Chapter 2- Come Round Soon
"How's your Lobster Tartine?" Imogen asked, eyeing her wife's meal enviously while she pushed a silver fork around in her Broiled Squab. "Is it as yummy as it always is?"
"Oh my god, it's divine," the socialite professed as she brought the cloth napkin up to dab her shimmering lips. "Do you like yours?"
The younger woman's eyes shifted around in their sockets. "Ummm…."
Knowing Imogen all too well, Fiona narrowed her gaze suspiciously and set down her utensils. "Let me guess," her voice heavy with sass, "you want to trade?"
"Yes, please!" The quirky young woman was already reaching over to switch their plates as Fiona shook her head in amusement and took a sip of her water.
"I remember the days when you would find one thing you like at each restaurant and only order that every single time. What happened? Bored with tradition? Trying to explore bigger and better things?"
"Not at all!" Imogen countered. "I just feel so guilty whenever the waiter recites the 'Chef's Special' speech—it takes him like three minutes every time, so I feel like it's my duty to order it, or else his entire monologue goes to waste."
After cutting off a small piece of her newly adopted dish, Fiona chewed slowly, savoring its rich flavor. It was easily one of the best meals she had ever tasted, she decided, and it completely bewildered her that Imogen wasn't a fan—though the socialite was secretly very happy that the switch had been made…after all, she had now been introduced to a new favorite dish. "You know, you're pretty lucky to have such a generous wife that will just agree to swap food whenever your little heart desires. Honestly, the things I do for you…" Taking another bite of that delicious Broiled Squab, the older girl grinned internally.
"Well your tastes are just so refined, Mrs. Coyne. I never have to worry about your willingness to try new things. Most of the time you even like them." Fiona shifted her blue eyes around noncommittally. "That's what I thought," the younger girl laughed, giving her wife's thigh a small squeeze as the waiter approached their table, interrupting their conversation.
"How does everything taste, ladies?" He picked up their glasses, topping them off with water.
"Everything is perfect," Fiona responded, keeping her eyes fixed on Imogen. She reached down and grabbed the warm hand from her thigh and clasped it in her own two. "Since we're celebrating tonight, should we have a glass of the hard stuff?"
Imogen shot the older girl a bemused look. "The hard stuff?"
"Yeah," she winked, turning her attention back to the waiter. "We will have a bottle of your finest sparkling apple cider. Oh and maybe bring hers out in a cup with a lid—she tends to spill."
"Fiona! That was only two times!" Imogen blushed, feeling completely embarrassed. She buried her face into her wife's shoulder.
Poking the other girl's hip, the socialite shook her head. "You're forgetting about The River Café."
"Fine, three times!" she mumbled.
Fiona nodded knowingly. "Okay, okay, no lid this time. Guess she'll learn proper table etiquette eventually." Her brows furrowed as the waiter scratched through a sentence on his notepad. Did he really think she was serious? "Wooow," she whispered softly so that only Imogen could hear.
"So just the cider?" He shifted his focus between the two.
"Hmm… anything else you want?"
"Salted caramel ice-cream?" Imogen looked at the curly brunette with hopeful eyes.
Fiona exhaled, knowing exactly how hyper the ice-cream would make her wife. In that moment she finally realized that she was married to a five year old. "The ice-cream sounds like a fab idea," she surrendered, sending the young man away with their order. She was quickly thanked with an enthusiastic kiss to the cheek.
"So," Imogen breathed into the older girl's ear, "What were we talking about, again?"
"Umm, I think it was something about me being amazing, me trying new things, you trying to seduce me—the usual."
The quirky young woman giggled. "Oh is that so?" She was answered with a nod. "Well I'd hate to leave a conversation unfinished..." Her tan finger grazed up the socialite's pale arm with a slight tickle. She turned her brown eyes upwards to study her wife's features—something she never grew tired of doing. As she continued sitting quietly in their booth, playing with the other girl's arm, she realized her strong dislike for the dimmed lighting, because someone as beautiful as Fiona Celestine Arabella Coyne deserved to be fully illuminated at all times. "So about you trying new things…" her voice broke through the silence. "How is your new assistant working out? Elisha, is it?"
