Post by Deleted on Aug 16, 2013 21:06:51 GMT
—damien
This party wasn't just rich. It was political, too. French and Spanish representatives were in attendance having overseen some agreement above Damien's head, and now, the dignitaries took a break from their negotiations to sit down for a meal at the Oxford Club. He could tell by how their suits were pinned with little flags on their breast coat pockets. They wouldn't be eating here if they hadn't been elected.
Damien hadn't received any invitation to present himself to these round white-clothed tables, under the club's high mahogany ceiling, surrounded by its portraits of stuffy old men and moose heads. But he was a member of the club who had come to dine this evening, a graduate of Oxford, which made him rich enough to be welcome at any event under its roof.
Caviar and other delicacies were spread about the tables. The penguin waiters mingled among the crowd, and breathing numbers like '54. Damien stood off to the side, watching people pass by in the stillness, and then, with a mild frown, he turned his back to them to inspect a portrait on the wall. He had just escaped from a long word with one of his father's chums, and he needed the moment to re-orientate his persona. He had ben caught off guard, and he needed to think over what had been said and wonder if anything might alarm his father or his mother if it were passed along. He stood with his back to the tables, pretending to study the painting, going over the inside jokes aristocrats share about their cigars, before letting it all slip into his other worries. When a waiter passed by, he gave up his empty glass for a full one. He had a suit on, after all. It was a good night.
—capella
Her smile was cool and controlled, frozen in place without looking forced. Effortless. She was on the arm of a silver-haired man who was older than forty; she'd been seeing him for over a month now. He was positively boring, but generous with his wallet and not particularly repulsive. Just dull, so much so that the world seemed a little bit flatter when she spent time with him. He was also a widower, which made things much easier for her. He had decided to bring her down to the Club tonight, and she now understood why. There was a party going on; actually, the word party was probably too strong. It had connotations with excitement. This was still far from exciting, but at least it meant that they were serving better food than normal today. Hopefully the champagne would be better too.
She inspected the crowd covertly as her other half shuffled her along and introduced her to his various acquaintances. She flashed them all the same smile which suggested that she thought they were all the most handsome, interesting men in the world. In reality she thought they were all dusty relics who could do nothing for her, but there would be nothing to gain in telling them so. If that weren't enough, they had paintings and portraits of other similarly dusty alumni covering the walls. She found that she was surrounded on all sides by antiquity. But her effervescent demeanor never dropped for a moment. She was too practiced. She even tittered agreeably when he whispered dry jokes about pocket squares in her ear.
Finally they were seated. She smoothed down the skirt of her cocktail dress. She was fairly pleased with how well it caught the light of the chandelier overhead. He told her to order whatever she wanted, he only needed a word with some other partner of his. Capella was more than obliging. Finally, she had room to breathe. The first thing she did was order a glass of bubbly to lift her spirits. As the waiter walked away, she turned her head and spotted a single fleck of color in a room that might as well be sepia-toned. A younger man, he could be no older than thirty, stood alone near the wall, next to the portrait of a man who may have been her grandfather. The contrast between the two was almost laughable. But Capella didn't want to be seen staring. She turned her gaze away and adjusted her up-do.
—damien
We all know those awkward moments when you turn to see someone looking away from you just as soon as you notice them. Most people like to avoid each others eyes. There's something too powerful about it in this society. But the prat always had a testy, confrontational streak. He kept looking at her while he brought the glass to his lips, and he wondered if she could feel it on her shoulder. He let a hand sink into his pocket as he noticed the elegance of the back of her neck and the absence of any company. He followed a waiter, letting him press people aside to navigate the curves of the table, until he came to where she sat.
His eyes ran down to her hand, where most women showcased their wedding rings - the symbols that made them members of this elitist cavern of antiques. Women of all types married into these clubs, inheriting their husband's respect. She was without such a gem. He put his hand on the back of her chair, and he spoke to her casually. He mimicked the way money filled his father's voice.
