zg_shadows | Corrida: Duello

"Your tutor is very important to you, isn't he?"

(Don’t think about him now)

She nods.

"You've met him. What do you think?"

Well? Are you going to tell me the truth? (See, Benedict I can learn. I don’t know what I think of you, but I can learn from you and don’t want to be anywhere near you… Except when I do.)

(Benedict)

(DON’T THINK ABOUT HIM NOW)

I’m reasserting control over this session right now.

"Why is it you have trouble answering questions about your feelings, do you think?"

No. No truth. You’re avoiding the point. You know what the point is; we’re dancing round it like a beautiful maypole.

(Benedict.)

No; remember the conversation. Remember the boy. …An answer. What did he say?

"It's ...quite bad manners, I've been told..."

"Not in these sessions. Tell me about your feelings for your.. tutor."

Oh, I can lie to that so very easily. Smile sweetly, eyes forward, head tilted to one side. Remember to breathe, remember to keep the skin tone right.

She's already shifting rings around and moving them from finger to finger before she speaks (uncertain, untruthful?), her face and voice perfectly polite, discreet and blameless.

"I admire him a lot. He's taught me more about society than I could have found out anywhere else."

Which is true. Relax, it’s all true. It’s not everything, but it’s enough – and now your turn. Dear. (See, I can have claws if I want to…) Remember, tone light, eyes bright, keep gentle.

“You seem quite taken with him?"

A surging red hot ice cold chill of panic blots out my vision and roars in my hearing for a moment.

(Does she know?)

(How can she know?)

I smile (too tightly), all smooth (flawed) professional demeanour again.

"I don't.. That is, perhaps we could focus on you, since that is after all whilst you are here."

Gotcha. Serves you right. Now, smile, remember to be real. Think fleshy. Think soft. Think … (don’t think of pity.)

"Me... Of course. I was sent here to talk to you...”

(There’s something very wrong here)

Poor lad. But no time for that now. He’ll walk with me, and the script is going where it should. Let’s take this back to where you can be in charge for a bit again.

She folds her hands in her lap before continuing.

"I'm sorry. I should... What were you asking about?"

"Miss Allen, why are you here, exactly? Do you want to be here?"

I’m aware that I’m on the edge of exasperation, but I keep it out of my voice, my body language perfect neutral.

(give me the truth!)

And he’s tetchy and a little frustrated. He wants a truth. I think he can have a truth now. Just a teaser. Always leave them wanting more (I remember, Benedict. Always wanting more.)

She pauses, inspecting the table thoughtfully for a few seconds, then looks up at me, and she’s actually real, smiling a wry smile.

"I'm here to talk to you. I wasn't actually lying... Benedict says to always tell the truth, if you can possibly manage."

Give him the name. Give him something to seize and hold.

(Benedict)

(Wait… what?)

"Really? What were you sent here to talk to me about, exactly?"

Good. Now we dance properly, and you’re brought in closer and closer (and I don’t _want_ to do this to you, but if I don’t… He’ll do it to me.

You remember that book. Do it to Julia, not me…)

She shuffles her rings slowly and carefully, silent for a long moment.

"He's...

(He’s what?)

“He likes you.

(He likes me?)

“He wanted to see what I thought - or maybe wanted to see what you thought about me.

She pauses, then smirks faintly

“If he could have, he'd have introduced us in a bar... but he thought doing it this way would mean you wouldn't think he was trying to get me to chase you. Not that there's any point in me doing _that_..."

There. I know some of your secrets, and if you’re sensible, you’ll see there’s more than blackmail here. I’m giving you a chance, please see that. A chance to learn something special (A chance to get out. A chance I never had.)

Admittedly, the comment could mean anything, but the tone is silk verging on razorblades.

(She knows)

I don’t like being forced onto the defensive; my tone in return is ice and knives.

"And what exactly do you mean by that, Miss Allen?"

He’s torn now, between hope and desire and distrust and wanting to be a grown-up. Fine. Be like that; another careful jab.

Inspecting her nails carefully for any chips in the perfect lacquer, she shrugs and speaks slowly

"...I'm not your type?"

