It's even more difficult than usual to make my fake smile seem relaxed as I step inside the restaurant with Peeta two steps behind me. I'm dolled up in a dress that's very uncomfortable and far too revealing, with padding that pushes up my breasts and cleavage that reveals as much of them as possible. Adding to that the damn thing is such a slim fit I can only take small steps, not comfortable strides, which makes me a bit wobbly in my ridiculous heels. Adding to the discomfort is the hairdo my stylist arranged, which pulls my hair back so tight it's giving me a headache. Even under the best of circumstances this getup wouldn't be comfortable but during these Games the last thing I feel like doing is strutting around like some mannequin.
Peeta, far more comfortably dressed even though his shirt is starched to the point of preposterousness, stands right behind me with his palm against my bare back. We look around the room for a moment in search of the maître-d who will show us to our private dining room.
Private in this case meaning for Peeta, myself and another couple.
It's one of the "favours" we do for President Snow almost every year. Go out and wine and dine some rich, useless Capitol couple paying through the nose for a double-date with the star-crossed lovers. Paying Snow, of course. Peeta and I never see a dime of that money. Throughout the years these double-date dinners, which I thought would wane in popularity a few years after our marriage, have become a valuable commodity among Capitol lovers. Bless your marriage, celebrate your anniversary or highlight a milestone year by having an exclusive dinner with Katniss and Peeta Mellark at the finest restaurant in all the Capitol! Couples who are able to "book" us beam with pride and brag to their friends. Couples who can't afford it or who aren't affluent enough have only to grit their teeth and brim with envy. It's a bizarre world indeed.
Some years Snow wants to milk us for all we're worth and books date nights for us several times during our Capitol visits. Other years we only go out to dinner once and the lucky couple who dines with us has to pay that much more money for the pleasure of our company. The higher the price the more they can expect from the evening. Once the couple we were out with requested that we come back home with them and engage in a foursome. We drew the line at that and were unable to feel like we made the wrong choice even though Snow responded by keeping us in the city over the Harvest Feast. The one thing they cannot force us to do is have sex with other people.
Tonight we are in for a lesser demand evening. We have several dinners booked, four this week alone, and I have no doubt that the intention is to keep us away from the headquarters and away from any televisions. Restaurants do broadcast from the Games when somebody is killed or something else especially interesting happens but beyond that we have no idea what is going on. It's the kind of torture President Snow excels at.
Demeter, the maître-d, spots us and comes walking up. She has her usual robotic smile on her face and her seemingly dead eyes don't register any reaction to seeing us. I've sometimes wondered if all the people who work here are simply dead inside or if it's part of Capitol culture for people in service trades to behave that way. Like avoxes, only with tongues.
Demeter leads us to one of the private dining rooms and opens it for us, my fake smile widening a touch in a polite showing of gratitude. A thick smell of peonies rolls over us as soon as the door is opened and when we step inside it's clear to see that most of the smell is artificial as the flowers do adorn the corners of the room but in far from large enough numbers to produce a stench like this. I wonder how I will be able to eat a bite with this smell in my nose.
The room itself is not one of the fancier ones at the restaurant but all private dining rooms have some amount of "class". This one has pale pink walls, a wall that leads directly to a circular balcony with no door in-between, pale wooden furniture and lots and lots of flickering candles. Not exactly what I would call romantic but it's been well established over the years that my idea of romance differs somewhat from the Capitol's. I find it romantic when Peeta rubs my feet when we're taking a bath. These people find it romantic when flowers, candles and heavy scents are together in the same room.
On a loveseat on the right hand side of the room sit our dates for the evening. They look young, probably in their early twenties. I hope all they're looking for is dinner and not anything that involves too much physical contact. That would feel too strange when they are a decade younger than us, even though we've been through it before. The woman has what seems to be knee-length hair made up of blonde curls that I assume are not her natural hair. She's wearing a short red dress that shows off every curve of her voluptuous body and that matches the string of hearts she has tattooed from the tips of her fingers up to where the skin on her shoulders disappear underneath the fabric of her dress. Her husband has short-cut hair in the same colour as his wife's tattoos and wears a three-piece suit in the same colour as her hair. The oddity in how they match make the get-ups tasteless in my opinion but probably perfect in their own. Both of them immediately smile at us with teeth so white I am sure they use the same dental care people as Caesar Flickerman.
I hear Peeta swallow slightly beside me. His hand is still on the small of my back which reassures me a bit. Then his hand moves and snakes around my waist, pulling me a bit closer. I respond my moving one of my arms around his waist.