"Hello Ms. - I have just a minute, before I head off. I was just wondering - There's a lot going on right now, a lot of faces I don't particularly recognize-" absently-mindedly, his voice trailed off as he looked around the clamorous dining room, "I'm not used to the old club being so full. Do you know what it's all about?"
—capella
She knew he'd seen her immediately after she turned away. It hadn't been intentional, but if pressed she would lie and say that it was. He was confident; she felt his gaze across the room and it spoke of a man who wasn't used to being turned away. Capella lowered her eyes and sipped innocuously at her champagne as if she hadn't noticed a thing. Her lipstick left a pink mark on the rim of the glass and she focused on it as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. She didn't look up.
If there was one thing she had learned about men, it was that expressing undue interest in your target before he approached you would give him too much power. It would affirm that you were already attracted to him and that he needn't prove his status to you or impress you. It would take fun out of trying to pursue you, and he would lose interest before you could tease anything out of him. Capella pretended to be a woman of high society, not an inexperienced and blushing schoolgirl. She did her best to ooze refinement and a bit of cynicism, to make herself up as a challenge to win.
The designer felt his presence before he spoke, the monied aura he projected was hard to miss. She set her glass of champagne down on the table and just barely turned her head, eyes still drawn towards the ground. The view she gave him was mostly of her pink lips, her pink hair and her black eyelashes. What his words said to her was that he had connections on this island, so many that it was improbable that he didn't know these people were foreign officials. He also happened to frequent the club and was a regular here, and therefore should be an Oxford graduate with a cushy career in the business district and a fine suit. That made the corner of her lip curl into a tiny, imperceptible smile. She humored him. "I've heard that these folk are from overseas, abroad to do important business." Her voice was low, as if sharing a small secret. "It is particularly lively. I wasn't expecting such an event today."
"I'm used to it being quieter myself. So quiet I've scarce even heard your voice before." Capella ended on a lighter note, taking her glass in hand and having a small sip.
This party wasn't just rich. It was political, too. French and Spanish representatives were in attendance having overseen some agreement above Damien's head, and now, the dignitaries took a break from their negotiations to sit down for a meal at the Oxford Club. He could tell by how their suits were pinned with little flags on their breast coat pockets. They wouldn't be eating here if they hadn't been elected.
Damien hadn't received any invitation to present himself to these round white-clothed tables, under the club's high mahogany ceiling, surrounded by its portraits of stuffy old men and moose heads. But he was a member of the club who had come to dine this evening, a graduate of Oxford, which made him rich enough to be welcome at any event under its roof.
Caviar and other delicacies were spread about the tables. The penguin waiters mingled among the crowd, and breathing numbers like '54. Damien stood off to the side, watching people pass by in the stillness, and then, with a mild frown, he turned his back to them to inspect a portrait on the wall. He had just escaped from a long word with one of his father's chums, and he needed the moment to re-orientate his persona. He had ben caught off guard, and he needed to think over what had been said and wonder if anything might alarm his father or his mother if it were passed along. He stood with his back to the tables, pretending to study the painting, going over the inside jokes aristocrats share about their cigars, before letting it all slip into his other worries. When a waiter passed by, he gave up his empty glass for a full one. He had a suit on, after all. It was a good night.
—capella
Her smile was cool and controlled, frozen in place without looking forced. Effortless. She was on the arm of a silver-haired man who was older than forty; she'd been seeing him for over a month now. He was positively boring, but generous with his wallet and not particularly repulsive. Just dull, so much so that the world seemed a little bit flatter when she spent time with him. He was also a widower, which made things much easier for her. He had decided to bring her down to the Club tonight, and she now understood why. There was a party going on; actually, the word party was probably too strong. It had connotations with excitement. This was still far from exciting, but at least it meant that they were serving better food than normal today. Hopefully the champagne would be better too.
