How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II

Chapter Four: Of Pearls and Lingerie

"Oh, now that's just utterly ridiculous," Flavio scoffed as he combed my wet hair later that morning whilst I sat in a loose nightshirt. "Of course you've felt the way that you did with Stefania with Jackia."

"For the last time, his name was Steve!"

"Of course it is," Flavio concurred with the vaguest hint of patronisation. "And Vicomte Jackia du Moineau née Frou-Frou's real name is 'Jack.'"

I was immediately pulled out of my spiral of depression at this.

"Vicomte Jackia du Frou-Frou?" I questioned, and Flavio nodded vigorously.

"Oui, Mademoiselle la Comtesse. Or should it be Madame?"

"Flavio…?"

"Oui?"

"…Where's your Italian accent gone?"

"Italienne?" he said, deliberating drawing out the last syllable.

"Sì."

"Madame Demoiselle, I have never had an Italienne accent."

"Well I preferred it to the French one you're now using; it sounds utterly ridiculous. Get rid of it."

"Non."

"Oui."

"Non!"

"Oui."

"Nein."

"Ja—Flavio! As your mistress, I command you!"

"Fine," he huffed, clearly deflated, and returned to detangling my hair. I closed my eyes and smiled softly, leaning back into his skilled hands. I quite enjoyed being petted like this.

"But if I may wonder," Flavio began, his voice low and sly, and I felt his fingers brushing against my neck as he spoke, "if I may wonder, Mademoiselle la Comtesse, if indeed you've never felt anything towards le Vicomte du Moineau—"

"Vicomte? No, Flavio, Capitaine; surely Capitaine."

"Hmm, how odd, that's exactly what the Vicomte said; now as I was saying, if I were you, and Frou-Frou meant nothing to me, then why would I think of him when I was thinking of another man who I had graced with my love? Indeed, perhaps the only man I had graced with my love, if I did not also grace le vicomte with undying adulation?"

I was silent, studying my face in the mirror, and out of the corner of my eye, saw Flavio lean closer to whisper in my ear, "If I was thinking of love, first love, true love, and lust, and passion, and fire and burning and yearning and longing and desire, then why would a man who I did not care for suddenly appear uninvited in my thoughts?"

I couldn't find the words that I needed to say what I wanted to say: instead I watched him; watched as one of his golden curls brushed my shoulder as he stooped lower still to whisper, "If I may be so bold, Mademoiselle? I believe that you have fallen for the Vicomte du Frou-Frou, but that, somehow, somewhere, some small part of you feels guilt over this, because I believe that you believe that you should love no other but this Stevanikova fellow, and so your confused mind is thus conjuring up thoughts and whispers to make you doubt your love for la Vicomtesse."

"You think that I'm falling in love—have fallen in love—will fall in love—with Jack, and I'm feeling guilty over this because I've been subconsciously thinking all this time that I should be in love with Steve and no other, which is—Which would explain quite a lot actually, because—because—Oh, Flavio!" And I turned, thankful, to throw my arms about his shoulders, kissing his neck and cheek.

"Oh, Flavio, that explains it!" I cried, triumphant, and pulled away to look up at him, at his wide, confused, sparkling eyes.

"Explains what?"

"Why, the nightmare, of course! Did I not tell you of the nightmare?"

"No…" he pouted, crossing his arms and turning away in a sulk. I smiled at this, tugged gently at his hand, and invited him to sit at my feet so that I might weave my fingers through his own hair. He consented, his head resting happily in my lap, and I had then proceeded to relate to him the entire nightmare, sparing no possible detail.

"Oh, that's so horrible!" he cried, burying his face into my thin shift. "Poor birdie, poor birdie, poor birdie birdie bird bird!"

"I know; I thought I would die, it was so disgusting. But don't you see? It doesn't mean anything at all; the dream doesn't mean anything; all it means is that I resent Jack on some level because he's pulling me away from Steve, who I really should have… Well, I should have accepted by now that our relationship is well and truly over, and I will never see him again, and should have… moved on, shouldn't I? And now that I've met Jack—"

Jack Sparrow, who is decidedly not here, that cruel voice murmured in my ear again. Jack Sparrow, the pirate, the criminal, the womaniser and freebooter; Jack Sparrow, free as the bird for which he is named…

You couldn't have a healthy, lasting relationship with him either, could you? And now he's gone forever and you'll never ever see him again…

Mind you, Stephen Verne wasn't that much better: Exactly how many times did he cancel a date for a court summons?

