Chapter 21 - A Friendly Warning, My Dear
"Remember the mulled wine? …while we were singing carols, then we had that Baileys…"
"Yeah, Mandi, I get it, but this is the—"
"The first year since you were a kid, yeah, that you're celebrating together. You and y'dad. Lovely."
Mandi's sincerity, as she tapped away at her phone, sounded as false as her newly manicured fingernails, Violet mused. Moving the artisan cheddar from the Paxton & Larner hamper to the pantry, Violet thought about the upcoming festive season.
It wasn't that she didn't appreciate her best friend's invitation to celebrate Christmas with the Doniellson family—spending the chilly, sodden evenings at the Manchester Christmas markets like they used to—but the actress was adamant she would do Christmas her own way this year. And that was to avoid everyone else's domestic situation. A Christmas-do in Sheffield with Danny, his sister and her kids? Doubly so.
"Did they deliver the wine?" Violet asked, her chest tightening in a last minute panic.
Mandi gestured towards the box by the front door, and Violet let out a deep exhale.
"Don't know why you didn't get all this delivered straight to your dad's," Mandi remarked.
"Because…" Violet began, crossing the room to retrieve the wine so she could think up a suitable reason. "…because I like to arrive bearing gifts, rather than showing up empty handed."
Mandi's phone pinged, and she rose from her stool by the counter.
"I'm off," she said. "Christmas Eve, and they change your bloody call sheets."
"I don't have to be anywhere until the third," Violet replied, meeting Mandi by the front door. "So it doesn't really matter if it's a ten o'clock or a two o'clock start."
With the sigh of one who had been greatly inconvenienced, the redhead gathered Violet up in a tight hug.
"Give him me best, yeah—y'dad."
"I will," Violet murmured. She wished her friend a Happy Christmas and promised to call her on Christmas night.
Once the front door clicked shut, Violet revelled in the stillness of the air. It felt like the first deep breath she'd taken all week. She crossed the floor back to the kitchen, grabbed a serrated knife from the block and slid it underneath the packing tape that had sealed the box of wines shut.
Admiring the first bottle, she mentally labelled it Christmas Eve, then methodically deposited it onto the kitchen counter. A nice choice for tonight. And, oh… Taking the next two bottles by the neck and scrutinising their labels in studious appreciation, she designated them Christmas Day #1 and #2. Because why not.
Grabbing the box by the edge, Violet went to drop it to the floor when she noticed it still carried some weight. Peering inside, she realised another bottle nestled within. Did Mandi order the box of four, then, instead of three? Violet was sure she stipulated three in the end.
"Hello," she said, admiring the stowaway Merlot. Boxing Day, she assigned it with a self-satisfied half-smile. "And how did you get in here?"
"Through the bedroom window," came the warm reply.
Violet gasped and spun around.
"Sorry. I thought you were talking to me," Sherlock said, pulling a black, knitted beanie from his head, his curls escaping their confinement, as he slowly approached her.
Violet stood momentarily transfixed by the man she loved, who was dressed as if he'd gone head to head with a homeless person and had lost in a spectacular fashion. But his eyes sparkled and his mouth held the beginnings of a smile.
In two steps, they were embracing. Violet did her best to hold it all in as the warmth of Sherlock's body spread through her. But… his timing. Was everyone in her life going to stop by and wish her a Happy Christmas before going on their merry way? Talk about rubbing it in!
Violet pulled back.
"We've only got a minute," she said.
"A minute?"
She dropped her gaze and forced herself to ease out of Sherlock's embrace—his comforting hold.
"Yes. I'm supposed to be at my dad's."
She busied herself putting the wine bottles back into their box. She felt, rather than heard, Sherlock coming up behind her.
"You've just unpacked those."
"I was checking them. But I'm taking them to dad's."
"Violet."
"And I've got cheese and things…"
She waved vaguely in the direction of the pantry.
"Violet."
Forcing a cheery air to her voice, she added, "And you're off to your parents, Danny said. Sounds… lovely."
"Violet."
