lock it tightly. (When I moved in, Dad had an additional lock and a deadbolt installed. I didn't have the heart to point out to him that if someone wanted to kidnap me, they'd just use the fire escape and come in through the window.)
"I'm your acquaintance from England, of course," Ken replies as we walk down the stairs side by side. "I lived a very boring and sheltered life, and someone made you take on my case and show me how college students in America live." His voice is sounds serious enough, but I can see the corners of his mouth twitch upwards.
Nodding thoughtfully, I add, "My sister's boyfriend lived in England for a while some years back. We could always say you're a friend of his, currently in New York because… because reasons?"
"I was sent here by my company for a temporary work assignment," Ken supplies. "Since I know no-one, your sister's boyfriend asked you to look out for me a bit."
"Yes, sounds like Jerry alright," I agree. "Do you also have a name?"
And is it just me or has he been waiting for me to ask that?
"Marmaduke's the name. Marmaduke Winslow," he announces proudly, and it sounds just so patently absurd, that I'm still giggling when he holds open the front door for me and we step out into the dark.
He might be in disguise tonight, but somehow I have a feeling that an evening spent with one Marmaduke Winslow will hold plenty of amusement of its own kind.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'We Are the World' (written by Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie, released by USA for Africa in 1985).
A/N: In case anyone is wondering, Teddy is my creation. Humour me, yes? ;)
To AnneShirley:
You're right, I inadvertently made twins a Blythe family trait! And while Anne and Gilbert won't be the focus of this story, we definitely will meet them. I don't think the will be very much changed from the original books, but mostly because LMM isn't making it easy for anyone to puzzle out the "nature vs. nurture" debate with her characters. I mean, Anne's childhood must have been awful, but LMM never really goes there, so it's hard to say how much of Anne's behaviour is nature and how much is (lack of) nurture. (Millicent Blythes, sadly, is my collateral damage in this new family set-up. RIP Millicent!)
I really enjoyed your musings about the late Queen Alexandra, because of course there's a story there. She never seriously considered replacing Owen as heir, seeing as Uncle Al would have been next in line and no-one wants Uncle Al anywhere near the throne. But that's not to say that she accepted Leslie with her difficult past and even more difficult family history into the family with open arms. So... you're onto something there ;).
"Ken" is an unfortunate name in today's time, no argument. That's why I decided to be offensive about it and get the weirdness of the name out of the way early. Though Barbie dolls still had underwear moulded into the plastic of their bodies when I was a child, so there Marilyn moments were comparatively tame ;). (I'd also just like to put it out there that I'm interested to learn about that story of yours, should you ever feel comfortable sharing more about it.)
'Diamonds and Rust' is one of my all-time favourite songs and was, in fact, a front runner for story title. I do love me some Joan Baez (in fact, I saw her live just this past summer). And as for Bob Dylan, you can always rely on him to turn a pretty phrase, though he does have a curious obsession with the symbolism of playing cards ;).
To ImPhilBlake:
Hello and thanks for your review! I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far and that you agree with the twist I put on the family relations. There's less Anne in Marilla's life that way, but also far less loneliness. (I haven't decided what to do about Matthew yet, by the way, so he might pop up at some point as well. Or he might not. I'm still considering.)