"You must be Solange and Duro" says Peeta.
The couple look at each other with a smile so lovesick it seems as fake as something Peeta and I might have done over the years. The woman, Solange, places her hand on her husband's and gives it a little tug.
"We're glad you agreed to join us for the evening" she says, eyes locked on Duro. "It's our three year anniversary and we just found out we're having a baby and there's just so much to celebrate!"
"Congratulations" says Peeta. When I don't say a word for several seconds the elbow of the arm he's got wrapped around me gives me a nudge.
"That's wonderful news" I hear myself saying.
The younger couple laugh and smile widely at each other and rub their noses together. Oh dear. It's going to be one of those evenings.
An hour and a half into dinner I'm beginning to think I won't make it through it without serious aggression issues. I'm very tightly strung right now, I know Peeta is too, and here we sit while our nephew and Sally are in the arena fighting for their lives. We're not allowed to wear our pagers to these things and I feel vulnerable and unable to have control without them. If Tommy or Sally are attacked by the careers, or by anyone or anything else for that matter, the pagers aren't going to be able to help us save their lives but sitting here all evening means we can't help them through other situations. What if they are hungry? Or thirsty? Or wounded? Haymitch can handle things, I'm sure, but I hate not being able to do anything. I hate sitting at a table in a private dining room together with an insipid young couple while our tributes, our nephew, are fighting in the arena.
Solange and Duro are either the worst pair we've been out with in a long while or they just seem that way because Peeta and I are both so stressed and want to get back to our living quarters. Duro keeps making bad jokes, most of them very lame puns, and I simply cannot fake a smile at each and every one of them. They happen virtually every time he opens his mouth! Solange apparently seems incapable of talking about anything other than her pregnancy, to the point that it's beyond just excitement from a first-time mother to be expecting her and her husband's love child and more along the lines of me wondering if she's simply incapable of containing more than one thought in her head at a time. She cannot have sparkling wine with us because she's pregnant. She sends for the chef to discuss every single ingredient in her meal because she can't eat everything because she's pregnant. She is so lucky she fits in her dress because she's pregnant. She tells us all about how vivid her dreams are these days because she's pregnant. It's a small miracle that she can handle the smell of Peeta's chicken and mashed cauliflower because she's pregnant. The woman even waddles when she walks, and she's only five weeks along! I have absolutely no idea how Duro puts up with it but I speculate that the bad puns are a coping mechanism.
The food we ate was probably excellent. The food here usually is. Mine just doesn't taste very much with my mind so preoccupied with Tommy and Sally. Although Solange gives a detailed description of how her taste buds are that much more sensitive now because she's pregnant so by her description the food was lovely. Peeta and I rarely get to decide for ourselves what we want to have, usually our dinner dates take it upon themselves to order for us, and tonight was no different. I'm more than a little bit annoyed that Solange and Duro chose Peeta's meal and then she complained about how it affected her pregnant self but I know the chicken to be quite tasty here so at least my husband had a nice dinner. Unless he, like me, could barely feel the taste.
At the moment we are working our way through dessert. Lime flavoured panna cotta. I've always found panna cotta to be a bit too sweet and rich for my taste and the lime doesn't do much to neutralize it. I don't know how Mrs. Pregnant can gobble it down without getting nauseous but I wouldn't be surprised if she starts feeling sick in a few minutes and tells us all about how that's due to her being pregnant. I know for a fact that the Capitol has medication that completely eliminates morning sickness so I don't see why she would have any reason to complain but I'm so sick and tired of her already that I'm getting myself frustrated over just the thought that she might.
I guess the one upside to these two Capitol buffoons is that they do a good job keeping the conversation going. I've barely said a word and Peeta is uncharacteristically quiet but they don't seem to notice. They seem to want to tell us the whole story of how they met, what their courtship was like, what the wedding was like, what their day-to-day life is like, what preparations they are making for the baby, since Solange is pregnant you know… Frustratingly enough that last part is actually more like the plans they have for making preparations since they only found out they were in this blessed condition about a week ago. Their love story is bland, at least in my eyes, and their lives typically Capitol shallow and meaningless. I cannot for the life of me take any interest in them. I can only hope my disinterest and irritation isn't written plainly on my face.
From the open balcony we begin to hear music being played by the string quartet in the outdoor seating area. Usually I find this kind of music soothing but I don't think anything can soothe me tonight. I can't stop thinking about how wrong it is that we sit here listening to music, eating a fancy meal, while Tommy and Sally are stuck in a filthy, dark, damp arena. As often as I dare to I steal a look with Peeta, comforted in knowing he feels the same way, if not worse than me. Again I find it lucky that our dates are such talkative people, despite the fact that most of what they say annoys me.