"Oh, Flavio, I'm an idiot," I said to him softly, my fingers brushing his silky hair. "I'm an idiot with terrible taste in men."

Flavio made a grunt of protest, told me firmly that I was not an idiot, and succeeded in making me smile.

"Flavio," I said suddenly, "Flavio, do I have money?"

"Pardon?"

"Do I, as Nicolette, have money that I can access; do I have money that I can take with me right now?"

"Why do you ask?"

I smiled gently down at him as Flavio blinked in confusion, and leant down to whisper,

"How would you like to go shopping with me? I'll buy you something pretty."

Flavio's face lit up, and he nodded enthusiastically; I couldn't help but laugh at this. With some slight prodding, he straightened, and suddenly transformed into a bustling little maidservant who fussed over my hair and went around searching for the most beautiful gown he could find in the governor's wife's collection of rejects, whilst I sat watching him 'work' with a sad smile on face.

Jack had left me. I had long since resigned myself to the fate, but it was only because I could console myself with Pearl's sweet, bouncy presence: but that sweet solace had been cruelly taken from me, and there was absolutely no way I, or indeed anyone, could bring her back.

There was absolutely no way to bring her back.

Flavio was sweet, he really, truly was; and he was rather childish in nature… But I loved Pearl. I loved her with such an overwhelming intensity that it was really rather frightening: the mere mention of her name deepened the crack in my heart, even as that elusive organ swelled with affectionate tenderness. This was called grief, I knew: and it was pain, this grief which ran through me like a knife, this anguish that caused my very bones to splinter as I crumbled from within.

I was certain I would have been far stronger, though, if I had Jack with me: I found my heart lightening as I wondered where he was now, and what he was doing, and was he safe? Oh God, was he safe? I would die if I lost him as well as Pearl. I was barely alive now, drifting like a ghost through Nicolette's shallow, empty life.

But in a sense, I had already lost him. He didn't want me: I was simply a waste of his time.

Jack Sparrow had abandoned me, and left me with one of his crew's rejects. And there was such a high chance of us being discovered; our masks were thin and flimsy, having been fashioned from a substance as fragile as crêpe paper.

And I'm never going to see Steve again, either, I thought wistfully to myself, before shaking my head and standing.

Shopping would make me forget.

"I was just thinking," Steve was saying conversationally, leaning over the table and absently tracing a circle on the back of her hand. "I was just thinking, of how we met, do you remember?"

She smiled softly at him, and gently pulled her hand away, wrapping her fingers tightly around her slender glass of water. After running into him at the Intrepid Fox, Sierra had somewhat reluctantly relinquished her phone number; two weeks had passed, and then, just when she had convinced herself that the man was only asking for her number out of polite habit, she had received a call, during which that same man had apologised profusely for not calling sooner, asked her if she was inclined to grace his lunch break with her presence three days later, and bluntly queried as to what she was wearing. (He was disappointed to discover that it was nothing more remarkable than a pair of faded jeans and an oversized shirt that had belonged to an ex of hers, but swallowed this fact with dignity, perking up when she promised that from now on she would make certain to always be wearing lingerie before she accepted any of his calls.)

Steve, Sierra had soon discovered, had done remarkably well for himself; he was a sports lawyer, and his firm represented some rather distinguished clientele.

"I'm really happy for you," she said to him sincerely. "You worked hard, you deserve it, and I am free on Thursday; where should we meet?"

That hour-long exchange had occurred three days ago, and now, here they sat, and Steve had suddenly brought up their first meeting, and Sierra was feeling oddly uncomfortable, yet somehow relaxed, and very, very guilty.

"What about it?" she asked of him, taking a sip of the cool water.

He smiled at her, his brown eyes sparkling.

"You stole from me," he smirked.

"You did it first! Twice!" she defended, feeling and sounding as though she was fourteen all over again.

