Author's note: Thank you so very much for your reviews. I am very pleased you're enjoying it.
"He thinks you don't like him," Ophelia said casually, handing over a particularly vivid rose for decapitation.
She feigned ignorance, "Who?"
"Gomez, of course. You should make more of an effort to be nice to him."
Morticia bristled at the suggestion and snipped a little more aggressively at the rose. The bud bounced onto the table then on to the floor.
Her voice though, when she spoke, was cool and soft:
"I've barely exchanged two words with him. How can he have formed any opinion at all?"
Ophelia handed her another rose.
"Oh, he's sensitive. That is all."
She watched as her sister moved towards the window.
She felt the quiver of envy again, sharp and icy as it expanded across her chest. She didn't need to be chastened by Ophelia, who was now looking to score points with her new fiancée in any way she could. The discernment between hatred and love was narrowing, and Ophelia was losing her grip on the distinction.
"Ophelia, do I hear affection in your voice?"
Her sister paused, fingered a clinging vine that was draped over the shelf at her side.
"Oh, I suppose… perhaps a little," Ophelia shook her head, "There's something attractive about him, I think. It cannot be denied that he is…handsome."
Morticia turned back to the roses, grateful for the vast quantity needing beheaded.
"He is going to be my husband," her sister continued after a pause, "And if that's not an incentive to try, I don't know what is. Plus, he's going to need to come round."
Biting her lip and feeling, of all things, the duress of tears in her eyes, Morticia nodded.
"Yes, I imagine it is."
Ophelia slid listlessly into the musty chair beside the table.
"Just try with him, for me, won't you?"
"Oh my darling sister," Morticia conveyed the emotion as simultaneously as she felt it and was as surprised by the fierceness of it, "I will try harder, I swear it."
Ophelia laughed, though it was sweet and kind as well as mocking.
"Tishy," she giggled, "One moment you're as cold as ice and the next…" she shrugged, "You're sweet really, aren't you? I know you'll try. I know you will. I know we don't have the…closest of relationships. But for me, you must try. He must be comfortable, happy, at all times."
Ophelia left eventually, before the roses were done, and she was finally alone. She grasped the edges of the table in a white-knuckled desperation, her red nails curling inwards as she fought tears. She was wearied with the multitudinous emotions every time she thought of him or saw him or heard his name. Her self-control, even when she had been an infant and challenged with new toys or temptations, was legend and here she was; a quivering, desperate disaster at the very thought of him.
She slid into the chair amidst a plume of dust and even Cleopatra shuddered away, fearful her mistress' wounds could not be soothed. And they could not be soothed, she knew. The only salve were his words, his lips, his fingers, his eyes, and his unending servitude. Perhaps they were the only things which would cure her.
She allowed herself, for the first time, to really picture him whole. Until now it had been fragments and wreckage from a floundering desire which had surfaced on the shore of her conscious when she least expected it, but now she allowed herself the pleasure of seeing him fully, entirely, and uninhibited by sorority or propriety, in her mind.
Everything about him was attractive and repulsive at the same time and if, and when, she wanted she could have him in a moment.
Where Ophelia blustered to cover a lack of self-confidence, Morticia remained silent for fear of sounding as if she might devour herself - such was her confidence.
No, she was confident in her ability to ensnare him with just a look.
But the quandary, as well she knew, was that she could not have him then discard him.
A cry welled up in her chest at the revelation that she would never just be done with him.
That she was, for the first time in her life, in love.
"Why are you moping in here?"
Her mother was suddenly at the door.
She swiped at tears that had yet to fall and stood.
"Oh, nothing I am-"
"We are going to the couturier, remember?"
Her mother was already dressed – in fur despite the boiling heat pressing itself into the house – and Morticia felt her irritation sharply.
"I quite forgot," she muttered.
Her mother sighed and threw her hands up, "Your head is in the clouds these days Morticia. You need to stop moping about the house."
"Mama, after we pay a visit to the couturier might I meet Carmen? I had said I would."
Her mother gave a huff of affirmation and smiled as she turned away.
"I don't know why you are friends with her," Ophelia commented, sliding into the car minutes later, "She's such a lush."
Morticia smiled slightly, amazed at the irony in her sister's words.
"There's no accounting for taste," she simply answered, "You're welcome to join us."
"Oh I'd rather die," Ophelia grinned and sat back.
After minutes Morticia looked at her sister without her knowing it. She was examining the gauche engagement ring he'd given her at the dinner. She'd never thought she'd shed tears of jealousy over a piece of jewellery but it turned out she had.
-0-
"Champagne?"
She took a seat beside Carmen and nodded her assertion as her friend poured a generous saucer for her. She stared at the sparkling gold for a moment before lifting it to her mouth and gulping almost half of it down.
