Log:Riverside Fall Gala
| Riverside Fall Gala | |
|---|---|
"It's nice to see you." | |
| Participants | 2017.09.24 The Riverside Hospital throws its Fall Gala for charity. |
| Location
Riverside | |
| The Gala started off strong around six in the evening and now it's getting closer to time for people to start heading for the exit. But, the night is still going and Isolde is still here in the ballroom talking with people. Some of them having had waaaaaaay too much wine, but hey, it's a Sunday, they'll have to deal with the hangover for Monday. She's dressed in a dark red dress that has been made for her and she's nursing a glass of champagne at the moment. Who's that girl? It's Frank! Of course probably everyone here knows that already: the Garreau girl is dressed like she's either been doing the time warp or just stepped off stage from some theatre production of Vile Bodies - basically, her hair's all twisted up and she's wearing a gown, right? And very little else. Bias cut, textured silk, cowl-necked, floaty-trained gown in grey-blue dappled silk, with a backline that is low, low... Low; enough that that pale Lichtenberg figure scar of hers, tracing all the way up her spine, is evident. Hey. Didn't Franklyn die that one time in Moonyard Vinyards? After some kind of electrical mishap? Lightning strike? Franklyn was definitely dead. Only not for long, because here Franklyn is -- getting close to leaving time, and she's... Celebrated a few donations. Maybe, uhm, too many. Still, ya girl can walk in those heels of hers - walk, hold a gimlet glass in one hand, and the arm of C.B. 'Copfire' Alexander in the other. The Alexander boy, Franky, really?! Sheesh; everyone knows Franklyn's parents are on the other side of the world doing something-or-another, but... Really? Really Franklyn? Really. "Look! All I am saying, yeah? Is that-- no, look, I know I told you this the other day, but I /mean/ it; there is /no/ saving The Jungle Book. Kipling? Is fucking -dead- to me." Does Franklyn get a look for Such Language? She raises her glass at a passing stranger, "Am I right, madam? Thank you..." As is his custom for such things, Roland arrived as the festivities were just approaching full swing. Dressed in his tailored tuxedo with deep purple tie and cummerbund, he glad-hands his way through the festivities in typical Garreau style: laughing when appropriate, listening attentively, speaking with authority on any subject, leaving one group and heading to another before he feels bored or boring. "Others have their opinions on the subject, I'm sure, but I hold fast the the fact that the Battle of Bennington was one of the more decisive and important battles in our war for independence, a veritable turning point, if you will, since General John Burgoyne's army is essentially decimated..." Do not disturb. Roland is in his element. Yep. The Garreau girl brought C.B. Alexander with her, and he's been following her around like some lost little puppy who may be slightly rabid but nobody's entirely sure about it. At least he looks good: gray herringbone suit, nice shoes, hair actually /combed/ for once, and some kind of white pocket square with something embroidered on it in black and red...are those little flags, hand-sewn? What are those, exactly? Apart from trailing along after Franky, C.B. has hit the open bar....plenty of times, and is currently holding onto a glass of something brown. No ice. "How can you say that shit about The Jungle Book and racism when you're so often a walking, talking example of class privilege, Franky?" Is he talking like a /little/ too loud? Maybe, because this sure as hell ain't his first brown glass. "I mean, don't get me wrong, you're nothing compared to most of the people here...look at that guy. See his hands? Not a day of work in his life. Look at MY hands, Frank." He holds one of them up. "Callused as the day is long, because I've done actual WORK in my life. WORK!" He says this to another person standing nearby, a small old lady in sequins who moves away from him quickly. Isolde makes her way from one group to the next. She's a world famous Neurosurgeon, so there's a few people that try to talk her ear off. But, she doesn't want to be rude to the other guests. On one pass she gives a smile to Roland and a dip of her head to him, careful to not interrupt his conversation. Then she's heading for the bar and there's a smile to the bartender that is there, "Vodka cranberry, please." she orders quietly. Then she spots Franklyn and Mister CB Alexander. She has met the man