A/N: This is a work of fiction and copyright respected, no profit is being made, etc.
There is mention of characters from other worlds, as can be expected when creating a Sim partner.
Lydia
Lydia Cartwright was a proud woman; none could be prouder than her, she sighed, as she looked at the expanse of property that was under her name: hers as well as her husband's, for they were married, she and Garrett Cartwright, one in holy spirit and ghost, as well as legally binding union: and so the property which was theirs was just as well hers, if she ever chose to leave him.
But not now! And certainly not ever, she envisaged.
The property was three stories, with symmetry on either side leaning to wraparound gardens along a path; there was a garage to the left housing Garrett's black sedan (he would only ever be chauffeured by limousine, from now on) and Lydia's "day" car, a white sedan (there was no "night" car, but she, too, intended never to put her hands behind a steering wheel again).
Inside, there was a lavish dining room appointed with paintings on the walls and candelabras; a living room with sofas at the right angle and porcelain antiques; the kitchen wasn't big, but it housed the latest appliances for the staff to concern themselves with.
Then, there were the bedrooms. Lydia took a deep breath, as big as had been needed to birth her four children. Two boys and two girls; each in either wing of the house and sharing a bathroom in bold blue or pale pink. The middle of the second storey had been devoted to chaise longues and a view over the front porch which was hers alone.
The third storey comprised her and Garrett's bedroom; an ensuite and his study, and it was here Lydia imagined she would sit, night after night, removing her pearl earrings in her night robe, at Pleasantview: the land her husband had rose to the highest office to, and the social rank which indelibly decided her as the real power behind the office.
For she would sneer at all her lessers; the Cartwright fortune alone guaranteed that she was the wealthiest, and now the most powerful woman - family - in Pleasantview.
It hadn't been easy, not with two of her four children on the cusp of scandal - but she had merited great applause from her peers behind envious smiles, and so she invited the butler inside and to his quarters, and the maids and gardeners and cook who scurried, and while Garrett went to his first day as mayor by limousine and her children to private school, Lydia made to close the front door behind her yet the butler got there first.
Vacuum suctioned in the armageddon bunker of luxury, she intended never to leave again. She intended to rule with a social fist, and hammer down her opponents who would make her but lift a finger. Of course, her only weapon of choice was to nag her husband.
And who would argue with the mayor? Who, indeed, Lydia thought to herself.
Garrett
Garrett was tireless, proud like his wife but a quiet man, and not one necessarily who listened, as his wife had found out early in their marriage, and had never stopped hectoring him for it. Garrett knew what was required to succeed up the ladder, and through a series of scandals which saw his peers fall, he rose not out of chance but out of grim pleasure that he should hold onto any rungs he might clamber to while the others burned and fizzled.
His money helped put his wife in pearls and his children in private school; yet even so, a career in the business sector was fraught like piranhas, and one needed to be omniscient to read the stock market; and so his wife pushed him into public office, where she was an asset beyond any other.
His wife was handsome, with hand cream and pearls and a bob as firmly cut as the downward slope of her mouth, her smile a cat's when she got what she wanted, her claws never quite letting go. She circled parties a diva; attuned to gossip and to find other's misery; she gladdened to find flaws in others and heartily rose to swat off any perceived slights in her status: she would die before admitting failure.
To say his wife was an cold operator was to miss the point: scandal had evaded her so far, and a fainting couch must be nearby. She merely made use of other's weaknesses which happened to be in proximity and by which she had ascended on their flaming coattails.
Her measure of success was as Garrett's; partly luck, but neither of them were naive.
Garrett sat in the limousine with Federal Fortress at his back, the residence he claimed as mayor, and enjoyed a cigar out the window wound down while his driver navigated the early-morning Pleasantview traffic. His staff would be waiting, he knew; his team in place to provide a solid bedrock on which he might command the town - he was not manipulative, grandiose or borderline psychopathic - but to call the shots was not a miss at his ego, to buy his wife the things which would get her off his back at last was a blessing, and to ensure a legacy for his children was praise well-merited indeed.
He had become a success: the golf course was his, the toast at restaurants raised in his name, and never could he fall, he would ensure it. Not with his wife by his side, he would not relinquish holding the reins for the first time in his life, being so in control of this town; his wife would not allow it, for one.
