redintheledger | OOM: Paris, December 1955

Entry tags:

OOM: Paris, December 1955

It just turns December by the time they get to Paris; the city is appropriately cold. Beautiful, different, Paris...and cold. As is the small apartment that James and Nancy Rushman are renting from a countess fallen on modern times, and Natasha bites back any complaints she might have over the heating because Nancy never grew up with ovens.

(And yet, the point remains: she was warmer in Siberia.)

Natasha sits at the dressing table, carefully shading her eyelids. The make-up case is new, but she'd done her best to add some scratches and dents to it, so it'd actually look like it belonged to a woman who travelled. She'd done the same with the new wedding ring on her left hand, so it'd look like Nancy and James hadn't been married for less then five minutes. Of course, details like that wouldn't be worth a damn if no one reads them as being an item in the first place. Not for a married couple who are happy and stable, which is needed here. And which Alex has so far...somewhat failed at this aspect of James's life.

She sighs, and then carefully finishes applying her make-up. They have some time before they are due to go out, and she needs to talk to Alex. She slips on her coat, and then walks out into the living room.

"James?"

She thinks he'll listen.

Hopefully he'll listen.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He shifts in order to allow her to stand, and smiles up at her.

"It won't take me that long."

"Men fuss, too," she says, getting to her feet and smoothing down her dress.

"I'll just be in the kitchen when you're done." In the kitchen, trying to work out what supplies they need.

So far, espionage is proving to be largely an affair of logistics and budgets.

It takes him a little while, in fact - longer than he'd expected.

When he calls out as he approaches the doorway to the kitchen, he sounds a little wry.

"Nancy? Would you mind--?"

He's trying, and failing, to fasten the cufflink at his right wrist.

"-Yes, what? Oh," she says, turning around to see him.

Right, yes.

Metal fingers.

She walks over, smoothly fastening the cufflink like she's done it before. Then, she hesitates.

"Your tie is a bit...askew, do you want me to fix?"

"I never can get the hang of those things," he says.

"Yes, please."

"Well," she says, untying and then retying his tie without meeting his gaze, "it's a good thing you have me around, isn't it?"

Then she looks up, and smiles at him.

"There. You are now moderately presentable."

He smiles back, and brushes the fingers of his right hand over her cheek.

"It sure is; I wouldn't know what to do without you."

"Are you ready?"

The simple-seeming question has multiple layers, of course..

She goes still for a moment, a moment full of calculation and self-assessment. This isn't a train-trip, nor speaking to Customs officers. And for all of her talk about body-language, can she actually pretend, and keep all of those layers intact...

Yes.

She can.

(Nancy Rushman isn't a widow, and Nataliya Alianovna Shostakova is an spy.)

"I'm ready."

He searches her face for several long seconds, then nods once... and smiles.

"Then let's go, darling. We don't want to be late."

"God forbid that happen," she replies, and offers him the crook of her elbow with a smile more tart than reassuring.

The car ride she spends mostly quiet, gazing out into the Parisian streets with the occasional delighted comment - it's enough for the driver, and anyway, her comments aren't a lie. Paris is...new; Nancy is just a bit more vocal about voicing things.

When 'James' helps her out of the car, and as they walk up the steps to the restaurant, she keeps the lines of her body softer. Shy and coquettish can be charming; confident reserve is off-putting, and that is simply not something Nancy can be.

"Oh, I do hope we're not late," Nancy says once they're lead to their party's table. They aren't; only half the chairs have occupants.

But Nancy is nervous, and her smile is large, and hopeful.

"Not at all," the man directly across from them says, gallantly rising to his feet. Beside him, his blonde companion smiles a welcome. "James, it's good to see you again."

"You know I couldn't stay away," James laughs, and puts his arm around Nancy. "I just had to bring my other half 'across the pond,' as you Brits say. Allow me to present my wife, Nancy Rushman."

"Nancy, meet Quentin and Amanda Evans."

"It's so nice to meet you," Amanda says, and Nancy's smile softens into something a bit more confident.

"And you, as well. James has told me a bi-i-i-it, but we've been so busy with the move, I couldn't interrogate him properly." She glances over at James fondly, and then ducks her head in thanks as he helps push in her chair.

He brushes his left hand lightly over her hair, smiling at her, then reaches across the table to shake hands with Quentin before the two men take their seats.

Amanda laughs. "That will never do. You'll have to come for tea, and we'll trade stories and advise you on all the best places to shop."

