The play turns out to be pretty dull, and the after party isn't much better.
She doesn't get to go to shows very often. She's gotten herself all dressed up, expecting to brush shoulders with some of the city's most influential names in the arts, but she's disappointed to find she doesn't recognise a single one. The way Molly spoke about it, she made it sound exciting, glamorous, almost like a movie première, rather than what it really is – one of the first few fumbling attempts of a struggling playwright trying to cut her teeth in the business. A damp squib, rather than any real fireworks. It's mean to think so – the kid is Molly's niece, after all, and she seems like a nice girl – but it's hard to stay patient with the evening dragging the way it is.
Her colleague meant well, though, and she should be grateful to have been invited in the first place, but she's just waiting until the right time comes to make her excuses to leave. Molly's normally fun to talk to – a stunning woman in her late fifties who seems too vivacious to ever retire, wild as a teenager in her exploits – but she's spent most of the evening getting drunk on awful free wine, and draping herself over the current boy-toy of the month. Sarah can't even remember the poor guy's name, offering polite, almost sympathetic smiles over token sips at her own drink.
Despite all the stories she's heard about the older woman's energetic love life – and isn't that sad in itself, with her own all but non-existent? - she can't help thinking this guy is far too young for Molly. She quickly chastises herself, pushing away any trappings of jealousy. The two of them seem happy enough, and it's really none of her business. Besides, she has no room to talk, given the age of one of her past conquests, not to mention the seemingly-ageless one that keeps getting away.
She wonders, as she often does, what her 'fairy godfather' is up to tonight. No doubt, Jareth's evening is going far better than her own is, but, of course, he's a king. He's bound to have a far more exciting social calendar, if his fully-packed ballroom was anything to go by. Oh, but thinking of that ballroom sets the old memories flowing, and she can't torture herself that way again. He certainly won't be daydreaming about the past. She doesn't know what time it is in his realm – if time is even linear there, the way he plays with it – but she's sure, by this point, he's found something fascinating to pass the time with. Something, if not someone…
That thought calls for a bigger gulp of the horrible wine, and she feels as bitter as it tastes.
She resolves to do better – to do her best to make the most of tonight, nodding and frowning earnestly as Molly continues to deliver a rant about 'the business'. When she tunes back in to the other woman's actual words, she finds she's no longer sure whether the business she means is publishing or plays. Molly doesn't seem to mind – she goes on regardless, fuelled by the booze.
Suddenly, the other woman stops mid-speech, grimacing in distaste as she stares into the distance. Sarah follows her gaze, and sees a tallish man in a dark grey suit, standing in the function room's wide doorway. He's handsome enough, with swept back reddish-brown hair and a square jaw, but there's something greasy about him all the same. As Sarah looks on, she sees him give the rest of the guests the once-over, sneering openly enough to show a white flash of teeth.
"Oh, god, watch out for him, honey," Molly says, in a loud stage whisper.
Sarah eyes the guy, unimpressed. "Why? What's his problem?"
"He's your problem, if he finds out you're here alone," Molly corrects her, her wine-stained tongue lolling out in a pretence at gagging. "I had no idea he'd even bother to turn up tonight. Guess he's looking for fresh meat." She stops to grimace again, and to take another sip of wine. "That's Richard Dunham – he's pretty hot shit in the critic circles, but trust me, he's a nasty little shit. Has a misandry complex a mile wide, yet thinks all women owe him something. You know the type – overly handsy, He-Man wannabe; won't take no for an answer, unless you're practically wearing another guy." She giggles, giving the boy-toy's tie a little tug. "Which I guess I am."
"He'll be getting a definite no from me," Sarah says, but she feels uneasy all the same, as Richard's eyes finally fall upon her.
She's seen enough nature documentaries in her time to know that predatory look when she sees it, and it makes her squirm in her seat to feel it creeping slowly over her body, sending her flesh creeping right along with it. She looks away, but it's too late – she's caught his interest. It's like he's picked out her single status amongst the couples at her table as her weakness. Before she knows it, he's swooping down on their table; on her.