His limousine arrived outside City Hall, and the few protestors waving signs in garbled manner he paid no attention to: his suit was fine, his tie clip in place, and advisors hurried by as he walked up the white steps, past the columns, and into his office where the doors closed to assure him of a quiet, peaceful transition as mayor of Pleasantview.
"Your wife called," his secretary placed a note from her clipboard on his desk.
Of course she would: she had already discussed with him last night the budget she would need to ensure the property was outfitted with everything she needed. It was not enough that the house had three stories, five bedrooms, four bathrooms and a sweeping garden; she wanted a pool built on the right side with a sauna and ballet complex; the back lawn was to feature a three-storied rec room for two of their "delinquent" (spirited) children, and on the other side of the back lawn, a helipad, for the helicopter he did not own.
Garrett was a rich man, but it would take time in office to accrue the money with which he might please his wife, and knew that a few rounds of bartering were yet ahead. The phone on his desk rang, and he glanced at his secretary as though she might divine who dared call direct.
"I haven't given out the official number… " she sweated, and as Garrett watched her hurry to her desk, his curiosity swamped him and he picked up the line.
"Yes?" he answered tersely.
"Mayor Cartwright," came the reply, as curt and harried as his. "This is Janet, Adam Spencer's secretary. He would like for you to attend a dinner tonight at his home."
Garrett was baffled; he had never heard the name before, and his wife was preparing a family dinner that was a private celebration of their ascendance above all.
"You misunderstand," Garrett spoke slowly, as though to a child. "I have never met Mr. Spencer and nor could I put off many important functions tonight to attend. How did you get this number?"
"Mayor," the secretary replied, more firmly. "I would request you to open the file in your drawer."
Surprised and baffled, Garrett searched in his top drawer where the manila folder resided. He shook off the mouthing queries of his secretary and indicated that she should close the door. He flipped open the contents, his eyes widening, a strain building between his eyes.
"Shall I RSVP you and your wife?" the secretary interceded.
Garrett nodded, and fumbled out some words of a reply. He scratched the address on the back of his wife's note, and frowned as he vaguely remembered the place. He put the phone down and wondered how he was going to break the news to his wife.
Lydia
Lydia was out shopping, when she wasn't organising her husband or her children or her staff, now that she had enough to cater her needs.
And were they many!
Her husband, she knew, would crack after a couple dinners. It wasn't enough that they had the biggest, most luxurious property in all Pleasantview: they had to go bigger, better. Of course garish was a word she did not use, nor gauche: she did not try to impress, she simply was.
In the clothing store downtown, she wandered idly as a shop assistant followed her round, and why couldn't these racks be brought to her? Why did she have to schlep downtown with her chauffeur eating a sandwich while she waited? Especially when the smell of onion and cheese persisted long after she rose the partition from the back seat.
Pearls and twinsets and never too high a heel: her children had never seen her without makeup on that she could stand, and her husband that he might see her nude might only count his blessings. She would not stoop to using sex as a weapon: he was simply disinterested, most nights. And so she nagged and tugged and insisted he do what she wanted, and in the cases she lost, she would rather not talk about; thank you very much.
And now Garrett had called, and so spurred her injurious urgency with a much needed wardrobe adjustment that warranted satisfying at once. He had only spoken so far as to say that the client was an important one, possibly the most important, and that they needed to impress - Lydia scoffed, and at a dress she liked but now could not appear so eager as to return to, as the salesperson nodded in approval, her scarlet little face bland.
Lydia had always hated young women who might steal her husband's attention - not entirely, as her grip was quite tight enough, thank you - yet little reminders of those lithe bodies sent her into shrieks. She could not regain her youth or her naivete, and so she turned to others, chiefly her husband, to employ her wiles on others that they might crumble.
"But who are they?" Lydia had pondered, while the butler served her tea in the dining room, vast and empty with pictures on the walls and she minced her lips, so that the butler might try a little harder next time, though he had done a perfectly adequate job.
And so the thoughts whirled: she was the wife of the mayor, who else would she ever need to impress? She always dressed to impress, like a diva but without a plunging neckline or a singing career, and so who pressed upon Garrett to insist she dressed ever less than perfect?
Speaking of…
Her eyes fell upon a woman roughly her age who had entered; her blonde hair limp, her makeup minimal, a gold watch on her wrist wearing a white button down tucked into beige slacks and black flats. A corporate wife, Lydia sniffed, until she picked up the aroma of soil.
