I do not own anything from Charlie and the Chocolate factory. All rights and likenesses belong to Roald Dahl, Johnny Depp and Tim Burton. No profit is being garnered from this work. No Oompa Loompas were harmed in the making of this fictional work – the media on the other hand were thrashed within an inch of their lives. – Stealth Phoenix
Chapter 43
Willy was wrestling with the machine in the Invention Room, the adjustments had been made to the calibration unit this afternoon and he was using magnifying goggles to make tiny adjustments to the microchip that ran the machine itself.
A soft persistent noise tugged at his attention, but he ignored it to use the soldering iron to attach a tiny thread of wire to one of the diodes.
The noise seemed to grow in his mind, even as he struggled to maintain his concentration. It didn't grow in volume but it loomed larger in his mind.
Irritated, he plunked the soldering iron back into its holder and whipped off the goggles to glare at the source of the noise.
A figure was crumpled in the corner, pale skin marked by bruises, he couldn't see the face, but he could tell it was female.
Another figure stepped by him, passing from his peripheral vision. Clad in red and black, it was a tall man wearing a black top hat that seemed to gobble at the available light.
"I've got this one – go back to your work," said an all too familiar voice.
The taller figure stalked toward the wounded figure in the corner, leaning down to jerk her to her feet with a startled cry. Glove-clad hands pinched her flesh cruelly as he shook her, snarling, "What do you think you're doing? Don't distract him! Can't you do anything I tell you?"
She sobbed again, her head bowing forward in submission, for a moment Willy could see tears streaming from bloodshot hazel eyes, "I'm sorry…so sorry."
"Not sorry enough," growled the man, slapping her three times in quick succession.
Willy was frozen in this horrible moment. He tried to force his stubborn body into motion – to stop the man from striking the weaker figure, but he was trapped. He could feel the cold sweat breaking out over his body with the effort.
She cried out again, and the man pushed her back against the wall with a skull-cracking thud. The man called out to him without turning, "Go ahead and finish making the connections and reconnect it to the calibration unit." His voice sounded bored, casual even, as he leaned forward toward the cowering figure.
The woman tried to look past her tormentor with pleading eyes, he could see her hands…familiar scarred hands…weakly pushing the man away, but he easily trapped her wrist and held them above her head. Willy felt sick as he watched the man lean down and lick her neck with a mocking laugh before sinking the strong white teeth into the tender flesh. She cried out in pain and the man slapped her again, releasing his hold on her neck.
"You'll take what I give you without question or comment, understand?" he snarled, sounding more animal than human.
Willy threw himself into the effort of moving to break up this attack – his body refusing to submit to his mental screams to action. Those words…why did they sound so familiar?
The woman screamed as the attacker's glove-clad hand stabbed into her, up between her legs, hoisting up the thin ripped chemise she wore. Willy managed to make a low cry in his throat at her anguish; he could feel his own tears starting to flow.
The attacker released her hands to grab her throat and pin her to the wall, fumbling with the fly of his black trousers under the blood red coat. Willy couldn't see what happened next, but from the brutal hoist of one of her legs and a thrust of the man's hips a strangled screech of pain and humiliation broke from the woman's throat.
The man howled his exultation at her pain and as his head leaned back, Willy could see the woman – her red chestnut hair tangled around her frightened, tortured face – the eyes wide with shock and betrayal. Her hands were clutching at her attacker, trying to push him away, even as she cried.
Willy screamed in his throat, unable to even open his mouth at the realization that the woman being attacked was his beloved Veronica.
The attacker stopped his movements at the sound of Willy's muted scream, half turning his head at the noise, "You have something to add, my friend?" He could see bone white skin with inky black hair in a neat pageboy from under the hat. Willy felt a rising wave of horror as he started to recognize Veronica's attacker
As the attacker callously dropped the broken woman to the ground, he turned to face him.
It was himself.
--
Willy opened his eyes, sucking in a much needed breath of air as his body shook in shock. His stomach churned with acid and he forced himself to lay still and take deep breaths, not to give voice to the shrieks trying to claw their way out of his chest.
He was laying on one side of the full-sized bed in Veronica's room.
He was clad in his pajama pants, blankets tangled around his legs – heart rate slowly returning to normal, even as he shivered with the drying sweat in the cold night air. He ran his hands through his tangled hair, the strands sticking messily to the back of his neck.
God, that was horrible!