There's a token greeting and a winning smile for the other couples at the table, but then she's in his sights. "And who's this lovely creature? I don't think we've met – I'd remember someone like you, amidst all these other plebs," he says, in a way that suggests he's not really joking. As he shakes her hand, he graces her with a smile and a wink – an actual, honest-to-god wink from a total stranger. "Richard Dunham. Though you've probably already heard of me. And you are?"
"Sarah Williams. You haven't heard of me," she says, her tone dry. She releases his hand as quickly as she's able to.
He laughs, seemingly immune to her distaste. Of course he is – he's a parasite. They don't bother to seek the host's favour, before moving in to claim what it is they want. "No, but I think I'd like to. Can I get you a drink, Sarah Williams?" The smile isn't dying, and he isn't going away.
She raises her half-empty glass, which she's now determined will remain half-empty until he vacates the premises entirely. "I'm good, thanks."
He chuckles. "Oh, don't tell me you're drinking the free swill they serve you." He's found a topic of conversation, now, and he's sliding easily into the painfully-empty seat beside her.
She tries not to look at him too much. "I guess I must have a taste for the lower things in life. You're probably at the wrong table."
Smiling, undeterred, he refuses to take the brush-off. "Then it's a good thing I'm here. You need a man to teach you the finer things."
Ten minutes. Ten goddamn minutes later – she's been counting – though it could have easily been an hour, and he's still talking. It's dull as dishwater, a combination of facts that are supposed to impress her (they don't) and a grasping and grossly obvious attempt to get in her pants (he won't). Within his first few sentences, he managed to throw in a clumsy enquiry about her boyfriend, and ever since, she's been kicking herself for admitting she's single. She makes it clear she isn't looking, but it does nothing to dull that greedy little sheen in his eyes.
Despite his apparent interest in her, he hardly lets her get a word in edgeways. She's trapped – pinned down by a barrage of endless talk, just the way he wants her. When he finally starts to run out of words, she can feel his eyes slithering down her cleavage instead. She's wearing one of her favourite dresses, cut low in a sweetheart neckline but long on the leg, in a deep green that brings out her eyes. Now, she's going to have to burn it.
"Well, you certainly know a lot about wine," she says, crossing her arms over her chest and attempting to sound as bored as possible. Somehow, it's surprisingly easy to do. "But-"
Predictably, he takes that as a compliment. "I do, but now I'd love to know some more about you, in return for my little lesson. You owe me, but first, I'll go get us that drink – a decent drink," he says, without asking her, and stands up to make his way to the bar. Before he goes, he gives her another vile wink.
The moment he's gone, Sarah whirls on Molly. "This is a nightmare. You need to get your friend there to back off and get his head out of my tits, before I strangle him."
Molly just chuckles, and gives her the sympathetic smile of the moderately drunk. "Trust me, he's no friend of mine – I just have to kiss his ass for Gracie's sake. I told you, hon, he just won't listen. You're stuck with him tonight, unless you can grow a baby or a boyfriend in the next three minutes."
"I saidI wasn't interested! How much clearer could I be?"
"That just makes you a challenge. I'm sorry you've been landed with such a shit, I really am, but I'm telling you, you're not getting away unless he knows you're otherwise attached. Admitting you were here alone was the worst thing you could have ever done." Molly takes another drink, then waggles her eyebrows in a knowing manner. "Maybe it's time to start looking – and fast."
When Richard comes back, she sits through another ten or so hours of talk, wandering eyes, and unrequited flirting, before deciding she's finally had enough.
"I have to make a call," she cuts in, and, boy, does she. God, Buddha, Satan – anything to get her out of there.
Her persistent suitor gives her a slick smile, already reaching into his jacket pocket. "I got you. You can use my cell, if you-"
She's on her feet before he can continue. "I'm germ-phobic," she says, unapologetic and none too quietly. "If I used your phone, I'd never stop washing my hands." She's walking quickly out of there before he can think to question the bacteria on the average payphone.
