OOM: Paris, December 1955

[redintheledger]

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.

Comments

[redintheledger]

"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.)

[nerves_of_ice]

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.

[redintheledger]

"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.

[nerves_of_ice]

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.

[redintheledger]

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.

[nerves_of_ice]

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."

[redintheledger]

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."

[nerves_of_ice]

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?"

[redintheledger]

"You can be very charming, James. And very optimistic." Her voice is a tease more than anything, and she frees her hand to gently bop the end of his nose with his finger.

"I think I'm getting a headache," she mutters with a sigh, just loud enough for the driver to hear. She's not. But she can feel the start of irritation that always comes after hours of being charming herself, and she ducks her head to rest it on his shoulder.

And in any case, it buys them time for silence on the drive back.

[nerves_of_ice]

He puts his arm around her and draws her close, so that she can more comfortably rest against him.

They're quiet for the remainder of the trip. Once the driver has dropped them off and gone on his way, James unlocks their door and gives a quick look around the room - just to be safe - before holding it for Nancy.

"Feeling better?" he murmurs.

[redintheledger]

"Just forgotten how exhausting dinner parties can be," she murmurs back, but he gets a quick smile in thanks for the door.

"And here I thought all French waiters were supposed to be very...superior," she comments, glancing back at him. "They were very nearly pleasant."

She needs to get out of this dress, slip her feet into more comfortable clothes, but that requires logistics. The apartment is, if anything, even colder than before.

[nerves_of_ice]

He shuts and locks the door to the outside, then pulls at his tie with one hand. The chill doesn't seem to bother him.

"Wonders never cease, I guess. Or maybe it was the Durants."

[redintheledger]

"I wouldn't be surprised," she says, drily. "Make sure everything runs just the way they like it."

Oh, fuck it.

"I'm...getting dressed. If you want to...talk, stand at the door." Not debrief. It's too much of a tell.

[nerves_of_ice]

He blinks once, the only sign of his surprise.

"Okay."

[redintheledger]

Well, he's not the one wearing the silk gown, she thinks, and walks to their bedroom. She gets undressed and redressed quickly, the dress put away and trousers, a heavy cardigan, and thick socks pulled on.

"Do you think everyone took the bait, or just Amanda?" she asks once she's returned, tugging her coat back on.

[nerves_of_ice]

He's taken the opportunity to change clothes himself, ending up in casual slacks and a long-sleeved wool sweater, both in black. A black glove covers his metal hand.

"Hard to tell," James replies. "What do you think?"

[redintheledger]

"A good chance for you getting the job. A better chance of Amanda deciding that a protégé is a thing she wants, even if other deals don't happen.

But..." she trails off thoughtfully, curling herself up on the sofa. "I think it might come down to who else are they looking at. And how do those people manage to do.

Do you know who they are? Our competition."

[nerves_of_ice]

"Hints and rumors. I expect I can get more from Quentin over drinks sometime soon."

He shrugs.

"Even if they take a while longer to decide, the Amanda connection should be useful.

James eases himself to a seat on the arm of the couch and looks down at her.

"Still have that headache?" he asks, gently.

[redintheledger]

"I think," she says, slowly, "It'd be worth finding out."

Intel.

In case they need it.

Then she half-smiles. "A little. I find people to be fascinating. And tiring. A headache is a socially accepted excuse not to stab anyone for talking. Or did you work that one out?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"Seems likely."

He laughs.

"No. If I stabbed people just for talking..." Shaking his head, he leaves it at that. "But if you don't mind, I could rub your temples. It always used to work for--"

A half-second's pause.

"-- a friend of mine," he finishes, with the slightest hint of uncertainty (or is it strain?) underneath his words.

[redintheledger]

"Lucky friend." A beat later, and she regrets the comment.

Friends so often have a habit of turning up dead.

"Thank you. But, not tonight."

There's a line here, and while she's not sure where the boundaries are, she's not in the mood to go pushing.

"Just don't ask me to go dancing, and I'll be fine."

[nerves_of_ice]

"Your call."

One corner of his mouth quirks up in a wry smile.

"We'll save the dancing for another time."

[redintheledger]

"I think I might hold you to that." Her smile fades into thoughtful, and she rests her head on the back of the sofa.

"So.



This is Paris, huh."

[nerves_of_ice]

"Indeed it is."

He glances toward the window, then back at her.

"Any regrets?"

[redintheledger]

She arches eyebrow at him, a trifle too surprised to play it nonchalant.

It is something of a question that has the harmonics of traps, and yet he wouldn't...Would he?

"With regards to...?"