Sherlock finally put his hands on Violet's shoulders and gently turned her around.
"You and I both know we're not going anywhere."
Violet wrinkled her forehead.
"I can't cancel on my dad at the last minute," she said. "It's Christmas Eve!"
Sherlock shook his head lightly.
"No. There's no need. You told Dan you were spending Christmas with your dad, knowing full well this information would get back to me. It was code, and I cracked it." Puzzled, Violet deepened her frown, but Sherlock's mouth eased into a smile, his eyes shining in admiration. "You once told me your dad doesn't like spending time with you," he went on, "and there's no way he'd celebrate Christmas. In fact, you said, you wouldn't be surprised if he ended up in India. Well, a cursory glance at the passenger manifest of BA143 to New Delhi this morning reveals that one Gregory Oakes was seated in K2. A First Class seat, obviously. Looks like…" Sherlock released his hold on Violet to glance at his watch. "… he arrived at Indira Gandhi International airport thirty minutes ago. I'd hazard a guess—and I never guess—he's still in customs." Sherlock straightened up and said, "So I received your message loud and clear, and here I am. Clever girl."
Violet blinked in the wake of Sherlock's deduction. How did he…?
She studied his eyes; they were glistening with pride. For what? For who? Her?
There was only one person who was clever in this room, and it wasn't Violet Hunter. Sherlock had correctly deduced Violet lied about her plans to spend Christmas with her dad, but it wasn't because she thought Sherlock would know what that meant or that he'd even hear about it in time. It was to fool everyone else. She had already assumed there was no way she and Sherlock could celebrate Christmas together, so she preferred to spend Christmas alone. All the Happy Families could fuck off. But she couldn't make that confession to Sherlock: to admit she'd rather wallow in her own misery, anaesthetising the pain with carefully selected red wines, hating the world for having the audacity to celebrate and be merry when the world was actually shite and full of psychopaths.
Her very own personal psychopath had just visited her on set a couple of days ago.
Violet had shivered in feverish excitement as Natalia, from wardrobe, wrapped a dressing gown around her. A subdued murmur had washed over the closed set with relieved humour sprinkled about. The director of Improbity, Deborah Marshall, conducted the day's post-mortem, finishing with a "Well done, Hunter, Breville!" to smatterings of applause.
Violet's whole body screamed with exhaustion, yet she felt elated. She'd just finished her first ever proper sex scene! A few embarrassed giggles here and there—it was like choreographing a trapeze act, half-naked—but other than that, it was all fine. And she apologised profusely to her co-star, Alex Breville, for the uncoordinated elbow.
Violet preceded Natalia along the corridor from Stage H to her dressing room, head bowed, her mind a buzz with the last five hours on repeat. The company producing Improbity were using facilities across the lot from her old Regency Road stomping ground. The dressing rooms and recreation facilities were shared, so Violet knew her way around.
"Evenin' James," Natalia said from behind her.
Violet lifted her gaze, preparing to give a cursory smile to whatever art department bod Natalia had greeted.
James Moriarty—Jim—leaned casually against the door frame of Violet's dressing room. Violet abruptly stopped walking, her stomach turning.
"Natalia, Violet," Jim said, straightening up and giving each woman in turn a polite nod. "Well, I see this is a bit awkward," he added. Violet's throat had seized up, and she couldn't even croak out any semblance of a greeting. She had to quell the hysteria that threatened to rise up and revolt. You're ruining my life! she wanted to scream at him, but instead, her lips parted, her breath shuddering on the way in.
"I'll just get her changed," Natalia answered for her, the costume assistant's polite even tone in stark contrast to Violet's silent rage. "Make her decent," she added with a giggle. "Then she's all yours."
"I'll see you in the tea room, then," Jim replied, his gaze returning to Violet. "… if you can hang about a bit longer. I've got good news."
Without waiting to hear a reply, Jim turned from them and disappeared around the corner.
