Chapter 10

Party

Belle has met with the enigmatic Miss Black who has been calling Rumple and discovered that the woman is his estranged and somewhat sinister mother. Later Rumple and Regina have been discussing their required attendance at an event hosted by Regina's mother. Rumple has agreed to go if he can take an attractive and smart date and both he and Regina have decided that Belle just might be able to pull off the role.

Getting Ready

What had she gotten herself into?

"We're going for lustrous mahogany here," the little blond hairdresser had told Regina. "It's not a fashionable color, but with the right touches it could make her a standout."

Belle had stepped onto a conveyor belt of a seemingly endless stream of exotic treatments, beginning with some hair treatment where they'd put some highlights into her dull hair and some hyper-expensive conditioning treatment, also to get the dull out.

Regina had stood by, directing the manicurist to give her a French Nail on her hands and her feet. She'd also gotten a brightening facial – nothing too extreme since she would be going out that very evening. In short order, Belle had been pumiced, waxed, buffed, glossed and primed. Belle had protested the waxing – who was going to be looking at her that closely, but Regina had insisted on the full-body treatment.

"You'll love how it makes you feel," she promised the younger woman.

And then Regina had called in her favorite makeup artist.

"I think a natural look?" Regina had suggested.

"But with some sophisticated touches – perhaps a little hint of golden cream on the eyelids, grapefruit on the cheeks and a raspberry lipstick. Black mascara – you've got great lashes, my dear."

"Thank you," Belle was not sure how else to respond.

"I'm having a selection of dresses brought in," Regina told her. "Rum has some very specific tastes and I will want to find something that I know he'll approve of."

And the dresses did come in. With her hair still wrapped in foil and terrycloth, Belle began trying on a series of garments and Regina would snap a picture and send it to Rumple. He'd send back a rating between one and ten. There were a couple of dresses that Belle didn't think she could possibly wear because of their revealing nature and no amount of cajoling from Regina, the hairdresser or makeup artist would change her mind. After more than an hour of dress-changing, Belle rebelled.

"Listen, if I'm supposed to be going as his date, I insist on some . . . on some autonomy. I'm not an actress. I have to go as myself and I need to pick my own clothes." When Regina rolled her eyes, Belle continued, "I understand that I have to go outside of my usual style. I need to look like someone Mr. Stiltskin would ask out, but I think if I can keep some part of myself, the whole thing would work better."

Regina considered, shushing the other women. "So, what do you have in mind?"

Belle looked through the garments and made her selection. She slipped it on and turned back to the other women.

"Well, what do you think?" she asked.

Regina stepped back and surveyed the total picture. She looked at the hairdresser and makeup artist who both nodded at her. She smiled. "I think we'll let Rum be surprised."

That Evening

Rumple had put on one of his best suits, a black Armani with a long coat. He'd chosen a snow-white shirt and black tie. He looked himself over. The clothes, at least, looked damn elegant. As for his own appearance, he scowled. He had a funny nose and an ordinary mouth. His eyes were a plain brown and his hair, well, he was starting to show some gray amid the flat brown strands. The suit helped – that was for sure. He wanted to get Miss French's opinion but . . . well, that wasn't possible.

He'd told Regina he'd pick up Miss French from her place and headed over. He wasn't looking forward to this affair. His breakup with Cora had not just been painful, but also humiliating.

Of course, most of his relationships with women were painful and humiliating, so why should that one have been any different?

He rode the elevator up to Regina's apartment. It was in a relatively modest building downtown – still a hefty six figures, but not like Cora's seven-figure penthouse. Regina was clever with money, certainly more clever than he was and she'd invested well – invested his money well. He didn't have to worry about having a nice place to live, or food on the table, or excellent clothes. He was grateful to her.

He also recognized that she owed him too. He was easily her most successful client and, through him, she had met many of her other clients.

They had what he liked to think was a symbiotic relationship – each benefitting the other.

And she really wanted him at this soiree her mother was throwing. There was money to be had, taken, just for showing up.

He rang the doorbell.

And, he thought, she recognized that he didn't want to go, that it was . . . awkward to say the least. So, she'd put some effort into a plan that would enable him to go and, just perhaps, make it a little uncomfortable for her mother. A win-win for her.

But he still wasn't sure how Miss French would work out, going as his date.

The door opened and Regina answered. She was dressed in a deep red dress with a black lace wrap. She'd put her hair up and put on a couple of layers of makeup. She looked good.

"You look good," he told her.

"So do you," she replied. "Come on in. I think Belle is ready. She's pretty nervous."

"Fuck, she's nervous. I'm terrified. You quit sending me pictures of dresses so I'm anxious as to what you've put her in. I don't know that we're going to be able to pull this off. We've at least got to appear that we like each other and I'm not sure we can . . ." he trailed off.