Lydia was too well trained to confide in the sales assistant or in one of the ladies of her circle, of which she was now queen bee; her eyes went to the smudge of dirt, the gardening gloves in the slack handbag from which the woman produced a card. She stood as still as the statue of Pleasantview's founder in the square as the woman paid for a navy blue tie and clutched the cord handles of the shopping bag as she hurried out to a tan sedan in the parking lot.
Lydia felt itchy, all of a sudden; the place, touting the most expensive clothing and jewellery that could be found in Pleasantview, this town her husband now ruled as mayor, suddenly felt tawdry and inexpensive. Perhaps he would need to build a new shopping mall, next to that skyscraper that was almost complete, which would ensure a hive of activity from far beyond. She would not stand for inferior products or people; not along her rise to power or after it had been claimed in her manicured nails.
Garrett
Garrett sat beside his wife in the limo, the cityscape passing by and the scenery of trees, birch and pine as the road became decidedly private, though no gated community existed to separate the two.
"Where are we going?" his wife wondered, as she glanced out the tinted windows, as the forest spread out beyond. "I hope it's not some little shack or hunting lodge."
"I wouldn't bring you out here if it was a concern," Garrett fidgeted with his tie pin; he had only been nervous on the election night, even though his victory had been assured, and now here he was again: nervous.
"Don't fidget, dear. People will think things," his wife offered.
The limousine pulled up to the old Landgraab property: quite expansive in size, with less bedrooms than the mayor's residence, but the place looked stellar.
"It's a good thing, too," Garrett noted, as his wife smiled that their place was bigger, and better furnished. "The Landgraabs didn't lean towards my views."
"It's not all luck," his wife squeezed his hand. Tonight, at least she could spend some time with other rich couples not quite as fortunate as they; and without her children, of who she had only managed to corral one or two to her brand of parenting. "This was a lovely idea on the spur."
He raised his eyebrows, but long since anticipated her changes in mood, and expected tonight to be one of them. Their chauffeur held open their door, and his wife stepped out first, glancing around at the well-lit front garden, the garage that seemed to melt into the trees, the roundabout driveway with a quaint fountain in the circle.
"There's not even a front gate," his wife alerted, as Garrett stepped out of the limo. "Burglars could just walk into the property and take what they liked."
He spied the butler outside under the portico leading to the front door.
"They'd have to hike all the way up here. You don't see many other houses here, do you, Lydia?"
"Well, no," Lydia clutched her pearls, eyeing up the butler who stared blandly as they approached. "Who would want to live out here?"
"Mayor, Mrs. Cartwright," the butler inclined his head and held open the door.
Garrett took off his coat and held it for the butler as his wife gazed around at the foyer, her heels clacking on the tiles. Staircases on either side led to the second storey, with archways on either side leading further within. The house had less rooms than theirs, but it made the most of its size: echoing, spartan, stark. People-sized vases with bouquets of flowers stood to either side of the front door, where through the palladian windows he could spy his chauffeur sneaking a cigarette.
"If you would please follow me," the butler seemed to be waiting patiently for them. "Mr Spencer is in the living room."
His wife, ever proud, seemed irked beneath the curiosity that swamped her; that had swamped her as she managed to find the finer things in life her playthings. She could not cosset to avarice; better that she maintain that she had always known privilege.
And so Garrett followed the butler, his wife tense by his side, into the living room.
His first impression was that the elements of gold and blue meshed together well to provide an antique, old-timey feel. The fire crackling in the gate sparked a log as his host rose from the couch, his hand extended, with a white shirt tucked into tan chinos.
"Mr Spencer," Garrett nodded, and sat opposite his host as his wife glanced up at the butler who bent to offer a tray with freshly steaming teapot and cups.
"You must be wondering why I invited you here," Adam's accent was the Queen's English, and if Garrett judged correctly, hiding foppish mannerisms behind a controlled exterior. "Ah, Phillipa. You've arrived just in time to meet our guests."
His wife practically cricked her neck and saw with shock the woman from the clothing store; she still wore the white shirt and beige slacks, with the aroma of soil.
"So glad to meet you," Phillipa offered her hand, her voice quiet, and his wife recoiled to see the dirt under her fingers. "If you'll excuse me, I must check on dinner."