"How are the wedding plans?"
Carmen derived intense pleasure from other's misery and it was this, above all her qualities, that most appealed to Morticia about her dearest friend. That and the contrast between them; Carmen, red-headed and loud and wondrous, was all fire where she was bleak ice.
Morticia cocked a brow, "Ghastly."
"Oh Morticia, your sister is such a harridan. Honestly. And a petulant little tramp to boot."
"It's not that," she poured some more, not jumping to Ophelia's defence when faced with the truth, "I don't know…it's just…"
"Come on loquacious one, spit it out."
Morticia smiled despite herself, "It's nothing."
"How is the illustrious Mr. Addams?"
"He's…." her words failed her, then the truth was there as much as it wasn't, "He's certainly full of character."
"So I hear," her friend smiled, "I met him once. I slept with his friend after a very drunk night. He plied me with champagne and he's filthy rich and Addams was goading him on. He sent me flowers after it, with a note of apology…" Carmen laughed, "They arrived just as I was cavorting with Todd. It was terribly awkward."
She recalled the man Williamson from the engagement party and it suddenly clicked. She'd been there that night, but left before Gomez Addams had arrived. Even if she had, she couldn't imagine it would have much mattered. She'd left with an older gentleman who promised to show her his collection of torture instruments in lower Manhattan. She had left his apartment a whole lot wiser, exhausted, and with a new acquaintance.
"Oh…I knew I'd met him somewhere before. I just couldn't recall."
"He wasn't half-bad actually, Williamson," Carmen offered her a cigarette, which she declined, then flicked her lighter open, "But he was so…worshipful. It was boring."
Morticia laughed and took another gulp of the champagne.
"Oh you are in a mood," Carmen said, then motioned for the waiter to bring another bottle, "You usually talk. But you've been reduced to that strange little silence."
Morticia watched as the young man came towards them but his path was soon blocked by two other figures who came to stand at the edge of their table.
She smiled at them both, then one of them lowered his mouth to her hand.
"Victor," she smiled at one, then the other, "Henry."
"Ladies," Victor, hair slick, smiled, "May we join you?"
Carmen cocked an eye brow and blew a plume of blue smoke towards them, her mouth curling slowly into an obscene 'o'. Morticia resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
"When have we ever said no?" Carmen asked on the tail of the smoke and then slid over to make room for them.
Them, and their expensive suits crushed from a hot and harried day on the stock exchange floor, slid in beside them.
Here she was, pressed again to Victor. Time just bored her with its repetition.
"Hey Morticia," he smiled and pulled a cigar from his pocket, "It's been a while. Have I weakened your resolve yet?"
She smiled, "Hardly."
"And after everything I did for you."
"Making her a fortune on the stock market doesn't count," Carmen interrupted, "Money doesn't matter to Morticia, even though she trusted you with hers. She keeps it all a secret though, so mama and papa don't know. Her secrecy is almost paranoia."
Morticia said nothing but she gave her friend a cruel little smile.
"Idle wealthy," Henry laughed and addressed her, "Is it true?"
"Is what true?"
"That your sister is marrying the king of the idly wealthy?"
No matter what she did, she couldn't escape conversation of him.
"She's marrying Gomez Addams if that is what you mean."
"He's a crook," Henry declared, popping the cork on the bottle of champagne that had just arrived and hastily ordering yet another bottle before the waiter could make his escape.
"Aren't you all?" Morticia asked, genuinely curious.
"Yes," Victor grinned and she felt his hand slide nearer to her thigh, "He is just very good at it. He's a Yale Law graduate, but runs the family businesses. Tax avoidance, hostile takeovers…he's much cleverer than he looks."
Carmen nodded, flicked her cigarette ash into the glass ashtray in the middle, "He's handsome."
"He's not," Victor said sourly, "Of course he isn't. Is he?"
"I don't know," Morticia lied, mouth poised over her glass to take a sip.
In the midst of the grumbling, Carmen caught her eye and raised one knowing, altogether discomfiting brow.
The rest of the night passed in a fug of expensive booze and dancing. She didn't go with Victor, though there was the same sozzled temptation there always was, back to his apartment, which overlooked the river, despite his invitation. Carmen, with Henry clinging to her like a barnacle, and Victor licking his wounds in the corner, pulled her aside before she left.
"You aren't going to do anything stupid, are you?" Carmen asked.
Morticia pulled her cloak on, "Whatever can you mean?"
"You know what I mean…you don't ever…"
She shook her head, almost imperceptibly, "You have my word."
"There's more at stake than fun," Carmen said seriously, pushing Henry's face away from her neck.
"If I didn't already know that, I'd be in his bed," she said icily and fled, the warmth of embarrassment spreading from her toes.
Ah, as I said, I like to drag it out. Please let me know what you think.