He stared at her face for a moment, trying to convince himself that she was unharmed. Sitting up, he took quick mental stock – she was asleep, curled up on her side facing him, blankets pulled up under her chin. He'd never forget the twisted look of terror directed at him in his nightmare. Reaching out, he brushed his shaking fingers over her still face to assure himself.
Veronica's brow creased slightly and she made a small noise, hand twitching slightly. Willy jumped slightly at the sound – watching her carefully.
She rolled onto her back and made another whimper, her face twisting into a pained gasp.
Looks like I'm not the only one with nightmares, he thought grimly. This is my fault.
Not wanting to startle her, he sagged back to lie down, carefully drawing her closer and stroking her soft hair as it cascaded over her shoulders. She snuggled closer, drawn out of her nightmare and half-awakened by the movement, "Willy?" she asked sleepily.
"Shhh…I'm here. Head back to dreamland, Starshine and I'll meet you there in a moment." He whispered softly, running his bare fingers through the soft strands.
"'kay." She muttered, sinking back into sleep. So innocent and trusting…
He continued to pet her hair, soaking up her warmth and trust as he waited for the last fragments of his nightmare to be banished.
"You'll take what I give you without question or comment, understand?"
There was still a cold knot sitting in his chest and suddenly, he found that he couldn't bear the thought of sleep. Lightly kissing the top of her head, he eased himself out of her grasp and slipped from the bed.
No way was he risking another dream like that tonight. This was a good a time as any to start the day, regardless of the hour. He gathered his robe and slippers, pulling on the thick material over his bare chest – Veronica had appropriated the top for herself. Giving the bed with his lover one last longing glance, he quietly let himself out of the room.
--
Veronica woke in the morning to a pounding on her door.
"Willy?" she called groggily, realizing her bed was empty.
No reply answered her.
The pounding on the door became more constant – like some psychotic drummer who decided to moonlight as an alarm clock.
"I'm up! Gimme a minute!" she bellowed in irritation.
The pounding paused.
She pulled herself from the warm bed and staggered to the door, blearily shooting the alarm clock a look. It was 6:15 in the morning – Gak!
Where the heck was Willy?
The door was flung open and an unapologetic L.A. breezed in, a small pile of clothes draped over one arm, "Good Morning sleepy bones! Time to get started."
The shorter woman was clad in skinny jeans, white cashmere turtleneck sweater and a white pageboy hat cocked on her dark curly hair. She looked far too pulled together for the early hour. Veronica decided to hate her for the moment until another option presented itself.
"Not without coffee. What are those?" she grumbled, shutting the door.
"This is your wardrobe for the day. These are some selections from my closet that I bought in error – bloody beanstalks the lot of you – and figured you looked about the right size," said L.A., making herself at home on one of the available seats.
Veronica gave the clothes a once over, "Not really my style." She was a full-grown woman, not one of those idiotic-looking underage alcoholics that graced the cover of the gossip magazines.
"You don't have style – that's what we take care of today."
Veronica groaned and grabbed the pile along with appropriate underthings and took the offering into the bathroom.
The long skinny dark blue jeans fit…barely…she had to do a creative shimmy to tuck what little behind she had into the tight material. Once on, she discovered that they had some give to them, but not enough to actually be comfortable.
She pulled on a dark grey thermal top – that was tight too. When she turned to regard the result, she almost yelped – the material had stretched across her breasts and was practically translucent. Grabbing a button-up black vest, she covered herself and fastened it up – crisis averted. The dark colors washed her out and she grimaced at the comments she anticipated from her escort this morning. She ran a brush through the long hair and threw it into a sloppy braid, tying the end off and leaving it down rather than stab herself in the head with the pencil again.
She exited the bathroom and did a sarcastic little twirl, "Acceptable?"
L.A. gave her swift appraisal, "You need make-up. A nice smoky finish would do nicely."
"I thought you wanted make-up? That sounds like a BBQ sauce."
L.A. rolled her eyes at and indicated Veronica approach, "Here. I've got it."
The taller woman subjected herself to sitting down and watching the other woman stare at her intently while using an eye pencil to do…something to her.
"There. Now go see what I mean. Grab your coat and we're out of here," L.A. commanded, gathering her own cherry red pea coat.
Veronica gave a hefty sigh and regarded the results in the mirror. The kohl had been smudged artistically to accentuate the line of her lashes and emphasize the odd color of her eyes. Nothing she could duplicate without help and nothing she'd do on a daily basis.
If this was just the start, she was in trouble.
"I still need coffee."
--
Many hours later, Veronica was wishing for something a lot stronger than coffee.