"You'd better plan on more than one outing," an amused feminine voice notes, this one low and rich, with an unmistakable Parisian accent. Its owner is a tall, slender brunette on the arm of a gentleman several inches shorter, whose suit is as impeccably tailored as his moustache.

"Henri and Marie Durant," Quentin introduces them, standing again along with James as the couple joins their table. James offers his hand.

"Pleased to meet you both. I'm James Rushman, and this is my wife Nancy."

"Monsieur, Madame," Nancy says warmly, French smooth enough that she'd been practising.

"I don't find the prospect of multiple outings to be at all alarming. This is Paris, after all."

"Planning on enjoying yourself?" Amanda says, and Nancy smiles at her quickly.

"In between arranging our apartment, and trying to find some work? Why not? It's not an opportunity that arrives every day. Is it, James?"

"Not yet, anyway," James answers, and Marie laughs.

"Well said, m'sieur. Madame Nancy, do please let me know if you've any interest in seeing some of the better places around and about, hm?"

"Indeed," Henri agrees, and shakes hands. "I like a man who thinks ahead."

"It's just nice to find an American that does," Quentin observes, dryly. "No offense, James, but a good many of your countrymen are extremely brash and boastful, but lacking substance."

"Now, that's true," Nancy begins, earning a couple glances of surprise.

"But there are also many you can depend on. And I like to think I've managed to find one of the good ones."

She glances at James then, her look both sly and fond. "Or at least, one who's prepared to work."

His answering smile is warm.

"That makes two of us."

He takes her hand, raises it, and kisses her fingers before turning back to the rest of the table.

"None taken," James assures Quentin, as everyone resumes their seats. "It'd be useless to be offended at the truth, however unfortunate."

"Wise of you," Henri remarks, and signals the waiter - who approaches with alacrity, having been watching for the right moment. "Quentin tells me that the two of you are from New York?"

"We are, yes. I moved there with my sister and some girlfriends, but James is a New Yorker through and through."

In some ways, she's done this dance before. The beats shift according to what the goal is - ingratiation, survival, or testing the waters. The language is different, the food finer, but she knows this.

She's pretty sure she knows this; he'd give her a kick under the table if she was heading off wrong, wouldn't he?

(One thing she can't control is reactions, envy, but she concentrates on looking for guidance from the other women, and crosses her fingers that it works.)

There's no sign of a forthcoming kick, nor even a nudge. To all appearances, James is as comfortable as any of the rest of them are.

Perhaps it's the animated discussion of New York that briefly ensues; he answers Henri's questions, and then Quentin's, with the ease of a true native, never needing to think to summon details of the city itself-- and its ports, or its rail lines.

The waiter takes their orders, and when the main course is served, it's Marie who lays her hand lightly on Henri's arm with an artless laugh.

"Enough, non?"

"Oui," the other man agrees. "Madames Nancy, Amanda, my apologies if we have bored you with too much talk of shipping."

James slants a fond smile at Nancy.

"I'm not entirely disinterested in what my husband does," Nancy says, voice sweet and dry as sherry.

"But I suppose I should confess that I've been wanting to ask your opinions on the shows that they put on here. There's a new ballet that opened last weekend, yes?"

There. That's the note. Bright and curious, uncertain just enough to be taken under someone's wing.

It's akin to skating over ice, and as the conversation rapidly turns into opinions of this ballerina, and that opera singer, she feels like she's done a twist in the air, and landed in a glide.

From there, it's smooth sailing to the end of the evening. The three couples part, trading pleasantries and promises to call and to meet again soon, and James escorts Nancy from the restaurant and down the stairs to their waiting car.

"That went well, I think," he murmurs.

She glances at him, letting herself smile brightly.

"So did I, for a first meeting," she replies, pitching her voice low. But he's quick enough, she's sure, to pick up the double-meaning. First meeting, first real test.

Her mind is already moving, analysis of herself and the targets, but if he says that, she can spare a moment to feel pleased.

He smiles back, and places his left hand at the small of her back as their driver opens the car door. James helps her in, then climbs in after her.

"I shouldn't be surprised if you were to get a call from Amanda soon."

She inclines her head at that.

"Marie seemed more reserved...although Henri, I suspect if nothing else, he's going to be asking you about restaurants in Brooklyn."

Edited 2014-01-27 03:59 (UTC)

James chuckles.

"There are several to recommend, although frankly I think he'd be happier in Manhattan. Give Marie time, cherie; I think she'll warm up to you."

Mindful of their driver, he raises one of her hands and kisses it, then cradles her palm against his cheek.

"After all, how could she not?"

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject