Author's note: Thank you so so much for the reviews. I was completely overwhlmed. I'm glad you're enjoying it thus far and I hope you continue to. Please leave a review if you can.
"And how is she?"
Gomez shrugged, setting aside the billiard que on to the stand mounted on the wall. He'd taken a cold shower, tossed his clothes aside, tried to stymie the unholy pictures of the ebony haired girl that burned behind his eyelids. It was useless, he hadn't slept in days and his hands shook.
"I'm restless, let's go to the city," he suggested instead of answering his friend.
Willliamson took a slug of Scotch, "No, and anyway, we have a busy day tomorrow."
"I want to…" he shrugged, "It's so final. We could get Baltazhar to meet us there?"
"Or we could drink this Scotch, get very drunk, and you can pour your woes out in the comfort of your home," his friend suggested lightly, tipping more of the amber liquid into his own crystal glass.
"I don't know what I expected," he rolled the ball forcefully across the smooth felt, so it landed in the left corner pocket with a thunk.
"You expected not to be forced to marry, for one, old chap," his friend answered, "And you expected a girl who'd be a loyal wife."
The implicit fact that Ophelia had a reputation for her friendliness towards the boys didn't rile him, in fact it did nothing but make him sigh. He plucked at his cravat restlessly, ran his fingers along the felt, touched the smooth wood of the table.
"It's warm in here, isn't it?"
He felt he was going to faint.
"And what of her sister? I hear she's a rare beast," his friend asked, handing him an over-full glass, "Though no one really knows who she is. No one I've spoken to anyway. Apparently keeps herself to, well, herself."
He felt his innards twist above his beltline and below, the pain shot to the back of his spine, crawled upwards into his chest where it settled like ice.
"She's…unremarkable," he lied, thinking of long legs and dark, brutal eyes against snow-white skin.
"Pity," his friend shrugged, "I thought she might be a nice scrap from the table for me."
The cruel nature of his joke wasn't unusual between them, yet Gomez felt rage cloud him; hot and absolute behind his eyes.
"Old chap, you look suddenly pale," Williamson said.
"It's nothing," he muttered, "But no, her sister wouldn't be interested in you. I'd wager she'd be uninterested in everyone and everything."
Williamson merely frowned, "Addams, you're distracted."
"I'm…" he sighed, "I suppose I am."
His friend put his que aside, "You're going to have to make peace with it. God knows you'll be married to her forever. You'll need to come to terms with it."
"It isn't-," but the words jammed in his throat.
"At any rate, Ophelia seems game for fun," his friend laughed, a clumsy attempt to lighten the mood, "Or so I hear."
"It's all conjecture," he led the way from the billiards room, past Lurch in the quiet hall, and into the parlour, "She may well be as frigid as ice."
"I'll phone Balthazar," his friend suggested with a roll of the eyes that conveyed his frustration, heading to the telephone, "See if he fancies a night out? Would that make you smile? We'll get him to bring those Russian girls along."
Gomez slumped down in the chair, not even brightening at this suggestion.
He felt his friend's eyes on him as he stared dejectedly in to the fire.
"I wish Fester hadn't taken off," he said as soon as Williamson hung up the phone.
"You can wish all you want," his friend muttered, "But the fact is he is not here and you are getting married because of that."
He groaned, "You are the worst friend…"
Williamson smiled and clapped a hefty hand on to his shoulder, "Come on old chap, your misery is boring. This is not who you are!"
He nodded, "No, who I am is the future Mr. Opehlia. God, she's awful."
"She can hardly be as terrible as all that," his friend topped up his glass, "With a dowry of such abundance."
"That is only because her parents are frightened they won't shed her otherwise," he answered, "I-"
"Please, stop! You're making me miserable. Balthazar will meet us there," Williamson threw him his coat and it landed solidly on his face, "Come on you miserable lout."
He stood up and shrugged his coat on, trying to gird himself to at least appear pleasant:
"Is he bringing those Russian girls?"
Despite his cousin Balthazar's many faults, his abilities to ensnare pretty women and drink profusely were not amongst them.
Williamson smiled, "Ah, yes," his friend laughed, "That's the smile I wanted!"
The city was bustling and busy, and the pressed bodies and noxious alcohol made him forget the agony of her tantalising distance. They trawled club to club, picking up acquaintances and friends and a circus freak along the way. And the Russian girls helped to heal his misery too, in their own way, for the fleeting moments of time that he could wish one of them ebony hair and a distant gaze. In their own delightful, brazen, fleshy way they brought about amnesia. They found a booth in the heaving nightclub and one of the delightful harlots took a liking to his knee and settled there while she clumsily guzzled martinis, on the tab he'd kindly opened.
"You are wealthy?"
He squeezed her thigh and thought of pure marble whiteness under his olive hands, "I am, obscenely so. That's why you are so enjoying those martinis you clever little thing."
She giggled and smeared a hand across her pink mouth, which he learned, a moment later, tasted sweet and cheap and warm.
"Mr. Addams," she giggled against his mouth, "You are a very good kisser."
"Years of practise," he hauled her nearer so her tight body was pressed against his. She pulled away again though, her flighty hand reaching for the martini.
"Seems you've rather forgotten your woes," Balthazar commented loosely at his side, his cigar smoke enveloping him.