"This is just darling! You have to try it on…" L.A.'s gushing tones felt like razorblades across her exposed nerves.
"No," she said, quite proud of the calm matter-of-fact tone.
"Now princess…don't get all huffy on us now," pleaded Spencer with an impish gleam in his eye. When he heard about the shopping trip last night, he dumped three fittings on his assistants and had braved cross-town traffic to meet them at the private appointment with one of his favorite designers.
"I hate this. You've measured everything and anything that can be measured – you know what kind of style I'm looking for…I am not a mannequin," she growled, glaring at the grinning man. The dress in question was a some sort of modern print dress that turned her stomach. She'd been stripped and dressed more times than she could bear to count. The good news was that her sparse wardrobe had been fully refurbished with classically cut pieces and accessories to go with all of it. The multiple bags were gathered around her feet like debris from a particularly fashion oriented tornado.
"Just one or two more…if you're serious about the fund raisers, you're going to need a few gowns for the events," L.A. said seriously, she dumped the ugly modern print gown and looked around.
The designer in question, a fussy little man who fluttered his hands like wounded pigeons circled Veronica with a thoughtful gleam in his eye. This was a big opportunity for him – the woman with Wonka – his designs would be seen by millions! "I think we need to go back to basics for you, my dear. I'm thinking columns, I'm thinking stark flowing lines…"
Spencer jumped in, "Ooh! I've got it…" he leaned over his sketch pad, wielding a charcoal stick like a magician wielding a wand. "How about…like this…" he held up the basic line picture of a long dress.
L.A. nodded, "Yeah. In a dark green heather…that would look fabulous."
Veronica gulped, "Um. Have you actually looked at me? That thing is showing enough skin for three people. What would hold it up? Duct tape?"
They ignored her. This is what it had been like all day. This is what made her head pound and to make her long for the quiet serenity of her studio.
Spencer tapped her on the shoulder and handed her a bottle of water and two aspirin tablets.
"Bless you!" she said in gratitude and swallowed the pills dry before taking a long swig of water, draining it in one go.
"It's time for your appointment at the salon. I got you in with Raphael himself. Lovely man, we used to date many many many moons ago," Spencer whispered.
Veronica forced a smile to her lips, looking more like a grimace rather than anything associated with a good mood, "Oh goody."
--
The powerfully build man turned her back toward the mirror after almost two hours of fussing, tugging, foiling, slathering and finally cutting. There was an awful lot of hair piled around her feet, and that was after insisting that they take as much as they could for Locks o' Love. Another long ponytail of her hair lay like a sacrificial offering on the rolling cart holding Raphael's equipment.
"Holy crap!" she swore softly, eyes wide with amazement at the transformation.
The formerly neglected mop had been chopped short chin-length layers flipping to frame her face. Bangs hung across her forehead for the first time since she was a child. There were subtle gold and red highlights framing her face, brightening her complexion and making her eyes seem more of an emerald green than their usual hazel. Her sharp features were softened by the loose tresses, adding an air of sophistication she liked. She looked like a cool, elegant woman with a knowing gleam in her eye.
"It's very wash n' wear as per your direction," Raphael said modestly. "Just add mousse, blow dry with a round brush and finish with a texturizer, shine and frizz control product – I'll throw in a sample for you to use, just a little in the palm goes a long way."
"It's gorgeous! Thank you," Veronica said, slipping from the chair.
"You look beautiful, love!" Spencer crooned, running his fingers through the new hairdo. "Raphael, If I wasn't already bonded; you would have seduced me with this look."
"Flatterer!" The power lifter/hairdresser simpered. "Just come back in about six weeks for a touch up, let me know when and I'll pencil you in."
Slipping a new set of sunglasses over her face, she looked at the reflection in the mirror. The new clothes, new hair and the confidence built from practice with L.A. had provided her an armor against the intrusive presence of the media.
She was going to need every ounce of nerve of it too. Someone from the salon had tipped the press and there was a crowd gathered outside. They needed to get through it to make their escape back to the factory. Their bags from earlier had already been taken back to via the secret tunnel from the building across the street from the back entrance.
"Ready for the grand premiere?" L.A. asked, slipping on her own nondescript sunglasses.
"Ready as I'll ever be, are we finally heading back?"
"Yup. Spencer, it's been a pleasure meeting you – you have impeccable fashion sense. Call me the next time you put together a sample sale."
"You got it doll. Ronnie," Spencer placed a kiss on her cheek, "Good luck, call me when you get the chance. I'll record this evening so you can see how it pulls off."