In the deserted corridor, the phone attached to the wall seems to mock her, and just for a minute, she considers just calling a cab and heading home. She can't, though, as much as it pains her. It would be rude to just abandon Molly without saying a word, however drunk she gets – particularly as the other woman went to the trouble of inviting her. Likewise, she knows she won't get away easily if she goes back to make her excuses, not with Richard still hanging over her shoulder. He might even insist on escorting her outside, cutting her off from the pack to try and score a number or worse, and then things might get ugly.
She has no qualms about shutting down rude assholes in any given scenario, but tonight is no regular circumstance. Despite the show's desperate need for a re-write, she'd hate for a worse than necessary review to taint it, just because she put the main critic in a shitty mood. The jackass has already ruined her night – damned if he's going to ruin Molly's niece's blossoming career, as well.
What would Jareth do in this situation? The question sounds loudly in her head now, as it frequently does. She pulls a face. The Goblin King would waste no time in putting the creep in his place, but with tact? She doesn't think it likely. He would quickly see such a man was beneath him, as so many men are, and not care enough to rein in his scorn. If only she could get away with such things, she thinks, picturing herself laying into the guy just like her unflappable king would; maybe even making him cry.
She grins. It's a grim thought – especially when she imagines Molly's horrified face – but satisfying, though she comes back to reality soon enough. No, she doesn't have the liberty to do such a thing. She's only a woman, after all, and it's clear the creep has no respect for anything a woman has to offer, beyond what lies underneath her dress.
He refuses to accept the fact that any woman would dare to be uninterested in him, bowing only to the claim of another, stronger man over his potential prey. It's an attitude that's so prehistoric, she can almost picture his knuckles dragging in the dirt, but she's not about to waste her breath in trying to change such a stubborn asshole – particularly one she intends never to suffer the company of ever again.
Giving the payphone one last, longing glance, she heaves an angry sigh. She's stuck out here until she thinks of something to get the guy off her back. How much easier this thing would be if she'd just brought a date. She snorts out air, glad that there's no one around to hear. That's laughable. The only man she's even remotely close to right now is-
Oh, no.
She's made frivolous wishes before, and there's no guarantee he'd even deign to answer this one, but she can't bother him for such an embarrassing situation – can she? She can't go begging for his help because she's too pathetically lonely to have a real boyfriend, or even a good male human friend to pretend to be one, at least. Besides, she can just imagine the attention he'd draw here, with his wild hair, and a sense of fashion that, in this realm, would be called eccentric, at best, and downright crazy, at worst. No.
Other options, then, but what? Short of a guilty, sneaking exit, or outright murder, she's considerably low on options right now. She's a grown, powerful woman, for god's sake – she shouldn't be cowering in the hallway like this, and she curses the asshole who's driven her to it. She has to dissuade him somehow.
Molly's words echo in her head – that she'll only be left alone if she's already attached – and she all but moans, "I wish I was attached."
With another sigh, she lifts her left hand to run it through her hair, but finds her arm strangely heavy. Frowning, she glances at her wrist. There's a thick golden cuff covering it, but it can't be any normal gold, given the way the light sends shimmering rainbows of colour radiating from it. There's a thin chain leading from it that most definitely wasn't there a moment ago, but that's the least of her troubles right now. There's another wide cuff at the end of that chain, she sees.
The cuff is attached to another hand.
With her blood turning to ice in her veins, all at once, she feels her body go very, very still. Her eyes make a slow journey from that hand – long-fingered and ethereally pale – up past a wrist that's dripping with lace, to an arm that's covered by a puffed white sleeve. Familiar golden strands of hair lay across this new apparition's shoulders, but it's only when she brings herself to meet a set of icy-pale mismatched blue eyes that she allows herself to believe that this is really happening.
"Well, Sarah," the Goblin King says, lifting their joined wrists with a smile. "Your wish – and a most interesting one, at that – is my command."
She feels her face fall.
Maybe Satan would have been a better bet, after all.