Baz was always one to remind him of the things he hated. He smiled anyway at his inebriated cousin and shook his head.
"No," he watched the drink dribble from her mouth and imagined rich, soft ruby lips around a wine glass, "No, no. A distraction."
"Aha," Baz grinned, "Of course. Of course."
"A…what was the word?" The girl asked curiously.
"A distraction pet," he nuzzled her neck, "A very beautiful, easy distraction."
She giggled then, and pressed herself to him. He was lost instantly, in her easy manner and invitations which were a world away from his reality.
"Well well," a voice, liquid in his ear, suddenly cut through the heavy embrace.
He receded sloppily from the kiss to find himself face to face with curious blue eyes. At first he didn't quite understand. He was dull with wine and lust and he didn't recognise her. Then, in an instant, he did.
And horror filled him, "Ophelia!"
"Hello dear," she smiled, though there was a sharpness in the gesture that he did not miss, "It would be terribly arrogant of you to have all the fun, wouldn't you say."
"Excuse me," he said to the dazed girl on his lap, simultaneously setting her aside.
She let out a little squeal of distress as he deposited her on the leather bench but she was, almost instantly, in his cousin's lap instead.
"You get rid of your toys quickly," Ophelia laughed but not in any way angry or irritated, simply curious.
"I didn't know-"
"There is so much you don't know about me," she leaned towards him, "But if we are going to make this work because, let's face it, we have no other option, then we must come to an agreement that is profitable for both of us. And one day, you'll want me more than that girl."
He knew he sounded like an utter ponce the moment the words left his mouth: "Don't you want more than an agreement? Don't you want love?"
She tossed her head back, a cruel little giggle spouting towards the ceiling.
"Oh dear, dear precious stupid man," she reached for the half-empty martini and swirled it then lifted the olive to her mouth.
If the gesture of its consumption was supposed to be obscene, it certainly was. He felt his gut stir, against his will, at the sight of her confident mouth.
"Ophelia," her bowed his head, suddenly ashamed, "We should go somewhere a little less….public. If we are to have this conversation."
"I suppose so," she sighed and sucked the bitter little fruit into her mouth.
"Now?"
"Not now - tomorrow or the following day," she grinned and pointed to a hulking, dark looking fellow at the bar, "See that man there?"
He nodded as he looked the brute over. The man was a gurning bag of muscle, cracking his knuckles. He felt his gullet constrict as he looked back at her face. For a second it was sour, then blank.
"He wants to do to me what you were just doing to her," she laughed, "And maybe more. And as long as we have this tacit agreement, then I think I am alright with that."
She bounced on to her feet and slid from the booth ready to leave but not before she leaned over and pressed a tender kiss to his lips. He didn't know if he was supposed to feel envy, or even if she wanted him to feel that way, but he simply felt relieved at knowing she hadn't suddenly fallen in love with him.
Or maybe she had, and that jagged little scene was to let him know his time was almost up.
"Good by darling. Tomorrow then," she whispered against his mouth and then twirled away.
He watched her go, her almost white hair flying out behind her back.
"That was awkward," Williamson laughed, watching her too.
"It was…bizarre."
"Coming from you, that's certainly rich," Williamson answered, as he began pouring some vodka into the brunette's mouth.
She let it gurgle from her mouth to her chin, where his friend made light work of cleaning it up.
He felt suddenly repulsed.
"Excuse me," he murmured, standing up.
The girl who'd previously been in his lap reached up a hand, "Stay Mr. Addams."
"I can't," he mumbled, "Have to get home."
"Oh come on old sport," Baz grinned, "Come on. We could go to the den, get some laudanum, have some fun with these lovely girls…"
He shook his head and pulled his silk scarf around his neck, "No, home it is."
"Let him go," Williamson cried, "If he cannot be consoled we won't force him."
He slouched away then, out into the cool of the streets, slippery with detritus and people and trash. He adored the streets of this city; they had birthed him, raised him, and educated him. There was anonymity here and peace. He wandered slowly, his cane tapping against the sidewalks, and he found himself wandering towards the park. The wandering was what he was good at, he supposed, it was staying tethered that he most poorly performed at.
His thoughts, unoccupied with distraction, once again came to focus on the sister of his intended. It had just been a glance, below long eye lashes, but her eyes. Oh her eyes.
He felt himself grow unbearably warm and he ripped his scarf from his neck and stuffed it in his pocket.
Those eyes, those lips, those long pale fingers.
The glisten of demise, the glimmer of ice, the miniscule flush on her nacre skin.
"No, no, no," he mumbled to himself, "No you misinterpret her. How could she, such an exquisite creature, want a rake like you?"
And with that sudden realisation the misery was absolute. He stared at the river and considered, seriously, the icy sanctuary of the water below. It rushed past, foaming and inviting and excruciating in its desire to have him whole. He stepped onto the ledge but, with a cry like that of a wounded animal, fell back again on to the bridge.
After a while of profuse sobbing, propped against the iron sides of the monstrous bridge, he picked himself up again and dusted himself off.
Even death couldn't possibly comfort his need, his want, of her.
It was as simply dire as that.
So what did you think? Could you please review and let me know? If not, I just hope you enjoyed it.