Lucky bastard was slipping out the back while she distracted them from the front.
Taking a deep breath, Veronica pulled down every ounce of poise she could muster and allowed L.A. to slip in front of her to open the door and try to break a path. Flashes popped, the sunglasses deflected a lot of the glare so she was actually able to make out the faces in the crowd.
She coolly stepped forward into the crowd, making sure to keep her movements relaxed and even. Most important, she kept moving, making them jump out of the way of her.
"Ms. Carmichael! Veronica! Over here!" the shouts jumbled together as photographers battled with elbows and equipment, reporters tried thrusting microphones into her face, only to be detracted by their competition doing the same.
Turn their bloodthirsty instincts on themselves, L.A.s voice rang from her memory.
"Ms. Carmichael, is it true that you and Willy Wonka are working together?"
Veronica spoke for the first time in public, her dictation clear and audible, "Mr. Wonka and myself cooperated to produce the Candy Globes for this holiday season."
"Are you two seeing each other?"
She ignored that question, as she had been advised – she didn't have to answer any questions she didn't want to.
"What about Victor Brahm's charges against you for stalking?"
Veronica kept her cool, even as she snarled internally, "I can't comment on Mr. Brahm's motivations, you'll have to direct that question toward him. Otherwise, it's a matter to the judicial system."
The chorus reached a crescendo as she and L.A. started to break free of the crowd. She kept moving, and reached the car that had been hired to ferry them around for the day. Slipping inside, she removed her sunglasses and gave them her best grin before the door closed, almost blinded by the sudden surge of photo bulbs.
"Great job – that was a nice touch at the end," L.A. sighed, leaning back into the secure comfort of the car seat.
"Great Googlie Mooglie! It was a lot easier this time, but still…," the nerves were starting to hit and her hands started to shake with the belated influx of adrenaline.
"It gets a little easier with practice," the Oompa Loompa woman said softly, "It'll always be nerve wracking though."
"I'll deal with it. Didn't we have one more stop to look at the last of the apartments Willy suggested?" she asked.
"It's on the way. Actually it's in the same building as the tunnel."
"Excellent. It's got points in its favor already."
They traveled back to the building in silence. Coming up to the entrance, Veronica studied the building with a new appreciation. It was an older building, dating from the early twenties, with subway tile decorating the front swoop with wonderful Art Nouveau features. They quickly climbed out and entered the building. There was an old fashioned brass elevator to the top floor – already an improvement over her old building.
L.A. handed her a small brass key and Veronica used it to unlock the door to the single apartment on the top floor.
"Oh, wow," Veronica breathed. There was a bank of windows, letting sunlight pour in and warming the open space despite the chilly temperatures outside. Warm oak floors and whitewashed walls made it feel spacious and airy. There rest of the apartment was equally welcoming to her and she was delighted to note the large claw-foot bathtub with modern fixtures as a central feature to the single bathroom.
"Veronica," L.A. called. She returned to the kitchen and she shorter woman indicated the purple envelope with the golden "W" that awaited her on the counter.
Smiling to herself, she opened it and read the letter inside:
My Vivacious Veronica,
Sorry to sneak out on you thing morning, but I had something on my mind and didn't want to disturb you.
Hope you find the space to your liking. Rather than an arm and a leg, how about €1,000/month for rent? L.A. will explain the benefits of living here rather than anywhere else and there's also space for a rooftop garden once the snow clears. Let me know what you think tonight.
I can't wait to see how your day went, I know you were looking forward to it.
Miss you terribly,
Love Willy. (Aka: Love Dumpling? Nah...)
Veronica smiled, kissing the letter and returning it to its envelope before tucking it into her pocket. She was concerned about what had driven Willy out of her bed this morning...she could sense some of his unease from his letter - the minimal language spoke volumes.
The price for the apartment was appropriately high, but considering the neighborhood, the innate security associated with the location and easy access to the factory, it was a bargain. She felt like the space welcomed her already.
As for the last comment, she smirked to herself - Willy was a sarcastic son-of-a gun even if his language in the letter was as bland as milk. He knew how she felt about the prospect and had taken the opportunity all last evening to poke gentle fun at her unfeminine lack of joy at the prospect of shopping.
"Well?" L.A. asked eagerly, touched by the expression on the older woman's face as she read the note from her employer.
Looking around in contentment, she took a deep breath, smelling wood polish and clean dry air.
"I think I'm home."