Tête–à–Tête

A/N: Trigger Warning: Charles and Alice shower scene…..nothing M-rated but it may be disturbing nonetheless. This chapter is dialogue heavy.

Charles Carson awakes with a smile of sated bliss tugging at his lips. Remembering the night before, he turns and reaches across to find her place on the bed next to him empty but still warm. Her scent still on the sheets. She has not been gone long and he hears her in the bathroom, the shower on. Today is the day that he will ask her again; he's had enough of waiting. She's put him off before and he's ready now, ready for the church or the registry office, whichever she prefers, it doesn't matter to him. As long as she is Mrs. Charles Carson, has his ring on her finger, and their names are signed together. Charles throws the covers back and slides off the bed, his feet planted solidly on the floor. He stretches out, rubs his shoulder, the one that reminds him that he is getting no younger, that he wants children while he can still run after them. At forty-one the desire for little ones running about is strong; visions of a son that he can teach to play sport or a daughter that he can read to or who begs him to play tea party fill his mind more and more often these days.

"You know, sweetheart, I think that we should consider setting a date," Charles rumbles in Alice's ear, as he slides into the shower behind her. His breath tickles her neck; his hand on her hip pulls her closer into his embrace. The smooth skin of her back against his chest exhilarates him and his hand moves from her hip up her waist to rest just under her breast. He sighs in pleasure as the warm water pulse down around them. He moves her damp hair aside, kisses her neck tenderly. "I've some time off in a couple of weeks."

"Charlie, I don't know why you are in a hurry," Alice replies, slightly shifting, turning to face him, wrapping her arms around him.

"Don't you want to be married?" Charles asks, his eyes searching hers. He cannot understand why she continues to put their marriage off.

"I thought that we agreed to wait," she says more than asks. It sounds like a command to Charles; Alice takes this tone from time to time, when she tries to control a situation. He hears it in her interviews when she is turning someone in the direction that she wants them to go. She learned it from her mother; a woman who controlled Alice's father, tried to control Alice before she packed her bags and left their dingy flat as soon as she was old enough.

"We agreed to wait until your career was established," Charles reminds her, drops a kiss to her shoulder. He sighs "And your career is established now. You've said that we don't have the time but that isn't it, is it?"

"Oh, Charlie. Why do you need a piece of paper?" Alice protests as she pushes his hair back from his forehead.

"Because I do," Charles insists.

Alice wiggles free from Charles embrace, opens the door, and leaves the shower. Even if he is put out with her he still cannot help but admire her form as she reaches for a towel that hangs on a hook nearby. He watches as she wraps the towel around her, wraps another around her hair.

"Aren't you tired of going back and forth between two places?" he asks her as he lathers the soap across his arms and chest, down his stomach and legs. "Wouldn't it be nice to have our own place and little ones running about?" What he cannot see, is the expression on Alice face as she closes her eyes, breathes deeply. The shake of her head, the hard set of her jaw. She's told him that a marriage certificate is not necessary for her; that the example of her parent's unhappy marriage is evidence enough of that. Why jinx happiness with something unnecessary? It's just a piece of paper. How many times had her father wished that he could have left but his church told him that he could not because they were 'married'? If it sours, Alice wants to be able to leave. She's not told Charles this. She hasn't told Charles many things. One thing that she has not told him is that she does not intend to have children, his or any other man's. That she does not want to be a mother and certainly not the kind that her mother is to her.

"Charlie let's not argue about this right now," she says as she heads into the bedroom. "We have to get ready for work and I don't want to start the day off with an argument."

"We've been invited to a party at The Frolicking Fox," Charles calls from the bathroom as he turns off the taps and reaches for a towel. He dries himself, wraps the towel around his waist.

"The what?" Alice asks.

"Ms. Hughes invited us. Her friends own the pub and they are throwing a party to celebrate the success of her book. I'd like to go," answers as he retrieves his clothes from the chair that they are resting across, the chair that they were haphazardly thrown over the night before.

"I really don't care to," Alice says in that tone that brooks no room for argument. Charles asks why not as he slips into his trousers. "I don't relish spending my Friday night at a pub. I told you that we are above that." Charles shoots her withering look as he shrugs into his shirt, buttons it up. Alice is too smug for her own good sometimes, he thinks. Oh, he appreciates the finery, the care she takes to dress well, look nice. But he sometimes wishes that she were easier, that they could sit and talk, lose track of time. Wishes that she laughed as she used to, flirted with him more, and enjoyed hearing the stories of his playing days, wanted to leave the city, travel to the country to visit his mother. He reaches for his tie, aggressively ties crosses it, slips the knots, draws it down. He finds his socks and shoes, slips into them. He is angry and Alice knows it but she resolved to herself that once she rose above her birth she'd not look back, not look back at the common life. It is high class for her all the way.

"I hope that I never forget where I came from," Charles barks as he brushes past her. "It cannot always be high society, Alice. If you change your mind….about anything….you know where I'll be."

xxxxxx

"She set you up on a date with her boyfriend?" Beryl Mason cries in disbelief adjusting the telephone against her ear, as she smooths icing onto the base of a cake. A few days have passed since Elsie's interview with Alice Neal and her luncheon date with Charles and Beryl cannot believe that this is the first that she is hearing of it. And over the telephone no less. Beryl likes Joe, thinks that Joe would have made a good husband for Elsie but that decision has been made and it is time to move on. When Elsie tells her of this luncheon date with the former cricketer, she cannot contain her glee.

"Firstly, it was not a date," Elsie admonishes her; each word given its own attention; her brogue thickens as is wont when she is upset or pushed. "Secondly, don't you think at our ages people are a little old to be called 'boyfriend' or 'girlfriend'?" Elsie shuffles several yellow legal pads around looking for a specific one; she has written some notes for the new novel, jotted down some ideas and wants to add some new ones. Wants to add Charles mother's name to the list of women with whom she would like to speak. When she finds it, she scrawls down a few notes and adds Adeline Carson's name to the list that has her own mother's name at the top.

"Well, gentleman friend then," Beryl concedes before adding, "and what was he like?"

"He was very nice and that is all there was to it," Elsie replies firmly, shifting the telephone from one ear to the other as she swivels round looking to the pile of books and papers stacked on the floor beside her. She picks up several pieces of paper, places them atop her desk, and begins organizing them into a file. Every other room of her flat is well sorted, neat, and tidy except for this room, which is generally off limits to everyone except for her assistant Phyllis Baxter who vainly attempts to tidy it, to set everything straight into neat stacks and into the filing cabinets that Elsie purchased a year ago. Even with Baxter's efficiency, Elsie is unable to work in anything except ordered chaos. Mountains of yellow legal pads with doodles and notes sit stacked around her desk, books line the bookshelf, and folders full of old notes, newspaper clippings and copies from the archives fill the filing cabinets.

"But was he interested?"

"Interested in what?" Elsie asked, irritation lacing her words. She knows very well what Beryl is asking but refuses to give her any information until she absolutely has to.

"In you!" Elsie can almost feel the telephone receiver vibrate against her ear, with Beryl's enthusiasm.

"Honestly Beryl!" Elsie exclaims. "The man is taken."

"But he's not married," Beryl insists, standing back from the cake that she is decorating, pleased with her handiwork. If only persuading her friend to find herself a gentleman friend were as easy as decorating a cake.

TBC… Next chapter: The party. Do Charles and Alice show up? Hmm. Thank you for reading. Reviews are always appreciated.