"Oh such lovely music!" gasps Solange, pressing a well-manicured hand to her chest. "Duro, I think I want a string quartet playing at the birth."
I can barely keep myself from rolling my eyes. In the districts women give birth in terrible pain in their own homes. In the Capitol women give birth at hospitals, with full pain relief and apparently with string quartets playing. I don't see why they would need them. Since they barely feel a thing it's not as if they need something to calm them down or help them find a bit of tranquillity.
"Katniss it really is such a shame that you've never gotten to experience the blessing of being pregnant" Solange suddenly says.
A quick glance at Peeta tells me he's close to fuming but he manages to keep his facial expressions mostly under control. He can't keep himself from commenting though, bringing up the lie he told so many years ago which we've had to repeat on occasion and which has become such a part of our apparent past that sometimes I almost wonder if it's actually the truth and I've just suppressed it.
"That's not really the case" says Peeta, reaching for my hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "We've had pregnancies. Just not successful ones."
"Sometimes I guess the bun doesn't fully bake, huh?" comments Duro, sounding a touch uncomfortable.
"Oh I'm sorry, I completely forgot how perilous pregnancy must be in an outline district" blabbers Solange as if miscarriages are an impossibility in the glorious Capitol. "I'm sorry. Let's not talk about it." She shoves her last bit of panna cotta into her mouth and swallows it in a loud gulp, letting her spoon drop to her plate. "How about a bit of dancing?" She turns to her husband. "You don't mind if another man steals me away to the dance floor, do you?" Her eyes then go to Peeta, completely ignoring me. "What do you say?"
It's not like he can refuse. He manages a polite smile and rises from his seat to go to what Solange apparently thinks of as a dance floor. Not that I don't see how it can be romantic to slow dance to live string music in this room but the presence of your actual spouses at the table probably dims the mood somewhat. Duro rises from his chair as well and walks around the table to stop beside me. I really don't want to indulge him in a dance but I can't very well refuse so I put my best fake smile on, take his offered hand and rise from my seat.
"Not much of a dancer" he tells me. "What do you say you and I move over to the loveseat and let our better halves take the dance floor? I trust Peeta won't sway her heart away from me."
I keep my fake smile on my lips and don't offer any comment to the wink he gives me along with his words. He leads me to the loveseat and sits down a little too close to me while Peeta attempts to hold Solange in the more formal dancing way but she immediately wraps her arms around him and goes for the kind of dancing that's basically two people embracing and slowly moving around in a circle together.
"I'm sure I can trust you not to spin me around too vigorously or anything" she twitters at him. "Pregnant woman like me might get lightheaded."
I can't keep the smile on my face. Not only do I strongly dislike other women dancing with Peeta this way but I don't think I can take another sentence about her damn pregnancy. Does she talk about anything else, ever? What did she talk about before she got pregnant? Does she even realize how insensitive it is to go on and on and on about it even after Peeta reminded her of our supposed miscarriages?
Duro leans in closer to me, the thick smell of his cologne filling my nose, making me wonder how his wife stomachs that without hurling in her current condition seeing as how the smallest thing is apparently enough to set her off. He puts his hand on my thigh, thankfully unable to touch my skin thanks to the tight dress I'm wearing, and then he begins to talk with his mouth a touch too close to my ear. I force myself to listen in case he says something I'm supposed to respond to but I try my best to keep an eye on the dancing pair. This is the kind of oddity I've never been able to understand about some Capitol people. To me marriage means exclusivity. To some of the couples we've been sent to dates with matrimony apparently is no hinder in flirting with another member of the opposite sex, touching them inappropriately and in some cases even going in for kisses with the implication that they would like to do much more than that. They do it openly, in front of each other, and seem to have no measure of jealousy. I could barely contain myself from lunging at the one woman maybe five or so years back who tried to stick her tongue down Peeta's throat. Thankfully he moved away from her and made it clear he was not willing to go that far with her but her husband didn't seem to mind the kiss. In fact he seemed turned on.
"So tell me everything about young Tommy" says Duro, his breath hot on my ear. "Solange and I are so very touched by your situation. What an honour and yet what a plight. Imagine if he were to win! A District 12 family of victors." I force another polite smile, trying to ignore the chill that runs down my spine. "Tell me what do you think his chances are?"