"Thief."

"You taunted me into going through your pockets: you knew I was going to do it."

"Of course I did; you would've done anything to get your precious little purse back."

"Not anything."

"You would have kissed me."

"No, I wouldn't, not then: I had morals then."

"Thank God we've worked those out of your system," he quipped, and she smiled. The man was obviously pleased with this reaction, and raised his glass.

"To amorality."

"Indeed," she laughed. Their glasses clinked, and Sierra hurriedly averted her eyes as they drank; the way his own orbs were trained on hers made her uncomfortable, considering how she did, after all, still love Jack. To be perfectly honest, sitting here, in this classy little restaurant, with Steve, made her feel as though she was betraying the pirate. Even though Steve had agreed that their romance was of the past, and now the two were just friends, it still felt… wrong.

"I actually have something for you," he told her, and she blinked.

"What?"

"Here," and he reached into his inner pocket to pull out a slender black box, tossing it carelessly onto the table. She was insatiably curious, and at the same time, rather frightened.

"That's… That's a… jewellery… box."

"I know. Consider it an early Christmas gift."

She was silent, her eyes huge as she stared.

"Well?" he asked, tapping his long fingers impatiently. "Aren't you going to open it?"

Hesitantly, her hand reached out to take the box, eyes roving over the word Mikimoto.

"You got me pearls."

"Of course," he smiled indulgently. "Open it."

She did as she was told, and breathed in deeply.

"Oh, Steve!" she gasped as her eyes fell on the set. "Steve, this is just…"

"Do you like it?"

"Oh God, Steve… They're beautiful," she breathed, her fingers hovering over the necklace and twin earrings.

"Try them on."

"No," she said, gently pushing the lid back down. "No, I can't."

"Why not?" he asked, and she snapped her head up to glare at him.

"I thought we were going to be friends."

"We are."

"Just friends."

"Why, are we more than that?"

Her jaw tightened, and she slid the box back across the table.

"Friends don't give friends Mikimoto pearls."

"Generous ones with more money than they can burn do," he told her firmly, pushing the gift back to her. "Take it, it's yours."

"No."

"Sierra, don't be stubborn."

"I can't accept them," she said to him, fighting down the lump in her throat. Pearls. Out of all of the jewels he could have given her, he had to buy her pearls.

She supposed she should be grateful that they weren't black; ironic barely described the current situation as it is.

"Take them back," she said to him. "Look, I know that it cost you a fortune, but… I don't deserve such generosity."

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Oh, Sierra… You think that…" And he began to chuckle.

"What? I fail to see what could be so amusing."

"I didn't originally buy these for you."

"… I'm sorry?"

"These pearls," he explained, tapping the box with his index finger. "Originally, they weren't meant for you: I'd bought them for my fiancée. I was going to give them to her as a wedding present, but then we called the wedding off."

"…Oh."

"Indeed," he said, drumming his fingers on the closed lid. "I've had these pearls sitting in my sock drawer for the better part of eight months, and am desperately trying to be rid of them. So do you want them, or not?"

"I…" she began, but in truth, the woman had no idea what she was saying. Alright, so the man hadn't bought these pearls just for her: The jewellery was less personal now, less meaningful. But they were still pearls; they were still Jack's jewel of choice.

Steve sighed, and placed the box back into his pocket.

"Tell you what," he said to her, "I'll hang onto them for a little while longer until you can decide, alright? If you want them, just tell me and I'll give them to you."

She smiled, but the smile seemed false.

"Thanks, Steve."

"It's no problem," he assured her, patting his jacket.

"So… Your fiancée, huh?" she said conversationally, settling her glass down and leaning forwards. She pretended not to notice how his eyes darted down to her chest. "What happened? What was she like?"

Steve hesitated.

"She was tall… ish," he amended. "Taller than average. Blonde—ish; she had light brown hair and highlights—that's practically blonde, isn't it? Quite attractive, well, I thought she was; brown eyes and a really beautiful smile. Her name was Nicole."

"Was she nice? I mean, obviously—"

"Oh, she was—fantastic sense of humour." He smiled gently at Sierra, and she couldn't easily discern whether the expression was false or not. "Really liked kids—couldn't wait to have her own."