Violet felt numb as Natalia assisted with the removal of her half-costume and adhesive modesty pads. The wardrobe assistant chatted about her plans for the weekend, a conversation Violet would usually participate in. Her mind, instead, swam with a multitude of thoughts. Why was Jim here? Would he take one look at her and know she was still in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes? Her Consulting Detective boyfriend often deduced a person's relationship status based on seemingly trivial aspects of their being: the state of their nail cuticles or the way their hair was styled. What tell-tale signs would be written all over Violet's features?
And how the fuck did Natalia know Jim Moriarty? Was she employed by him? Was she another spy, like Violet's former co-star and good friend—ex-friend—Timothy Killaney turned out to be?
There were still a handful of production and technical staff members milling about the tea room when Violet arrived dressed in her street clothes and carrying her shoulder bag. Her heart beat erratically, and she was sure her cheeks were still flushed. A production assistant had been despatched to inform her he was available to drive her home. She had waved the young man away, bidding him to give her five minutes. Could she count on the P.A. to interrupt her at just the right moment when Jim was about to deduce her and Sherlock's hidden romance?
Jim chatted to Alistair Something from the Accounting department as Violet approached. She felt as if all eyes were upon her, even though nobody was turned in her direction. Except him. Jim Moriarty.
"Excuse me, one moment, Al," Jim said, indicating Violet with a nod. "I need to have a chat with our lovely Ms Hunter here."
Alistair melted into the periphery with parting words Violet didn't register. Did Jim know everybody?
She tried to remember what ignorance felt like—that blissful state in which she existed before Jim gave her his warning to Sherlock and threatened her friends' lives. The fragmented memory of that afternoon had left its jagged edges in her heart. She hoped her expression gave nothing away except an underlying desire to wipe the earth of Jim Moriarty's existence in a deliberate and violent manner.
"Cuppa tea?" he asked, gesturing towards the counter-top, where a meagre selection of black and herbal teas were on offer. "They've got these chocolate-coated digestives, but they're sugar-free," he lamented, holding up an oat specimen and turning it this way and that. "Can't see the point of them, really. I think the grips ate all the regular ones."
"What are you doing here?" Violet said, her cheeks burning. "It was a closed set."
"Of course it was," Jim agreed, before taking a bite into the offending digestive. While munching away, he said, "You don't want all these… gaffers… and what not… enjoying the naughty bits while you're trying to get off with Alex Breville. That would be so… so… What's the opposite of sexy?"
Violet hugged her arms tighter, fingernails digging into elbows. She was about to repeat her question, demanding to know why Jim was at the studio, when his face contorted into a grimace. He left her side for the kitchenette counter and pulled a few wads of paper towel from the dispenser. Holding it to his mouth, he appeared to offload the half-chewed biscuit into the towel. Striding the full length of the bench, Jim dropped the offending rubbish into the bin, before rejoining Violet.
"Sorry about that," he said, wiping around his mouth with his finger tips. "But there's no point enduring the unpalatable."
As the amount of ambient noise appeared to die away, Violet took that moment to glance around at her surroundings. The few remaining staff members were just disappearing through the door. It looked like she and Jim were alone.
The empty room prompted Violet to drop her guard, only a little.
"I don't know why you're here," she spat, her voice laced with venom. "I gave Sherlock your stupid message. He didn't listen, as I'm sure you know." She felt her nostrils flare when she thought about Emily. The man that was stood in front of her had her friend killed. He killed her! Inhaling a steadying breath, Violet added, "It looks like he wants to play this… this pathetic game of yours, but I want you to leave me out of it. I don't want anything to do with the pair of you. Why don't you ask him out on a date and discuss it? I heard he's available."
Jim threw back his head, barking out a laugh.
Violet stood taller, her demeanour taking on a defiant air, as she watched Jim recompose himself when his laughter died down. He squared his shoulders and met Violet's gaze.
"I'm not here to talk about Sherlock Holmes," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "I'm glad you got rid of him, quite frankly. Like I said: I've got good news, too."
Violet attempted to swallow discreetly.
"Canning Town," Jim offered. "We've got a script. Finally. Stacia's having a look, but there's no reason Ms Jecks won't give it her seal of approval. I can be very persuasive when it comes to stubborn authors. And as for financing—"
"I'm not interested."