before. There's a wave to both of them. Glimet? Downed. Glass? Franklyn merely places it on a passing table, then swoops her hand over to pat C.B. Alexander's wrist like he wasn't nearly frothing at the mouth. There, there. Simmer down dear. "Darling, one of these nights, I'm going to sit you down in a hard, uncomfortable chair and we're gonna have a good looong talk about something called 'intersectionality'." That... Sounds like torture. Franklyn laughs musically - in the same sense that a cacophony is technically a musical situation - and looks over to That Guy: hi uncle Roland! Fingers are wiggled in his direction, but Franklyn is speaking to C.B. while she lifts up one of his hands, inspecting it in the light. Ooooh, aaah; are there Wyrd sparks there? Not that -everyone- would notice. Only wyrdos. Funny how her dress shimmers, all blue and silver, like lightning at dusk. "Work -- there is no /hierarchy/ or work; the phiz-phiss-... Phsyicality of one form over another doesn't, mmmph, make it =better=, it just makes it /harder/. More exhausting, more tedious, more exploitable-- hey! Hey, do you know you, oh of course you know, but did you -know- the word 'work' has the same origins are 'torment'?" Thwap! C.B's arm gets a swift thwack as Franky continues. "So what you're =saying= is /you/ consider =yourself= to be the most tormented here, eh?!" Hand shoots up in the air, and Franklyn is waving for Roland to join. Gosh, hope this doesn't embarrass any world famous neurosurgeons... "Uncle Roland! Be a dear, eh? What has been the defining =torment= of your life?" "... Though I likely won't make this year's Bennington Battle Day. Which is sad, really, since..." and then Roland's lecture, er, conversation is interrupted by a loud greeting from his niece and.... Who is... CB Alexander is with her? The professor-turned-author excuses himself with a mumble pleasantry and a forced smile and approaches Franklyn and CB. "My dear, good evening," greets the portly gentleman with a... no, the smile most certainly is NOT forced because that would be unseemly, wouldn't it? Roland extends his free hand to CB, the other holding an Old-Fashioned cocktail. "I don't believe we've been formally introduced." He waits. "I /know/ what intersectionality is, Franklyn; we have books on it at the cafe. That doesn't make your classist behavior any less -- " He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. You're gonna mess it up, C.B.! Just drink more. Yes. He will do that. And yes, there is frequently lightning around his hands. "Of course I know that 'work' comes from -- yes, actually, I am the most tormented person here /by far/." He trips ahead of himself a little. But then, Franky is getting Roland's attention? He takes another sip and watches Roland approach him, a hard squint on his face. He's seen this guy before, and he seems familiar besides that, but he's still not quite sure why. He most certainly does not smile, but after a look at Roland's hand, he does take it. Gentlemanly enough. His shake is even pretty firm and yes! Hands are callused. "Hello, Uncle Roland," he says, a sarcastic note in his tone. "Roland Garreau, I take it? Wait --" Eyes narrow. "You write those historical novels. Sorry to say I haven't read them, but I've heard good things." Hold up. Is C.B. actually being polite?
C'mon Frank, you're the one who made the joke... Seems like she let that slip; like the conversation as she turns away from C.B. "Oh /Roland/," Franklyn replies at her tangentially related Uncle's plea for formal introductions, looking -- is that annoyed? Certainly not: she flags down a passing server, accepting... Whatever cocktail is currently left on their tray. Gimlet? Jackpot! She'll take two, offering one to C.B. regardless of the fact that 1) it is not neat bourbon, 2) he is already holding a drink. Meanwhile, she hides a smile behind her glass as C.B. speaks to Roland -- was that a hip-bump? Poor Franky, maybe she's having trouble standing in those shoes. Or it's all the gin. She looks relieved, when the glass is lowered - but Franky's smile is bordering wild as she beams at Roland, nodding along. "Historical novels, yes - but before you share your in depth exploration of genre, uncle, do address my first question: what =is= the defining torment of your life?" Sure, C.B. can be polite -- gives Franklyn more opportunity to be pushy. The smile turns more genuine as Roland shakes and then releases C.B.'s hand. "Yes, the critics can be fickle at times, but the People seem to like my work so far." You can almost hear