"She sounds wonderful," Sierra said with a saccharine smile. "How did it all go wrong?"

"Oh, I found out she was cheating on me," he dismissed.

"…Oh."

"With my girlfriend."

There was a pause at this.

"You found out she was cheating on you with your girlfriend?"

"Yep."

"Steve…"

"What?" he asked, looking bewildered.

"That's slightly hypocritical, isn't it?"

Steve narrowed his eyes at her.

"I wasn't going out with her at the time!"

"No?"

"No! I didn't have a girlfriend whilst I was engaged." And he glared at her. "Honestly, what sort of callous, philandering prick do you take me for?"

Sierra immediately backed off.

"You're right; you're right, I'm sorry, I should have known…"

"No girlfriend whilst I was engaged," he stressed.

"I'm sorry—"

"I had a boyfriend back then."

"…Well that makes it all better, then."

"You say that as though you think Nicole didn't know about Mark," he told her childishly.

"Did she?"

"Well, no, but—That's not the point," he clumsily evaded, and she grinned slightly.

"…So… you have a girlfriend now?"

"Yeah, Sonja. German girl."

"Blonde?"

"Bottle brunette, natural redhead. She has a nice accent—one of those Munich ones, you know?"

"Oh, I love those accents—people always give me odd looks when I tell them I love German accents. You have to introduce me to her sometime… But Steve, really, if you have a girlfriend—why didn't you give those pearls to her then?" she blustered carelessly, and Steve's lips twisted into a sneer.

"I'm only going out with her to get back at Nicole. To be honest, I don't like her that much."

"Hell hath no fury like a penis scorned," she nodded sagely. "I should know that by now."

Steve seemed very interested by this.

"Boyfriend problems?" he asked, a little too eagerly.

"How can there be? I've no boyfriend."

"Oh, what a pity," he sympathised, and she bit back a smile, studying her napkin intently.

"Steve?" she began, and he tilted his head to indicate his attention.

"What time do you have to be back at work? We've been sitting here for ten minutes and haven't ordered anything."

"I don't," he told her. "I've taken the afternoon off."

"For me?" she blurted out with her usual tactlessness.

"Of course for you," he grinned. "I was thinking of rectifying what appears to be a lingerie deficiency on your part."

"Wha—I don't have a lingerie deficiency."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"Steve… Do you honestly think that's entirely appropriate? I mean, we are—"

"Just friends?" he finished for her with that frustrating smile of his. "We are—But surely friends can help friends pick out lingerie in the afternoons?"

She narrowed her eyes and attempted to appear offended.

"If you wish to help me pick something out, it could be a gift for a delightful four-year-old I'm visiting this Christmas."

"Not seeing family this year?"

"No—well, sort of. My adopted family, as it were, but never mind that—So tell me, if you were a four-year-old boy, what would you want for Christmas more than anything in the world?"

Steve furrowed his brow, pursing his lips.

"…A puppy?" he tried.

"He does want a pet," she conceded. "But I'm not sure Janelle would agree with puppies. Goldfish, perhaps."

"Janelle? Is that his—"

"No! No, Johnnie isn't Janelle's child," she said, before adding sadly, "Johnnie's mother was incapable of looking after him… financially, when he was born… But Janelle is as good as a mother to him, and she's a fantastic mother, really, she is… So I don't suppose that really matters."

"And the father?"

"Dead," she said softly.

"No wonder you're so fond of him," Steve said to her sympathetically. Sierra remained quiet, her eyes full of pity for the boy, and he decided to move on to a lighter topic:

"So, lingerie?" he said to her with an impish grin. "Any deviant tastes I should know of?"

She smiled coyly up at him from under her lashes.

"Well…" she began, and stopped, her smile swiftly morphing into a smirk.

"Define 'deviant.'"

-x!x-

AN: So sorry there's no Jack, and won't be for a very long time. There's not actually a lot going on with Nicolette at the moment, which was why I thought now would be a good place for the alternate plotlines… Last chapter, most people had left reviews saying that they quite liked Steve: I'm now asking why you do, and what do you think of his relationship with Sierra? I'm insatiably curious, as you can see.