XII : Unconventional
Disclaimer: I don't own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory or Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator.
A/N: The first names of Mr. and Mrs. Bucket were never, to my knowledge, mentioned. I'm going to call them Clara and Clarence.
"We all know when people are lying to us, we just don't want to listen." - Jonas Maliki (sense8)
Charlie stood on tiptoe so as to be able to see out of one of the high factory windows. It was snowing again, and nearly dark. The street outside the factory gates was quite nearly empty except for a set of headlights in the near distance. 'Surely, thought Charlie, that must be Francis!' He ran out to the side door where they were to meet.
The sleek black Porsche pulled to a stop at the curb, and the driver hastened to open the door for Francis. She had curled her hair for the occasion so that it was half its usual length, and in one hand she carried a white cake box. Charlie greeted her and beckoned her inside the factory.
Charlie swung the door open for her - which with it being a very spy-proof door and therefore fearfully heavy, was no small feat - and Francis stepped inside and removed her overcoat. She wore a long cream evening gown and she bowed before the Buckets and presented them with the cake box and a beaming smile, which left them somewhat speechless.
"Consider it an early Christmas present," she said. "I also brought a bottle of '98 Cabernet Sauvignon. I would recommend decanting it."
Mrs. Bucket was the first to rediscover the power of speech. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Montgomery. I'm Clara, and this is my husband, Clarence; his parents Joe and Josephine; and my parents, George and Georgina. Thank you ever so much for the gifts. Did you make the cake?"
"Of course I did!" replied Francis. "Have a look if you like."
Charlie wasted no time in opening the white box. The cake was truly a work of art, square with pale pink frosting and lovely fondant roses that at first glance looked real. There were even little "water" drops on some of the petals made of clear sugar glaze.
The Buckets smiled and made appropriate appreciative noises.
"Alright then," Francis exclaimed, clapping her hands briskly. "Shall we be going? The only thing worse than being early is being late!"
"Don't forget your coat; it's rather cold this evening," Mrs. Bucket reminded Charlie. "Have fun dear."
Francis smiled around the room. "I'll try to have him back before one. Sometimes these things tend to run late." She laughed and opened the door to go out.
"Charlies likes me better," said Wonka, rather childishly. He had been loitering inconspicuously by the door waiting for a chance to insult the woman who saw fit to usurp his position as Charlie's Favourite Person.
Francis only arched one perfect eyebrow and swept out the door. Subtilty was key in these matters.
Willy Wonka had been to space. He had been to Space Hotel U.S.A., in fact. Truthfully, it was a slight accident. He hadn't realized quite how far up he was until he was already in orbit. But it was all good and fine.
Of course, then he had met the Vermicious Knids, who, like all good aliens, were hellbent on killing him. It was certainly tremendously lucky he had had the foresight to make his Great Glass Elevator Vermicious Knid-proof, as well as bombproof, bulletproof, weatherproof, shatterproof, heatproof, airtight, watertight, and non-conductive. Heck, it even had it's own centre of gravity!
Perhaps if he possessed even better foresight he would have stayed at Space Hotel U.S.A, because he would have happily taken any number of Vermicious Knids over the people at the Annual Culinary Convention.
There certainly was no shortage of press at the convention. They lined up at the edge of the long plush carpet which led into the Grand Hyatt Hotel. Glossy black limousines dropped off scores of millionaires and chefs and chocolatiers and owners of vast corporations.
Flashbulbs popped when they got out of the car. Reporters jostled for position, sticking microphones out and asking after names and occupations and goodness, where did you get that dress? Charlie hadn't thought there would be this much of a to-do!
In the lobby young boys in tuxedos took their hats and coats and gloves. Two of them opened the ornate double doors.
"Presenting Madame Francis Montgomery and Messier Charlie Bucket!" announced a deep Italian voice.
There was a round of applause and they entered into a large ballroom. There was a long table down the centre of the room, filled with ostentatiously dressed ladies and gentlemen (mostly gentlemen actually), who turned as one to appraise their newest guests. There were only two empty seats: the head seat and one seat to right. Charlie searched the two long rows of faces until he found his mentor glowering into a glass of something electric blue and fizzy. To his left was a portly blond man talking a mile a minute.
There was a sheaf of papers with a black wax seal stamped on it, written in neat calligraphy, at Francis's place. A tuxedo-clad waiter appeared out of nowhere land pulled out their chairs.
"Anything to drink?" asked the waiter.
"Champagne, please," replied Francis.
"Er, just water," said Charlie, rather flustered, when the waiter turned to him. He was not used to this fancy world that Francis suddenly seemed to fit into.
"Alright," said Francis after a few minutes had elapsed. She stood up.
Almost immediately the whole room fell silent.
"Welcome," said Francis, "to the Annual Culinary Convention. I trust you all had a … prosperous … year." She looked down at the first sheet on the stack before her. "I think I shall present awards after the eighth course, if all deem it agreeable?" A round of applause seemed to agree.
"Right then, shall we commence dinner? Let's see, the first course of …" she paused to shuffle the papers. "... Moulard Duck foie gras with a celery root and French leek radicchio salad, by Sir Scott Edward Malcolm of the restaurant Times New Roman in central Berlin." Apparently Sir Scott Edward Malcolm was the corpulent individual in a striped suit at the opposite end of the table, because everyone turned to him and clapped. Someone really needed to tell him horizontal stripes didn't work on everyone.
The dinner continued on in this fashion, and Charlie found quite a lot of the time he hadn't the slightest idea what he was eating.
After the eighth course, which consisted of a small fish with its head still on topped with funny little frilly purple things which tasted better than they looked, all the waiters came out and took away all the silverware and china, and all the guests turned their chairs to the left side of the room, where there was a small podium and two tables' worth of gleaming trophies.
It was time for the awards.
A/N: Ok so when I wrote about Sir Scott Edward Malcolm being a "corpulent individual" I was thinking about the expression "Great Scott!" haha get it
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