the capital P when he says "People." Maybe. Roland turns his attentions to Franklyn as she repeats her question. "You mean, other than right now, my dear?" he responds, with a chuckle so as to make it seem as though he's making a joke. Because he is. He is making a joke. "I would have to say that the most tortuous moment in my life... is not appropriate dinner party conversation." He takes a sip of his Old Fashioned then, fixing Franklyn with a Significant Look, before turning his attention back to C.B. "Forgive me, but you are C.B. Alexander, yet? Young Man's Disease?" When CB and Franklyn miss the wave, there's a chuckle. Then Roland is heading over to the group and the Fairest decides that she's going to finish her drink and look over things. Surveying the event as things have went well this evening. A doctor that works at the hospital settles in at the bar beside her and gives her a smile before leaning in to whisper something to her. Which she gives a laugh over. It's hard to miss Gigi Garreau. She's a lovely woman, she's in a chic black dress, and she's Gigi Garreau. There's just something about the woman's presence that demands attention. Soon as the Garreau matriarch is in, she takes only a moment to set sights for Isolde, and she steps over towards the woman. "Doctor... how goes the event?" C.B.'s actually focused on Roland in the moment rather than answering all of Franky's various questions. Although that gimlet thrust at him? Well, he does quickly finish his own drink, put the empty on a passing tray, and then stare at the gimlet like it's a glass of water. "Is this /gin/? Jesus," he mutters, but it doesn't stop him /at all/ from drinking this one, too. "The People, huh?" C.B.'s eyebrows go up, and his voice gets droll, but he...does not touch on that further. "And Franklyn just likes to get to the meat and grit of what makes people tick. You, me, everyone here. It's a lovable trait about her." He pats her arm lightly. Then he moves on, adding with a smirk, "Thanks for recognizing my name for my work, rather than the other things I've done. 'Preciate it. Yes, Young Man's Disease and a bunch of other stuff. My second novel comes out in November. Sooner than I remembered," he says. "Working on another yourself?" His eyes move to Gigi as she enters, and then settle on Isolde as well, almost like he's seeing her for the first time tonight. Which can hardly be true. Saved by Gigi! Isolde gives a smile when she sees her face and there's a moment she hugs the woman, kissing her on the cheek, "Good evening, Gigi." she tells her. "And the evening goes well so far. Just watching the kiddos." she muses to her. "Roland is also over there speaking with them." she motions to Roland. The doctor that had been standing there walks off a little dejected, but goes to talk up another party goer. Isolde's laugh is unmistakable and draws Roland's attention as a moth to flame. He raises his glass to her in acknowledgement and takes a final swallow of his cocktail... and then sees Gigi. Oh, look, a helpful server with another Old Fashioned! How fortuitous. Oh, good, C.B. is talking to him. "Yes, well, I have the advance, so of course I have another work in progress." Whether or not Roland is aware of his newly sharpened tone is immaterial. "Oh but you're wrong, uncle -- firstly, this is not a dinner party this is a charitable gala," Oh - sounds like Franklyn Garreau has zero problems being pedantic as fuck while about 2.8 sheets to the wind. Significant look? Ignored! "Secondly, what is more charitable than indulging one's nearest and dearest with some exceptional retelling of something special? Right? I'm /dying/ to know -- please?" That smile! Look at Franklyn's smile: it practically sparkles, as she's... Strikingly expressive. Oh man. Presence, theatrical 'whatever' factor. It just rolls off of her as easily as mist from a mountain at dawn. Ugh. Her parents never should have sent her to stage school - of course, the alternative was keeping her around... Franky leans in and taps C.B. twice on the arm. No interruptions while the two are discussing Their Important Work, although she does raise her eyebrows with interest at the past bit, "I rather hope Roland will share, if not his torments, than his triumphs -- uncle," There we go, all her attention is back on Roland -- it means she misses Isolde and Gigi chatting, so wrapped up in Franky in The Story. "Uncle, I notice you don't have a companion tonight; are they home editing your next opus and spending your advance, or... Have you never been in love?"