This way at least he can choose to navigate himself out of danger or acknowledge the threat as he wants to. Never back someone into a corner – they could bite. (Poor boy. It’s not his fault he’s … one of _them_.)

She raises her eyes to meet my diamond gaze with polite blankness, as though what she’s insinuating doesn’t mean the complete destruction of my reputation and the end of a career that’s just starting.

He takes his time answering. I can see the hope and fear all mixed together. I can see him give up on the possibilities for more information.

I don’t know what to do.

An admission now could end my career, ruin my life.

But on the other hand...

Benedict…

('He likes you'...)

Enough.

(Don’t let her do this to you)

"What -exactly- do you want here” (shift the tone) “'Jade'?"

And he takes his choice. We walk away, and there’s just a little bit of a tease for him and I don’t have to do this any more (and thank god he won’t be coming home with him any night soon). He’s a hired hand right now, and he doesn’t have the class… count up layers; no, right now I’m paying him, which means I trump his upper-middle class profession.

Back to the script.

She looks at me, and her poise is perfect, her façade impossible to chip; still, I catch a slight glimpse of something underneath backing away, retreating back into the defunct script.

"I wanted to speak with you, to see... What you could do for me. I'm – I need to be... Better at dealing with people."

There. (Give up. Go away. Please?) I’ve failed, and it doesn’t matter any more.

I’m tired.

(I’m scared)

Wait.

I’m fed up of this game.

(I want him so very much)

No, please…

I know he doesn’t want me. But I have to –know–.

There’s flashes of colour through the anger – curiosity, desire – hope? He can’t believe Benedict would ever _care_. (I believed Benedict cared.)

(Drop the mask)

"Why did Benedict want the pair of us to meet? Why did he want your opinion of me?"

(Fine. I’ll give you what you want, and what he wants, and I’ll be damned if I’ll do anything.) Play the game. Tell enough of the truth to make him want the rest.

"Because he's interested.

She grimaces faintly, in apparent dislike of – something?

"Because he thinks you show... Promise.

"I'm just ...a jeweller. You can't make what he wants out of what I am.

"He's been waiting for you for a long time."

There. Have that. Beg. Remember to read between the lines – you think I’m only talking on the surface? How many layers do you need? (How many layers are there? I’ve forgotten what it’s like to think in straight lines.)

There’s no point in me deliberating; she hasn’t told me anything. Nothing here is making sense, and oh god, I want

(him)

to know what’s going on here.

Exasperation; annoyance. He’s frustrated and wants. As long as he wants.

"I don't understand."

"You're right."

God… Is this a good idea? Is this fair? (Are you doing this because you want to sucker him in, or to get out yourself?)

She shrugs slightly.

"Think of him like... Pygmalion. Or the man out of My Fair Lady. He's looking for someone new to groom and tidy and show around as a Bright Young Thing."

"He likes to be liked. He likes to give people things. He'll give you the chance of your life, you know..."

I’m winning.

(I hate this.)

I don’t even try to hide the bitter surge.

(It’s not FAIR)

There’s bitterness and self-loathing and fear, and … oh, poor boy. He really wants to be loved.

"Well, I'm hardly going to be a trophy on his arm, am I?"

I’m looking at the woman in front of me, and a thought suddenly strikes, making me hesitant.

"Has.. Has he finished with you, then?"

And now he’s thinking of me; pitying me? Why should he care? I’ll always have something he can’t. (I want to get out.)

Remember the face. Remember how to be perfect.

"Not quite. We're meant to offer each other ... Incentive.”

I don’t know what to say, so I stay quiet.

(finger)

"He ... Likes to be liked.”

(by me?)

(finger)

"You'll be as much a trophy as he says you are."

(his trophy?)

(finger…)

"You're going to take his offer."

(his offer)

(Benedict)

(fallen.)

I’m afraid, even as I shrug a wry acknowledgement:

And watch his aura flicker and grow. He’s not sure whether to hope or fear, but he knows he’s just walked off a cliff. I managed, Benedict; he’ll come to you and learn how to fly; god knows he has a good teacher. (He’ll forget how to feel. God knows he has a good teacher.)

"So what happens now?"

"You say yes. And... You'll learn.

"He's a good teacher."

(the lock clicks)