Jim appeared to feign surprise. It was the worst bit of acting Violet had seen in recent times.
"This is your dream come true, Violet. Your precious Canning Town is coming to the big screen with you in the starring role!"
"I don't care!"
Jim took a step towards Violet, leaned in and said, "Then act like you do." She stiffened, but he went on in a low voice, "You will learn to appreciate everything I've done for you. And everything I will continue to do for you. Because every project I want you to take from now on, every role presented to you, every script that's sent for your perusal, Violet Hunter, will come wrapped in a big, fat red bow, along with a card that reads, To Lettie, best regards, Jim." Violet's heart jolted at hearing the nickname Emily used to call her. "Learn to care," Jim continued. "Learn to be interested. Be grateful. Because I - own - you."
While Violet's heart began to shred, Jim brightened as he looked beyond her.
"Looks like your ride's here," he said.
As if a light switch had been toggled, Violet softened her expression. She'd had a month of well-practised masking of emotions: the director's call of 'Action'; the rap on the bathroom door when Mandi asked why she was taking so long; the response required by Dan when he asked, "Y'all right, Vi?" She knew how to compose herself to the outside world in an instant.
Violet looked over her shoulder to find the production assistant standing hesitantly in the doorway. He raised his hand as if asking permission to speak.
"Won't be a moment," she said, smiling sweetly. Turning back to Jim, she asked at a volume only meant for his ears, "And what if I don't?"
Jim gave her an affectionate smile in return.
"Did anyone ever tell you, you look a bit like Daisy Firmington?"
A jolt again. The one that caused the earth to spin off-kilter.
Jim gave her a quick wink and headed towards the door. Violet didn't turn around, in case the production assistant was still there. She wasn't quite ready yet.
"Ciao. Violet Hunter," Jim called out behind her.
That was the second time Jim had mentioned Daisy Firmington. Poor Daisy didn't, he remarked of the woman's inability to stay for the ride, the one for which he was the tour guide. She left early. And Jim was one among many who had noted the similarity between Violet Hunter and the young American actress who had died before her time. The brother of Violet's Kara's War co-star, Spencer Munro, had been the first to mention it, followed by her actor flatmate, Alice—although Alice had renamed Violet 'Black Daisy' when her stint on Regency Road required Violet's hair to be dyed black. Then along came Stuart Jire, who also commented on it when she worked on Regency Road. Quite the flurry of recognition. But now this connection to Jim Moriarty for both of them—her and Daisy. So he controlled Daisy's career as well? And she'd failed to comply?
There was a light cough behind her and Violet rummaged in her bag as if she had been distracted. Pulling out her phone, she turned to the P.A.
"Thanks for waiting," she said, heading towards him with another award-winning smile.
It was in slow-motion that she now watched Sherlock Holmes studying her, as he waited for a response to his rapid-fire deduction. He had a smile at the ready. Eyes dancing. He didn't seem to be deducing her secrets in this moment. Perhaps if she could fool Jim Moriarty, then Sherlock Holmes could be equally hoodwinked.
Her boyfriend didn't have to know the truth about the power that that maniac wielded over her. Nor did he need to know that his deduction about Christmas was partially incorrect.
She could have this moment with him, however long they had, and actually feel something for the first time in weeks. Real emotions, genuine reactions.
"How long can you stay?" Violet asked, reaching for Sherlock and taking hold of the ridiculous-looking, grubby hoody he was wearing.
"Til Boxing Day," Sherlock replied. "But, I'd have to leave under the cover of darkness. So that means you'll have to entertain me for two days and a bit, if that's all right."
Two days!
Two whole days!
Violet's heart began to melt under his gaze and she slid her arms around his neck. Pulling him down, close enough for a whisper, she refuted, "I think it's you who'll have to entertain me."
Sherlock gave a low chuckle.
"Happy Christmas," he said.
#
Author's note:
Next up: A Happy Christmas for them both, because they deserve it, don't they? Thanks for reading.