He cuts himself off as Franky continues to speak on. He's managed to procure a glass of champagne? Of all things, because there's some going around. Champagne that he nearly spits out when Frank asks Uncle Roland about having a companion, and being in love. Gigi exchanges a hug and cheek kiss with Isolde. Ever so warm and affectionate. "It does seem to be going well..." she muses for a moment. Then there's mention of kids, and Roland. She looks in that direction, and ends up locking eyes with Roland. The look she gives is warm and friendly. Nothing scary about Gigi! But then her gaze continues, to the 'kids' in question. Soon as she spots Franklyn, some of that warmth drains away. And then next to her, there's CB Alexander? Gigi stares for a long moment. "Hm," she decides, as she looks back to Isolde. "Well, it is a lovely event. I've a few old friends to catch up with. We'll talk another time, yes, dear?" she asks Isolde, before offering an affectionate squeeze of the arm to Isolde. So warm! So nice! As if she hadn't just been looking so... disappointed. And then she turns, and off she goes! Isolde gives Roland a wave and then Gigi is heading off as well. She gives the woman a smile and there's a nod to her, "Of course, Gigi." she tells her. Then she picks up her glass again and sips at it as she watches the crowd. Making sure things are alright and that everyone is having a good time. Sipping the newly acquired Old Fashioned, Roland turns his attention from Franklyn to C.B. and back again, surveying the battlefield as it were. "Yes, an advance is never assured," he answers, turning his attention finally to C.B., "But my publisher seems to think that growing popularity is more important than what critics think is in fashion at any given moment." He sips his drink again. "Your work was quite well received on both fronts, as I recall. Well done." He sips again, "There was a movie option, I believe? Or was?" He nonchalantly waves his free hand. "I may misrememeber." He seems to be doing his best to ignore Franklyn's invasive questions. Yeah that's right: straight to the meat and grit. Franklyn's interpretation of acceptable gala small talk apparently revolves around torture and love. Why talk about the weather or work or wedding plans that Franklyn is very, very unlikely to ever be making, right? No. Love and torture will suffice. Franklyn's hand on C.B's arm moves to tap him very gently on the shoulder as the Author nearly spits, but Franky doesn't actually look at him: all of her attention is on Roland. Only... What's that there, beyond his shoulder? It is the disapproving glance from Gigi as the Garreau Matriarch glances their way and speaks to... Oh. /Oh/. Franklyn blinks as Isolde, as if she was seeing her for the first time -- which is absurd! They're /family/, Franky has certainly known her forever, and yet... Yet she is staring as if she's seen some kind of radiant being stepping down from Olympus itself. Which is absurd! It's only Isolde! When Franklyn looks back up at Roland, she is obviously flustered. How does a ginsoaked mind like Franky deal with all of this situation, including the outright snub from her uncle, when all she did was pose an innocent question? She 'ahems', lifts her chin, leans in, and offers Roland a smile which is so sweet it could be bottled and served as desert wine; "Uncle, don't play dumb; either you have, or you have not - and your silence echoes ominously. What was it? Did they leave you? Is that why you're here, and not in New York? Does it sting Oh, tell me you're writing about it all? You must feel like you're =drowning=! Or are you scared?" The gimlet is long gone, but Franky is reaching for C.B's champagne... "I'm not sure if I'd ever call my work 'in fashion,'" C.B. says, air quotes included, "but the critics do usually seem to like it, and yeah, it sells okay. So my sophomore novel will probably tank. I think that's how it goes. Or is it the third one? Anyone's guess." There's a small, wry smile on his face. He notices Gigi too, and suppresses an eyeroll, but mostly just ignores the woman. "Yeah, the movie's still stuck in development hell. I doubt it will ever get made, but that's fine. Too many kids getting shot for modern audiences to not piss their pants. It's fine when /superheroes/ do it, sure, but..." He glances over at Franky as she continues on, wrenching his champagne back from her. "Hey! Get your own. Or I'll go get you one." He doesn't yet hasten off to do that, though. "Franky, your Uncle Roland's great passion, his grand dame as it were, seems to be history. There's nothing wrong with that. Not everyone is the Wuthering Heights type, you know what I mean?" He actually /laughs/, like the way a normal person might laugh, except it shows his teeth and those are rather crooked and nicotine-stained and is he actually missing a few near the back? Did Roland's left eye twitch? Would he even allow something like that to happen on purpose? Regardless, he takes another sip of his cocktail and fixes his niece with a stare that starts hard and softens... a touch. "My dear," he begins, stressing the last ever so slightly, "Are you well? Do we need to call the doctor for you? Make more of a..." He chokes off the last with a slight cough, then continues. "I'm worried about you. You don't seem yourself." He allows C.B. to speak on his behalf a moment longer, taking another sip from his now almost empty glass. "The best drama comes from history," he agrees.