"Eliza," Fiona corrected, cocking her head to the side, confused by the sudden shift in discussion. "Imogen Moreno, is that jealousy I'm sensing?"
"Well she looks like a model, Fiones!…I just don't see why you had to fire Peggy…" her voice trailed, while her brown eyes wandered the room.
"Peggy was a nightmare! She didn't even know the difference between a gusset and a gore…" The socialite scoffed, remembering her incompetent employee. "Besides, it doesn't matter how Eliza looks. She's hardly my type."
Fidgeting with the napkin in front of her, Imogen tried to remain casual. "Oh? Well what is your 'type'?"
"I generally tend to go for incredibly beautiful weirdos with a particular affinity for wearing toe socks to bed." Fiona crossed her legs underneath the table and thanked the waiter as he placed the two flutes of cider and a plate of ice-cream in front of them.
Ignoring the new additions to the table, the younger woman perked up her ears curiously. "Do these weirdos that you find so desirable also happen to enjoy banana, strawberry, mango juice with a dash of cinnamon?"
"Obviously," Fiona agreed, "and they absolutely must adore everything monkey-related. Not having these qualities is definitely a deal-breaker."
Imogen smiled, looking down at their table. It was always comforting to be reminded that her odd and unique characteristics were cherished by the gorgeous fashionista. Eliza is way too boring to ever catch the eye of a Fiona Coyne, she concluded, with every ounce of her jealousy fading away. "Where in the world are you going to find such a perfect specimen?"
The older girl pretended to look around the room, eyeing the surrounding people. "Hmm… I don't know. Do you know of anyone?" she asked, while placing her hand on top of Imogen's fidgeting fingers, and catching those brown eyes with her own.
"I just might…" Leaning over, Imogen placed an affectionate kiss on her wife's lips, before being alerted by the socialite's ringing phone. She watched inquisitively as the phone was retrieved from the large purse and the number was inspected, growing nosier as she noticed Fiona's eyes widened.
"Hello?" Fiona answered with a nervous voice. "This is she… Yes, I remember." She held up a finger as she saw her wife mouthing to ask whom it was on the phone, growing annoyed with only hearing half of the conversation. "Are you serious? Wow…that's…wow… Yes, she's with me, I'll let her know. Okay, that sounds good. Thank you, you too." Setting down the phone, Fiona took another bite of the Broiled Squab and then sipped on her water.
The younger woman lifted up her arms dramatically. "Um, hello…? Who was that?"
"No one important," Fiona shrugged. She motioned towards the flutes that were still resting in front of them. "Shall we toast?"
Not even attempting to mask her irritation, Imogen shook her head from side to side. "After you tell me who that was and what was so important that you had to answer it during dinner—a dinner, let me remind you, that you are having to celebrate your wife." She pointed her determined thumb at herself, and stared at Fiona, awaiting clarification.
"Fine, I'll just toast by myself." After picking up one of the cider-filled glasses, the socialite raised it into the air, ignoring the other woman's obvious frustration. "To another remarkable Moreno design being brought to life—you are so talented and I love you so much, Immy. No one deserves this more than you." Lowering her flute, she tapped it against the one that was still resting on top of the table, and then took a small sip. The corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk as she saw Imogen's impatient fingers tapping on the tabletop, refusing to acknowledge her words. "Oh and one more toast," Fiona picked up the other girl's flute and forced it into her tan hand. "To us—soon to be parents of what will surely be one ridiculously spoiled baby boy."
Imogen's tapping fingers halted immediately as the words reached her ears, while her hand that was holding the glass continued hovering in mid air. "Parents?" she asked cautiously, not yet getting her hopes up until she could verify that she had heard her wife correctly.
"Mhmm," the socialite confirmed complacently. "That was the agency, Im. We were chosen—Hayley chose us." Her hand wiped away a tear as it was developing in her eye. "We're going to have a baby," she whispered, searching the other girl's face for a reaction.
The flute fell from Imogen's hand, spilling onto the table as she lunged forward to embrace her wife. She closed her eyes, letting the long-awaited news sink in. It seemed impossible—impossible to be able to feel that amount of insurmountable happiness.
"That's it," Fiona sighed, looking at the wet table and the cider-soaked ice-cream, "you're getting a cup with a lid next time. No excuses."