"I'm sorry, we're not allowed to discuss our tributes" I say. "We're not here as mentors so we cannot say anything that might sway you into sponsoring them." For once I'm thankful for that silly rule, having no desire whatsoever to tell this man anything about what you feel when a member of your family is in that arena.
Before Duro can respond his wife calls his name. We both look over at the dancing pair and I seethe inwardly at seeing her resting her cheek against Peeta's chest.
"Baby why don't you and I dance and let Peeta and Katniss take a moment of rest on the loveseat? His poor leg is troubling him."
Oh goodness, she even uses the pet name baby on him. Is that coincidental or did that sprout when she found out she was gravid?
"That sounds like a good idea. I could dance to that tune!"
With those words Duro takes his hand off my thigh and goes over to Solange and Peeta, Peeta taking a step aside so that the happily married parents-to-be can fall into each other's arms and sway together to the music. Peeta walks up to me and sits down, seemingly with no discomfort from his leg. He sits there quietly beside me, dutifully watching the others dance. Solange and Duro are both keeping their eyes on us, looking blissfully happy together in that sickeningly sweet way that seems to have something artificial about it.
"Look at them, baby" sighs Solange. "Don't you just know we will be that in love with each other still when we've been married for as long as they have?"
"It's like seeing ourselves in the future!" claims Duro.
"It is, isn't it?" She gives us another sweet smile, this time also with something suggestive to it. "It's alright if you want to express that love. We don't mind."
We know that cue very well. Many couples enjoy watching Peeta and I "expressing our love" as if no one else was in the room with us. I can accept having people watching us but I don't like the simulated feel of it. It's one thing to kiss and caress when we are alone but an entirely different thing altogether to do so in front of an audience.
It's a dance we know well, well enough to do it in our sleep probably, and I could probably switch to autopilot and just do our little performance until the audience is satisfied. Though tonight I find I actually welcome this a bit. The rift between Peeta and I lately hasn't led to much by way of kissing, touching and especially sex even though sex is usually one of our most common forms of stress relief during the Games. Feeling the backs of Peeta's fingers caress my cheek before he cradles my face between his hands and goes in for a kiss feels comforting and reassuring. As our lips meet I feel a touch of urgency, wanting to kiss him harder and deeper despite the fact that we're putting on a show, but Peeta keeps it light and in keeping with the usual routine. His hand leaves my cheek and lands on my thigh and now I'm a little frustrated by my dress that prevents him from touching my skin. I place one palm against his back and grab the front of his shirt with my other hand and indulge in a make-out session that seems to satisfy Solange and Duro but which is timid compared to how we do it when we're by ourselves.
It's past midnight when we get to go back to our living quarters and get an update from Haymitch. Thankfully none of the drama in the arena tonight involved our tributes. I was half convinced the gamemakers would arrange for something to happen to one or both of them in order to screw with Peeta and me. I suppose they have ample opportunity to do so later.
Peeta flops down on the couch and grabs the remote, tuning it to Tommy's channel to check in on him. Our nephew is sound asleep in a nook in the wall. All we can do now is the same thing we do every night – hope that nothing bad happens to him while we all get our sleep. Luckily at least the gamemakers tend to refrain from arranging any dramatic developments during the night since they want as many eyes as possible to be watching when the greatest drama unfolds.
We head to bed and Peeta immediately curls up in a foetal position and goes to sleep while I lie awake for a while, staring at the ceiling. I think about Solange and her overblown excitement over what is at this point basically a bundle of cells expanding inside her belly. I realize that there's a part of me that's jealous. How I envy the ability to be that happy over a pregnancy. My long-standing stance that I will never have children has not diminished, if anything the events over the past few weeks have cemented it, but I can't deny that there have been times when I've wished things could be different. A few scattered moments over the years when I've seen Peeta's sisters-in-law with pregnant bellies, with happy little babies in their arms, with children who adore them because they are Mother. I've wondered what my child with Peeta would look like, be like. I've wondered what it would be like to bear his child and to be a parent with him. But it remains a luxury we can never afford. If it hurts this badly to see our nephew in the arena how unbearable must it be to have your child be a tribute?
I look over at Peeta, briefly allowing myself to entertain the thought of what things might have been like if we had been born in a different world or a different place. Would I still be sleeping beside him? Would I have wanted children with him? My gut instinct tells me yes. After all these years, if we could have a baby and trust it to grow up in a safe world then I would want to be the one he had babies with.
But we can't have that. The arena would take any child we bring into the world. Unlike Solange and Duro our world is not a safe place to live in.