Lydia
Lydia washed her hands in the sink, having excused herself from what was clearly, straining, a men's conversation. She glanced around at the minimal, black-and-white tiled bathroom, one of two of which the entrances were beneath the staircases in the foyer, and counted herself curious how this family had made such inroads to her husband's favor.
While Mr Spencer's blue eyes had never wavered from her husband, she had been appalled at his wife; perhaps she had been his gardener? No sense or style, Lydia sniffed.
She peeked inside the dining room, laid with napkins and china; the fireplace had a vase on its mantlepiece, and high backed chairs flanked one of the larger windows.
It was timeless, classical: what Lydia embodied to show, that the feel of money had always passed through her hands. Really, Lydia pursed her lips: it was only that this house devoted more space to the fewer rooms it had that made it grandiose.
The mayor's mansion she and her husband inhabited was on a larger scale!
"Lydia," Phillipa smiled, coming out of the kitchen. "You must be hungry."
Disarmed by the earnestness, Lydia could but swallow her smirk. Her eyes ranged over Phillipa's clothing: so bland, so boring. And the cooking smells did not hide the soil.
"You must forgive me," Phillipa wrung her hands. "I've only just arrived home."
Lydia could well understand the hassle and bustle of trying to organise her husband and four children; yet that was only early on in her marriage, when the money hadn't quite flowed through and she could only afford one maid. Thereafter, there had been nannies; and two of her four children remained unruly, yet there had been such clamor and confusion in the campaign, she couldn't have stopped herself in the whirl of activity...
"I know exactly what you mean," Lydia leaned in, with a hand on Phillipa's wrist. Her thumb rubbed the underside of Phillipa's small gold watch. "There is never a dull moment as a politician's wife. And I fear it'll only get busier!"
Phillipa led Lydia into the kitchen; a cavernous space, but then Lydia reminded herself that this mansion had more space to play with, but not as many rooms in exchange. Phillipa nodded to the chef in whites who consulted with the butler nearby breathing down his neck.
"You look so familiar," Lydia frowned, appraising Phillipa whose spine was as fragile as fine china. She hungered to know why this couple had summoned her husband so suddenly, and could not wait to nag it out of her husband. "Perhaps I've seen you at a party?"
"I'm afraid I don't get out much," Phillipa shrugged, and Lydia narrowed her eyes; she wondered if Mr Spencer kept her in the greenhouse.
"I suspect I shall be the same," Lydia nodded along, now that her favourite shopping haunt had been ruined. "Though apart from spas. And I love to travel. Garrett and I visited Champs Les Sims for our twentieth anniversary… "
"It's a nice spot," Phillipa nodded. "There's a small two bedroom we rent each summer."
"Do you have children?" Lydia envied Phillipa's slimmer waist.
"A son, Leo," Phillipa smiled. "He's just graduated from Sim State University."
Lydia frowned; every chip in the bowl could get into that establishment.
"It seems so long ago since I graduated from Academie Le Tour," Lydia fiddled with her pearls, hoping the remark had the intended effect. "It truly was a learning experience."
"Did you meet Garrett there?" Phillipa listened, as riveted as a child at a puppet show.
"Oh, yes," Lydia smiled proudly. "He was summa cum laude in economics, you know."
"You must have a lot on your shoulders," Phillipa nodded. "The First Lady of Pleasantview."
"I'm not one for titles," Lydia waved away, with hope, the aroma of soil. "You know, it's for the people. The people of Pleasantview have no greater leader than my husband - "
Lydia, distracted, watched as Phillipa offered a mild apology to converse with the butler who had been so patiently waiting nearby. Annoyed, Lydia toyed with her pearls and glanced up as Phillipa returned.
"Dinner is almost ready. I must rush upstairs and change; but please, feel free to take a tour."
Garrett
Garrett sat at the head of the dining table, fidgeting with his cufflinks. His wife, returned from her tour, gave him a sharp look and smoothed her napkin over her lap.
He met Adam's eye across the table as the butler served the autumn salad; thin sprigs of lettuce and mayonnaise that surely only his wife would appreciate. He bent his fork to the listless tomatoes and bits of cheese and wondered what his wife had been up to.
Phillipa had changed into a tan knit dress with a cardigan buttoned over it, her blonde hair pulled back into a clip; perfectly polite, but wan and drawn over her food. At the precise moment when conversation permitted such, his wife asked the million-Simoleon question.
