IV : The Dinner
A/N: I dunno if this came out how it sounded in my head.
As always, rights go to their rightful owners.
"Review?" The author smiles somewhat creepily at you, revealing several rows of pointy teeth. You are sufficiently disturbed.
"When they've got you where they want you, will you give it to them?" - Leisure Cruise (Double Digit Love)
Our poor chocolatier was at a loss as to why he was sat in the back seat of a black Bentley navigating through the city traffic at seven thirty-eight the following Friday. You see, he vaguely remembered having some sort of conversation with the Buckets about a dinner and had a dim recollection of dressing in his nicest clothes, but overall he really had no memory of the past few hours. That tended to happen whenever he became overly anxious.
He did, however, have a very vivid memory of Charlie's pleading eyes coupled with the phrase "Please come with me." Darned children and their pleading eyes.
Pleading eyes and foggy memories aside, there was no escaping the fact he and Charlie were fast -or slow, really, as the traffic was deplorable - approaching a dinner with one Francis Montgomery.
At seven forty-four the Bentley drew up in front of 7th Avenue's largest - and most expensive - apartment building. They got out of the car and walked into the sizable, lavishly furnished foyer where they waited for Francis to buzz them in.
The elevator took them all the way to the top floor, which was forty-seven stories up and required a key code just to push the button, and let them out into another foyer filled with plants and a full length mirror. On the dark wooden door was a brushed silver knocker. Charlie reached up and tapped it against the door.
The door opened almost immediately, as though the butler who had opened it had been watching them and anticipated the knock. He nodded curtly to them and after taking their coats gestured for them to follow him. They were led through the entryway and to the spacious parlour, where Miss Montgomery was sat in a muted green armchair across from a vast wall of floor-to-ceiling glass windows, smoking a cigarette with her back to them. Through the glass one could see all the way to the harbour.
"You'll ruin your palette, smoking like that," said Willy Wonka almost immediately.
"Good evening to you, too," replied Francis in a tone that suggested she was less disgruntled than her words indicated.
Charlie had always known his strange confectioner friend was well off, but when she had said "flat" he hadn't exactly thought of the penthouse of a forty-seven story apartment building with a butler, of all things. The "flat" was furnished with a lot of black and white balanced with washed-out colours, pale creams, and rich greys. The style was quite modern, but in an antique way which reflected the personality of its inhabitant well.
Francis rose from her armchair. She was dressed in a champagne crushed velvet dress and glittering heels which made her quite as tall as Wonka (which was still not exceptionally tall, but to an eleven-year-old boy pretty much everyone is tall). Charlie, meanwhile, was making himself quite dizzy trying to see the whole apartment at once.
"Here, let me show you about before you make yourself sick," Francis said after Charlie had spun about at least four times, and they walked to the right into a vast kitchen filled with expensive-looking appliances and racks of spices galore. Charlie had been up to his mentor's living quarters once and he was sure that this kitchen rivaled even Wonka's.
The kitchen led into the dining room. The space was perfectly circular, and the shiny tiled ceiling went up at least ten feet, in order to accomadate a massive chandelier. In the centre of the room there was an industrial dining table set with delicate white china and shiny silverware. On the walls hung frosted mirrors and scientific drawings of plants Charlie wasn't quite sure he had ever seen.
Francis stood at the head of the table behind her chair. "Sit wherever you like," she instructed, and sat down herself. Charlie seated himself to Francis's left and Mr. Wonka sat on the other side of Charlie (as far away from Francis as he could get without looking impolite).
"Would you like anything to drink?" asked Francis politely. "I have ginger ale and sarsaparilla and cream soda and orange cream soda and root beer and, of course, a whole cellar of wine and champagne and liquor et cetera." She smiled in Willy's general direction.
"I'll have ginger ale, please," said Charlie politely.
"Just water." Willy's voice was at least one octave higher than it usually was, which made it very high indeed.
Almost instantaneously, the butler appeared with their requested beverages. But then he left, and left behind an awkward silence.
"So," began Francis at last. "How's school going?"
Charlie frowned. "Well, now that I'm...well, now that I'm inheriting the factory, the um...press..." Poor Charlie, being a very good kid, was uncomfortable with his fame. Luckily Francis was understanding.
"I always thought it would be nice to be homeschooled," she said. "You can do your work whenever you like. Is it more work than regular school?"
"Well, it is nice having free time, but sometimes when I get stuck I wish I had someone to explain it," here he paused, glanced to his left, and hurriedly added, "in a...simpler...way."
Willy huffed. "It's not my fault schools don't teach proper geography and insist on 'Common Core'. I have never seen a more ridiculous way to add in all my life!"
"No, that would be the government's fault, always sticking their fingers in where they have no business," said Francis, who was slightly surprised because in all the time she had spent in the presence of Willy Wonka he had never said more than two words. "You're welcome to come by whenever you like, you know. Like before."
"Thanks," said Charlie.
The butler reappeared with their food, which was no less extravagant than anything else Francis did. Charlie didn't even know what half of it was - or why there were such large plates for such small amounts - but it tasted delicious, and that was what mattered, right?
After Charlie recounted the Tour, he requested to know what business Francis had in Switzerland. He felt he deserved to know, although he didn't know quite why. Why did Francis, who presumably frosted cakes for a living, apparently have so much money?!
"Well, the evening before, I received a phone call … it seemed some friends of mine got themselves into a predicament". Francis's pleasant smile twitched, as though the memory was unpleasant.
A/N: I dunno if any of you know about the "then who's flying the plane?" meme, but who is driving the car? Not Wonka, not Charlie, and not an Oompa Loompa, so…
Tune in next week for the next episode of psych! Francis isn't who you think she was! Willy you gotta get out while the gettin's good!