Belle had come into the room. She glanced at him and then looked down at the floor. She'd felt so confident when she had picked this dress, but now . . . maybe it wasn't nice enough, sophisticated enough, pretty enough.

"My god," she heard Mr. Stiltskin speaking reverently. "Miss French, you look . . . you look . . . lovely."

Belle looked up to meet his eyes. He seemed honest, genuine. "I thought you would like this dress."

"It's you," he agreed. "Simple, yet beautiful." And it was, a simple gold dress, lacking embellishment, but draping beautifully, showing off her pert figure, a hint of cleavage, but not too much skin. It was modest, but extraordinarily sexy. Sexy - without being trashy (a concept none of his previous dates had ever quite grasped).

Belle blushed, the appreciation in his eyes warming her. She'd done a good job in picking out this dress.

"So, tell me again. What is it you want me to do?" she asked him.

"You're arm candy," he told her bluntly. "You don't have to say anything, unless, of course, you want to – and then I'm expecting you to dazzle everyone." He smiled gently at her, "Just be yourself and . . . uh . . . hang on my every word and gaze at me with respect and admiration."

"So, I'm pretending to be your girlfriend?" she asked him.

"My hot, smart girlfriend," he explained.

She hesitated and then asked him, "Are we doing it?"

"Oh yes. Twice a night and three times on Sunday," he answered quickly.

Her eyes narrowed, "Are you going to get drunk?"

"Well . . ."

"I don't want to go with you if you're going to get drunk," she told him honestly.

"Well, I have a certain reputation," he began. "People would wonder if I turned down a drink."

"All right. You can have one," she reluctantly agreed. "If you're holding a drink, you won't be offered another one."

"One! Oh, Miss French. Five?" he began to deal brightly.

"One," she repeated herself.

"Four?"

"One," holding her ground

"Three?" he looked at her so pitifully that she relented.

"Two and that's final."

"Two it is," he told her.

"And you can't be a jerk," she told him.

"Can't promise you that," he answered her.

The Soiree

Cora's elegant party was an uncomfortable venue for both Rumple and Belle – for Rumple whose torrid relationship with Cora had ended in flaming humiliation and for Belle who felt she had nothing, absolutely nothing, in common with any of these people.

Everyone was dressed elegantly and drinking signature drinks and laughing and exchanging bon mots. They also seemed sophisticated and witty and Belle didn't feel that she would be able to hold her own with anyone else there. Initially she clung to Rumple, but slowly she found herself drawn into a discussion of French literature.

Rumple was bored. He was always bored at these affairs. He was even more bored now that Belle had left his side and was the center of some pompous pseudo-intellectual discussion about dead writers. He heard the names, Camus, Sartre, de Beauvoir and Jarry. He looked at his date. She was smiling and animated – there almost seemed a glow about the woman. Damn, but she was stunning. And she looked like she was holding her own with the little cadre of genuine intellectuals.

She so out-classed him. He knew it well. She should be with one of these people – not the sycophants or hangers-on but with some of the few genuinely talented, brilliant people Cora has coerced into coming. He also couldn't help but notice that other men were checking her out. He realized now that he was beginning to prefer her in her usual layers of full and free clothing, not in that figure-skimming dress. Other men shouldn't know how perfect her body was. They shouldn't be able to leer at the swell of her breasts or the curve of her behind.

It was some small comfort that the other men, and women too, assumed he was doing her – that she shared his bed, that she allowed him to touch her and taste her.

Standing with the group of literati, Belle had initially felt nervous but had then begun to relax when she found that she was familiar with the authors being discussed and ventured a stray comment. It was well received and soon enough she was drawn into the discussion.

But, somehow, she was still feeling very nervous.

Mr. Stiltskin had only convinced her to do this by promising to help pay for an assisted living placement for her father. Her dad, while he had good days, was on a generally downward trajectory. Belle had been able to work out the agreement with Leroy regarding the florist's shop. She'd been surprised when the irascible custodian had come to her with the idea of taking it over, but he had explained that he wanted a better paying opportunity so that he could marry his long-time girlfriend. Despite his rough exterior, the man had an unexpected aptitude for floral arranging and plant care. Financing had finally come through. Leroy had no problems with her dad continuing to work in the shop – there were days when Maurice was able to be focused and productive. The money for the shop and now Mr. Stiltskin's contribution should be enough to cover a quality, albeit modest, placement.

Oh, yes, she was feeling nervous again. This time, what was making her nervous was no longer her ability to keep pace with the smart people in the crowd – she was one of the smart people. No, it was her 'date.' She had glanced over at Mr. Stiltskin and she was becoming concerned. He was bored and when Mr. Stiltskin was bored he could become quite . . . the jerk. She was debating what to do when she heard a voice call her name.

Belle had turned to the voice and shrank back, "Keith. I . . . I had not expected to see you here."