"You never told us, Mr Spencer. What do you do in Pleasantview?"
Adam shared a glance with his wife who shared his solidarity before dropping her eyes.
"I'm in Business," Adam replied.
"Oh, yes," Lydia mused. "My husband was in Business for a while, until he found his spark in Politics. Have you ever considered a bid?"
"Not against your husband," Adam laughed, but it was forced humour; Garrett was sure that Phillipa never willingly laughed at her husband's jokes. "I prefer to work behind the scenes."
"The people of Pleasantview are behind the scenes for my husband, so many scurrying like little ants," Lydia nodded. "It was such a surprise to receive your invite - "
Lydia paused at her husband's look; but her curiosity overwhelmed her.
"Forgive us for intruding on your dinner plans," Phillipa spoke up, the squeak of a mouse; and Lydia was a cat, ready to play with her food. "We know the importance of family."
"You have four children, is that correct?" Adam interrupted.
"Yes," Garrett nodded, dry mouthed. "My eldest, Alistair; twins Conrad and Alexandra; and my youngest, Katrina."
"All go to private school," Lydia announced. "Alistair's just home from Academie Le Tour."
"You both must be so proud," Phillipa nodded, with not an ounce of guile or condescension. "Four children… and a political career. It must have been tough."
Garrett glanced at his wife; and in their shared look, the camaraderie of but a moment, and only a dozen amongst two decades of marriage at how far they had come.
"It was tough, at first," Garrett nodded. "But as I rose the political ladder, more opportunities allowed me to secure a legacy for my wife and children."
"You must make every opportunity count," Adam nodded to Garrett, with an unaccountably personal nod. "You must enter life armed, or surrender immediately."
Lydia frowned, a memory tugging at her. "I'm sure I recognise that from somewhere. Yes. From some show my Katrina watches. Isn't that from Gilmore Girls?"
Adam coughed nervously and Garrett relaxed, his bowels loosening; he laughed and the whole table caught it, and Phillipa wore a strained smile.
"Yes," Adam lingered, like a bad smell. "A guilty pleasure of mine, I'm afraid."
"We all have our vices," Lydia tapped Adam on the wrist, as a matron to a young boy; and he jumped, and she withdrew. "Although if you were to ask me, it's shopping!"
Garrett cleared his throat and Adam studied his plate.
"We must go shopping," Phillipa smiled across the table to Lydia. "You must know all the good places."
"It's a date!" Lydia declared, and with that the high point of the meal.
Lydia
" - what a curious, funny little woman she is," Lydia sniffed, as the limousine wound down through the twists and turns of the hilly road, where the spread of Pleasantview's buildings and shops and the almost-finished shine of the first skyscraper jutted for the moon. "Smelling like a flowerpot and so joyless. No wonder. I wouldn't marry that man."
Lydia usually took joy in overpowering her husband's attempts to have his turn in the conversation; his silence was off putting. Her curiosity still swamped her.
"He didn't say much about what he did," Lydia tugged at her pearls. "Business? Well, so were you."
Lydia knew her husband was bracing for the inevitable hit. If he would not confess upon her subtle hints, then she would begin collecting lumber for the battering ram.
"I mean, you're the mayor, and as that twig of a woman reminded me, I'm First Lady… "
Garrett drummed his fingers on his leg. "Yes, I'm the mayor. And how did I get here?"
"Well, hard work for one," Lydia sniffed. "Knowing the right people."
"And now I'm at the top of the heap?" Garrett questioned, and Lydia was flummoxed.
"Of course!" Lydia took it as a personal insult. "We are the most powerful family; the richest, to be sure. Well, we can't afford the penthouse apartment - "
Here, Lydia jabbed a finger at the glittering skyscraper in the middle of Pleasantview; almost perversely out of sorts with the humdrum red-brick and coastal buildings.
"I wouldn't live in an apartment anyway," Lydia sniffed. "Full of rats. And roaches."
The silence persisted, as the limousine wound through traffic, and began its ascent on the other side of town, up to the apex; the hill overlooking Pleasantview where the mayor's mansion overlooked all.
"I don't mind seeing them again," Lydia pondered, as the butler waited on the portico. "But it's funny. You would almost think they have as much money as we do."