It seems like Roland is not the only one with a twitch, as when Franklyn finally processes what her uncle has to say, talks about calling the doctor, those words left unsaid with a cough... Well maybe those green eyes of hers just had to -squint- a bit, right? That's probably not a twitch, yeah? Surely she's just realising what she's being out of line, right? It must be merriment! Because Franklyn is laughing -- so musical, so bright! -- gesturing absently with her hand, swooping a loose bit of hair out of her eyes. "Do we ever seem like ourselves, uncle? What really =are= we, when we peel everything else back, but hunks of electrified meat being toted down a series of trials, like rats in a maze or slaves at the Olympiad? Tell me! Do you prefer Sophocles or Aeschylus?" Franky nudges C.B. with her fist, still speaking to Roland, "I'm for the former, ever time." Candice has been here. This whole time! Truly! It's just the pale, odd girl dressed in red with the sort of poise that just screams 'Why Yes, I Am Used To These Events, Come Take Me For My Cash In A Genteel Fashion' was spotted by a sharp-eyed veteran and upon her request, has been talking to various hospital doctors. Spirited conversations about treatments and advancements have been taking place, off in that corner! But of course, the Garreau Drama over there- not to mention some of the lead characters-- eventually attract her attention, and she looks over, each glance a bit longer, a bit more unblinking, until she finally decides, upon that laughter of Franklyn's, so very clear, to excuse herself from the presence of the medical professionals with a faint smile, and move towards the group, heralded by a gentle, warm perfume. But she doesn't interrupt. Just sort of... slips into the periphery of their little circle and stands there, glass in hand, smiling. Strange woman. "Naturally, no mention of Euripides," quips Roland not quite under his breath (although, was it a quip? That's a rather hard tone of voice for a off-hand remark). In a more conversational tone, he continues, "You ask me to for my favorite tragic Greek dramatist... why? Planning a run of the Theban Plays here in backwoods Vermont? Want to tantalize and scandalize the humble country folk with your high-minded dramatics and high-brow nature?" He forgets himself and gestures with his free hand, sloshing some booze over the rim of his glass. "Damn," he mutters, perhaps at that moment realizing that his tone of voice is quite a bit louder than he would like. C.B. snorts. "Franky is being perfectly herself. She doesn't need a doctor, she's probably just allergic to phonies. I'm not saying you're a phony, Roland. Jury's still out on that one." Bit of a wry smirk at that, as he tosses off the rest of that champagne. He turns to Franky and says, "Aristophanes." Hey, is that Candice over there? He squints at her, amused, eyebrows raised. "Come closer, Candice, we don't bite. Well, okay. No promises." C.B. has a little red in his cheeks, not because he's embarassed, but because he's probably had quite a bit to drink. So far, it's enough to make him talkative without bring out the worst of his belligerance. So far. Speaking of that, he gestures to Roland with his empty glass. "Actually, I'm writing a play that Franky's going to be directing and producing. It's /bound/ to tantalize and scandalize the humble country folk, but it's a combined effort. 'Scuse me a moment." Yes, he's going off to that open bar to get them drinks, because he doesn't have one right now, and that's just wrong. When was the last time that mention of Euripides got such a squinted eyed look of /pure suspicion/, such is the one Franklyn is giving Roland as she listens to him. How on earth has she taken that quip as a personal insult? Because surely that's what she has done: look at the way her hand raises to her chest, while her eyes dart from her uncle to C.B. then Candice and-- Oh. Where'd she come from? Franklyn's ginsoaked paranoia is halted by the pale face and red dress of the... Fair girl standing there. "...Can you believe this? I know /I/ can't believe it." She chatters on to Candice, looking around for a passing tray of drinks that she should most definitely not be having. "You'll have to forgive my uncle -- it's Candice, isn't it? I always want to call you Candide, but maybe it's because when I look at you, all I think is 'we must cultivate our garden'." Beam! Look, C.B. is explaining things to Roland -- maybe their play is why Franky seemed insulted! -- and better yet, drinks are imminent. Shouldn't Franky have a chaperone? The way she twist and flounces towards Candice, reaching for her hands without asking, it shows a utter lack of adherence to social decorum. It also shows an awful lot