She inspected the crowd covertly as her other half shuffled her along and introduced her to his various acquaintances. She flashed them all the same smile which suggested that she thought they were all the most handsome, interesting men in the world. In reality she thought they were all dusty relics who could do nothing for her, but there would be nothing to gain in telling them so. If that weren't enough, they had paintings and portraits of other similarly dusty alumni covering the walls. She found that she was surrounded on all sides by antiquity. But her effervescent demeanor never dropped for a moment. She was too practiced. She even tittered agreeably when he whispered dry jokes about pocket squares in her ear.
Finally they were seated. She smoothed down the skirt of her cocktail dress. She was fairly pleased with how well it caught the light of the chandelier overhead. He told her to order whatever she wanted, he only needed a word with some other partner of his. Capella was more than obliging. Finally, she had room to breathe. The first thing she did was order a glass of bubbly to lift her spirits. As the waiter walked away, she turned her head and spotted a single fleck of color in a room that might as well be sepia-toned. A younger man, he could be no older than thirty, stood alone near the wall, next to the portrait of a man who may have been her grandfather. The contrast between the two was almost laughable. But Capella didn't want to be seen staring. She turned her gaze away and adjusted her up-do.
—damien
We all know those awkward moments when you turn to see someone looking away from you just as soon as you notice them. Most people like to avoid each others eyes. There's something too powerful about it in this society. But the prat always had a testy, confrontational streak. He kept looking at her while he brought the glass to his lips, and he wondered if she could feel it on her shoulder. He let a hand sink into his pocket as he noticed the elegance of the back of her neck and the absence of any company. He followed a waiter, letting him press people aside to navigate the curves of the table, until he came to where she sat.
His eyes ran down to her hand, where most women showcased their wedding rings - the symbols that made them members of this elitist cavern of antiques. Women of all types married into these clubs, inheriting their husband's respect. She was without such a gem. He put his hand on the back of her chair, and he spoke to her casually. He mimicked the way money filled his father's voice.
"Hello Ms. - I have just a minute, before I head off. I was just wondering - There's a lot going on right now, a lot of faces I don't particularly recognize-" absently-mindedly, his voice trailed off as he looked around the clamorous dining room, "I'm not used to the old club being so full. Do you know what it's all about?"
—capella
She knew he'd seen her immediately after she turned away. It hadn't been intentional, but if pressed she would lie and say that it was. He was confident; she felt his gaze across the room and it spoke of a man who wasn't used to being turned away. Capella lowered her eyes and sipped innocuously at her champagne as if she hadn't noticed a thing. Her lipstick left a pink mark on the rim of the glass and she focused on it as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. She didn't look up.
If there was one thing she had learned about men, it was that expressing undue interest in your target before he approached you would give him too much power. It would affirm that you were already attracted to him and that he needn't prove his status to you or impress you. It would take fun out of trying to pursue you, and he would lose interest before you could tease anything out of him. Capella pretended to be a woman of high society, not an inexperienced and blushing schoolgirl. She did her best to ooze refinement and a bit of cynicism, to make herself up as a challenge to win.
The designer felt his presence before he spoke, the monied aura he projected was hard to miss. She set her glass of champagne down on the table and just barely turned her head, eyes still drawn towards the ground. The view she gave him was mostly of her pink lips, her pink hair and her black eyelashes. What his words said to her was that he had connections on this island, so many that it was improbable that he didn't know these people were foreign officials. He also happened to frequent the club and was a regular here, and therefore should be an Oxford graduate with a cushy career in the business district and a fine suit. That made the corner of her lip curl into a tiny, imperceptible smile. She humored him. "I've heard that these folk are from overseas, abroad to do important business." Her voice was low, as if sharing a small secret. "It is particularly lively. I wasn't expecting such an event today."
"I'm used to it being quieter myself. So quiet I've scarce even heard your voice before." Capella ended on a lighter note, taking her glass in hand and having a small sip.