"Well, that goes for me too. Didn't know you knew Cora."

"I don't. I'm here as a plus one." Belle felt Mr. Stiltskin's eyes on her. He was watching the scene, no longer bored.

"Well, honey, none of these stick-in-the-muds can be much fun. Why don't you ditch your date and sneak out with me?" Keith suggested.

"I wouldn't be comfortable doing that."

"What ? Why not? Who's your date?"

"The gentleman over there," Belle gestured at Mr. Stiltskin.

"What? You mean, the old crippled guy? He's got a lot of money, right? That's why you're with him." Keith looked over Rumple. "Oh sweetie, he can't be too impressive in the sack. Can he even get it up without medication?"

"It's none of your business, but I have no complaints," Belle told the man.

One date and he thought she owed him something. Creepy guy. Please, please, don't let Mr. Stiltskin come over here.

For the first time this evening, she desperately wanted to preserve the illusion that Mr. Stiltskin was her lover, hoping it would put Keith off. She was concerned that Mr. Stiltskin would say or do something to blow the whole charade. Social imperception and awkwardness – he might not read the situation correctly.

She glanced over and cringed. Oh no, he was definitely coming over.

"Miss French, why don't you introduce me to your . . . friend," he suggested as he stepped in next to her. And then he slipped his arm around her waist, his thumb resting just under her breast.

"This is Keith . . . uh . . ." Belle realized that she didn't know his name. She leaned back into Rumple, hoping he would figure out that his attentions were welcomed.

"Nottingham," Keith supplied. "Belle and me are old friends."

"Really?" Rumple said, glancing at his little maid, a bit puzzled. Old friends? And she didn't know his last name? This guy didn't seem her type at all. Of course, he'd only met two of her dates, including Jefferson. Maybe this yokel was her type. He would have thought she'd go for smart, clever men, not half-wit fuck-wits, but there was no accounting for a woman's taste in men.

And why was she leaning into him?

"We had a single date that was a set-up. Unfortunately, I became ill and had to leave early," she explained to Rumple. She turned her eyes to him and he thought that maybe, just maybe, he caught a glimpse of desperation in them. Her voice held off-key notes – not like the usual clear music he heard around the young woman.

She didn't like this guy.

He was pretty sure – yeah, pretty sure, she didn't like the guy.

Rumple smiled at the big fellow, "Became ill and had to leave early," he repeated Belle and then turned to Keith, "Your loss then. She's been with me a couple of months and she's felt fine the whole time." And he caught a barely perceptible nod from Miss French. Yeah, she wanted him to get rid of the lummox.

"Oh, come on," Keith hissed. "What is it? You paying her or something?"

"Mr. Nottingham," Rumple could feel Belle tensing up and felt a need to step in before the two came to blows. "Miss French and I have a relationship based on mutual respect and an appreciation of the finer things." He glanced at Belle who gave him another nod. In for a penny. "And really good sex, a lot of really good sex. Now excuse us, please. I believe we need to check in with our hostess." Reluctantly he released his firm grasp on the lively Miss French and stepped away.

"I'll just be a moment, darling," Belle told him and gave him her most brilliant smile.

He leaned in and whispered, "Let me know if you need any more help getting rid of this buffoon." He pulled back knowing it had looked as if he had just kissed her ear. He then stepped back into the crowd although Belle felt sure that he was still keeping an eye on her.

"Respect and appreciation," Belle repeated to Keith and she couldn't stop herself from adding, "those things and really, really great sex. Nothing like a man with a little experience." And she grinned at Keith and stepped away herself.

After the altercation, she realized she needed something to drink – yes, she'd be going over her self-imposed limit but felt she had earned it. She was trembling in her anger.

She settled by a side-wall and watched the larger group, forcing herself to calm down. Aside from a few exceptions, these people were all pretentious and self-absorbed. She watched as many of them fawned over Rumple wanting to be able to brag to their friends that they knew him and had talked to him. She watched him and knew he was becoming increasingly irritated. She also saw that their hostess, a stunning older red-headed woman, was approaching him. Belle quickly went over to his side – this was, after all, why he had wanted her to accompany him to this party.

Rumple was well on his fifth drink when he felt Belle come up against his side. He looked at her, a bit surprised, and then felt a cold chill descend on him. He heard soured guitar notes. He looked up and saw Cora.

"Well, darling," Cora leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

He pulled away from her and pulled Belle in close to him.

"Hey Cora. This is one of your nicer soirees," he said affably.

"Thank you," Cora glanced over at Belle. "Introduce me to your little friend."

"Oh, this is Miss French."

Cora reached for Belle's hand to shake it, closely scrutinizing the young woman. "So many of my guests have been talking about you, my dear. They are all wondering about you. You must tell me how you met Rumple, my dear."

Belle couldn't resist, "In my father's shop. Mr. Stiltskin was drunk."