of her back: that scar! It winds itself down from Franky's shoulder to, ahem, past her hip; pale, faded Lichtenberg figure. Must've hurt. "Roland? Have you met Candice --... Ohmygawd, I've forgotten your last name?" Franklyn laughs, pink cheeked with gin -and- possible embarrassment, before chattering onwards. Non-stop with her... "Candice is a painter -- very talented, very. How are you, Candice? What do you need, where are you going, what's on your =mind=? No! What's on your /palette/?" Candice blushes -- a pretty color, a strange pattern for the Lost -- at Franklyn's phrases of cultivation and talent. CB earns a bit of a wry grin, however, "Please don't bite." Such a soothing, gentle low voice, tinged with a dash of amusement, "You know even tiny bruises show up when you're as pale as all this. How wonderful to see you both at a charity event!" Does she suspect them of not going out, or not being charitable? A wave as CB wanders off, before Candice focuses back on Franklyn, "Candice Ellison," She explains, before looking towards Roland and offering a friendly smile. "I paint landscapes, and there are such lovely ones around here. But when I heard there was a charity event," A shift towards Franklyn, "for a hospital, I wrote to my parents and showed up. I was ill often when I was younger," Towards Roland, an explanation, "So I've a bit of a love-hate relationship with them, but they do plenty of good." Good, the drinks tray again, every Garreau's best friend and worst enemy. Roland gratefully plucks a cocktail (something brown with cherries on the bottom but otherwise it doesn't matter what) and several cocktail napkins from that tray with a muttered thanks. "Yes, well, Isolde's passion is our pride, as it were," he answers without looking at Candice, wiping his hand. He finally looks toward the speaker. "How do you do... " He pauses here, sips the cocktail, coughs lightly, tries again. "How do you do, Ms. Ellison? Roland Garreau. Naturally. My pleasure." C.B. comes wandering back around, holding another tumbler -- a very full tumbler -- of brown liquid, neat, and what looks to be another gimlet for Franky. He hands her the drink without much ado, staying remarkably quiet for a moment as Candice takes center stage in the conversation. Maybe he's relieved to have a moment not to talk, as garrulous as he is right now, though after a large swallow of bourbon, he leans over to murmur something near Franky's ear. "Oh Miss Ellison, I couldn't miss this -- my uncle is correct about at least one thing; Isolde's passion is something to be proud about -- and like her dedication to charity, your own impassioned interpretation of the landscape should be celebrated widely. Uncle, you collect no?..." Franklyn echoes, then ushers Candice in Roland's direction -- giving him /a look/ as if to say 'be good!' when the man starts to cough. Is that more suspicion? A warning? Her just being a wicked bitch? Who can say. Franklyn is detangling from Candice, so she can step up besides C.B., crane her neck to listen to him - not that they have might height difference with her in those heels - and finally accept that gimlet while leaning in to murmur-murmur whisper-whisper to the Alexander boy. These two. How odd. As the whisper session goes on between CB and Franklyn, Candice gives them...well, a fond, affectionate, encouraging look. Simply pleased as punch. Look at how close the two are! Look how indulgent that little rise of the corner of her lips is! But she turns back towards Roland and offers a hand, "It really is nice to meet you. Isolde was the name on the invitation, wasn't it?" She sips the rest of her drink, before placing it on the tray and murmuring to the server - water, please. With a twist of lemon, lukewarm. That done, she smiles again, "I'm really not terribly, awfully famous. A gallery or two, and some positive reviews, but it is something of a passion of mine, since childhood. And you, Mr. Garreau? What do you do?" The last few moments finally seem to catch up to Roland as Franklyn "nudges" the conversation towards Candice. But then she is asking him questions about his work. He sips his Old-Fashioned-ish cocktail again (stalling), before answering, "I've written a couple books. Historical fiction. Alternative history." He was so proud of his work earlier, but now it's like the books aren't worth mentioning. "They seem popular with some, I suppose." He shrugs, a very un-Roland like thing to do regarding his relative fame. Isolde had disappeared for more than a few minutes and the doctor returns to grab her purse and to talk to one of her fellow doctors before she's heading back out with things. There's urgency in the exit, as well as a bit of glamour to push a contract through herself. | |