Cora didn't immediately say anything, but finally smiled and nodded, "Of course, that does sound like our Rumple." She turned to Rumple, "She's not your usual type."

"No, she's not," he quickly agreed. "She goes to the library. She's registered to vote. She doesn't have a tattoo with her old boyfriend's name on her arse . . . or an outstanding warrant. Sooo different from the other women I've dated."

Cora narrowed her eyes, "I'm sure she's delightful. You paying her by the schtupp or for the entire evening?" And she stalked off before either one of them could answer.

Belle realized she was seeing red – perhaps some of his synesthesia was rubbing off onto her.

Rumple was smiling. He leaned in to Belle and whispered, "When I met Cora she still had the tattoo and there was an outstanding warrant for passing bad checks."

She leaned into Rumple and this time, she whispered in his ear. "Forget what I said about not being a . . . a jerk."

"You sure?" he asked her.

"Yes. I can hold your drink if you like," she told him.

He shook his head and finished off what he had in his hand. "I got this." And he smiled at her and took his sixth drink. He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and then joined a group and began to share as soon as he had an opening.

"Well, I've known Cora for a while, a looong while. When I first met her, she had ridden in from Buttfuck, Egypt. Never been anywhere, done anything. Kind of girl who had spent her prom night hanging out the window of her date's pickup truck, swinging a ball bat at people's mailboxes. Her idea of class entertainment was hanging out at the local Bilo playing bingo. No clue, let me tell you."

He had his audience.

"She thought that cooking wine was what you were supposed to drink while you were cooking." There was laughter and the audience increased. "She thought the place to buy Christmas presents was the local gas station – scratch-offs for everyone!" He had attracted Cora's attention by now.

Rumple continued, "When we were in New York City and I was taking her out to Cesar Ramirez's, I told her it was a three-star restaurant and she said, 'Oh, is that like a really nice Olive Garden?' She thought the stars were like movie ratings."

The audience had grown and the laughter was louder. Cora was now glaring at him from the sidelines. When he signaled for a fresh drink she shook her head at the waiter.

Cora sidled over to Belle. "Mr. Stiltskin has had enough, don't you think? Perhaps you should be getting him back home," she suggested.

Belle looked her over. She looked back at Rumple who had just dropped another bit of background about Cora on the crowd.

"I can do that," and she moved in on the man. "Darling, this has been so interesting but we do have that thing tomorrow morning."

He smiled at her. "Sure, I guess it is time." And he allowed himself to be led off by her. He seemed reasonably happy, almost smug. Her coming with him seemed to have accomplished what he'd wanted it to do.

"Now we can go. We can go now," he told her stringing his words together sing-songy. He let her lead him out of the place.

He leaned into her as they walked the five blocks back to his apartment.

"You're very beautiful, you know that," he muttered into her ear.

"You had more than two drinks," she replied.

"I did? I guess I lost count. But I've certainly been more drunk than this."

"Well," Belle confessed. "I had more than two drinks, too."

They were both stumbling as they got into the stairwell of his apartment and ended up leaning on each other to get up the stairs. Belle was focused enough to unlocked the door and got them both inside. She shut the door and turned and was stunned when he pushed her against the wall and stepped up close to her, encaging her with his body and his arms set on both sides of her. The room was dark and still. There was heat from their bodies and they remained still for a long moment.

"Can I kiss you?" he finally asked.

"No, I don't think that would be a good idea," she told him.

"Oh," he seemed very disappointed. "Is it because I'm drunk?" he asked.

"That's a big part of it. But you're also my employer. And I don't think it's a good idea for us to become . . . uh . . . familiar with each other."

"Yeah, you're probably right." He was still leaned up into her, his body pressed warmly against hers. His hand caressed the side of her face. "You're still very beautiful. And smart. I've never been with a smart woman before. I've known some smart women, but all of my women have been, well, not smart."

"Let's get you back to your bedroom, sir," Belle had returned to formality. She wasn't alarmed by his amorous actions but she thought it would be good to get him put down for the night. A good idea for both of them. If they had remained close much longer, she would have almost certainly kissed him.

"Oookaaaay," he complied and turned to go on to his own bed.

Before retiring, Belle went down to check on her father. She found him still, his breathing shallow and his skin clammy. She called 911 and he was taken right on to the hospital.

Nothing like a medical emergency to sober a person up quickly. Belle followed on to the hospital. From there she called Mr. Stiltskin to leave him a message letting him know what had happened and that she was at the hospital.

Her father had had another heart attack.

A.N. Thanks so much to Wondermorena, Grace5231973, arynwy, jewel415, Erik'sTrueAngel who left lovely reviews on the last chapter. -twyla

NEXT: Belle deals with her father's medical issues

Rumple makes an uncomfortable suggestion (and follows through with his end)