The location, upon following the card's address, is most assuredly not present on Google Maps. It scarcely seems to be a club at all, when attendees arrive, the building a stately brownstone from the look of the façade. There is no flashing neon sign, no marker of hours of operation, nor any other indication that it is more than a home of some variety beyond the fact that, when one drives down the narrow, very much one-car path beside it, one enters what is clearly a fully functional parking lot in the rear.
Here, now, there are tasteful signs of welcome for its guests, assurances that no, they haven't just parked in some stranger's spot in the middle of urban no-man's land. A carpet, too, and an awning, to protect guests' complexions from the dreadfully drying rays of the day-star.
A guard stands at the door, impeccably dressed in a black suit, white shirt and charcoal grey tie. If a prospective guest does not present an invitation card or is not dressed to the nines, with a suitably small purse only large enough to carry a mobile phone, they -are- turned away. Politely. Firmly, but politely.
Inside, the building is far from ordinary, as are its guests. Tasteful, yes, always tasteful, but wealth fairly drips from its wainscoting, marble and parquet floor, guests likewise adorned with jewels and expensive attire. The foyer opens into a broad room which plainly takes up the majority of the first floor, the second floor split down the middle to create a gallery above.
The air is scented with expensive perfume and caviar, the gentle, Classical strains of a long-dead composer played by a real quartet in the far corner teasing the ear.
Clearly, this is not your standard night club.
Green comes in from the temproom hub.
Transportation was a problem for Alexandra that day but she somehow made it to the address on the card, perhaps through sheer force of will.
Jo arrives via a dark car, and gets out of it. She's got a very small handbag that matches her simple evening dress of a dark royal blue sewn with brilliants so that she looks like a galaxy is giving birth to her. She wears a stole that's clearly been made to match, hanging from her elbows. Her hair is up in some elegant hairstyle and her makeup is flawless, albeit restrained. She looks exactly the way she should: a lawyer used to moving in high society. She has the invitation in that very small bag, which she presents in order to get in. And once in, she walks forward and surveys the establishment.
Transportation was a problem for Alexandra that day but she somehow made it to the address on the card, perhaps through sheer force of will.
A sky-blue Audi S5 Convertible arrives at this house, and from it steps a woman who seem entirely ready for the formality and high-end nature of the event. Amanda Green is here, handing her keys off to the valet (surely, there is a valet?) and proceeding inside. The little Brit is dressed in black, a dress that goes all the way up to her neck, yet holds panels cut out of left and right flank, assuring she isn't too covered. The slit up the side goes almost to her hip, exposing a length of rather pale leg and thigh, seemingly entirely intentional. All the while, Green shows a soft smile, and is easily directed by whatever staff is on hand.
Imagine driving all this way, only to get turned away at the door - mortifying. Franklyn has done her best to avoid this unimaginable faux pas, and damned if it hasn't worked out for her: she glides on into the building, dressed in a diaphanous ankle length gown of midnight silk with some tastefully summery cream-and-gold floral print. Shoes? Gold heels with ankle ribbons. Tuxedo jacket? Left at the door -- so all she has to do is hold onto that teeny-tiny smartphone sized clutch with those immaculately manicured hands.
Yeah. Somebody spent a lot of money and/or time on tonight.
But still Frank's got this careless air about her; hair in a loose chignon, makeup minimal and dewy, jewellery subdued and body language all ultra super relaxed. The Garreau woman either assumes she's entirely /supposed/ to be here, or is a really very excellent actress. The interior is observed with cool reservation as she enters: eyes scanning for... The bar. Quartet's all good n' whatever, but champaign reigns.
Transportation was a problem for Alexandra that day but she somehow made it to the address on the card, perhaps through sheer force of will. The clothing, however, is not anything the girl can't handle. She's dressed in a floor lengthformal gown. It's a v-necked chiffon affair with puffed short sleeves, coloured a pale blush pink that complements the young woman's blue eyes. Her ordinarily wild curly hair has been carefully pulled back, and tucked into a long french braid and pulled forward over her left shoulder. She moves a little too much for it- and her footwear. At least the fabric shines nicely when she does.
The honey-brown haired young woman is bearing an effusive grin for the benefit of anyone who comes near, clutching the small purse she'd been afforded in hands covered with white evening gloves. They'd said formal and she went formal. Alex even found diamond stud earrings. Somewhere. When Frank passes her Alexandra stops to watch for a second. She even waves- but being as quiet as she is Alex won't take it terribly hard if she isn't noticed. There's exploration to be done. Discretely.
The club's membership seems to have been expecting newcomers tonight, for none of them appear surprised to see strangers entering their ostensibly elevated company. Anyone familiar with the local echelons of power may note a few familiar faces, business owners scattered here and there, financial advisors, very expensive lawyers. Oddly, there are a few school teachers, too, ordinary folks in dresses not quite up to the Diamond Standard, but still formal enough to pass muster.
The bar, as one leaves the foyer, is to one's left, powder rooms located to the right, should they be required.
As of yet, there is no sign of hosts or hostesses, no obvious signal that this is anything other than an ordinary evening at an extraordinary club. Curiouser and curiouser.
Beatrice shows, dressed in what passes for formal attire for her. Her 'coat' if you can call it that was a unadorned black leather jacket that came mid-riff with a popped collar. She checks the coat at the door, not having bothered with a purse or clutch or anything of the sort. She at least remembered the invitation.
As she doesn't drive or own a car, Max arrives by Uber. And she's probably the least fancily dressed person there. She doesn't exactly own a lot (or really any) fancy dresses or attires. So, she hopes she can go on in with the outfit she had worn for Logan's birthday. It's a black dress with various galaxy shapes printed onto it, flat sandals, stockings with black stars on them, and a small clutch purse. Her hair is worn down in loose waves, her lips painted red. As she makes her way to the entrance, she smiles confidently as she waits to see if she can get in. Even if her outfit isn't approved of, she has other methods to gain entrance.
Jo walks over to the bar and orders a glass of white wine. Once she gets it, she glides over to place near a column, so that she can survey the populace, as it where. She hasn't spoken to anyone yet, unless you want to count the quiet thanks to the bartender, or the tip she added onto the price of the wine. She doesn't sip from the glass, just holds it as a prop while she looks around.
Soon as she's inside, Green commenses with her usual ritual. Say hello, speak with a British accent, seem entirely charmingly and entirely unflappable. She's done this a million times before. It's all rote for the woman. And so, she makes her way to the bar. "Gin and tonic. Bombay, less you've something better," she orders. She waits, then gets her drink. Drink in hand, she surveys the group. For all this is wholly naturally, and bordering on /boring/, her eyes catch Franklyn. She stares for longer than is a polite glance. Longer than might be some acknowledgement of someone she knows. And then, without a word, she coninues looking about. To the woman in the celestial dress. "Max?" she asks, with a smile. "Fancy seeing you here. All right?" she asks.
Look at all these beautiful ladies and their diverse tastes -- what is this, a Lancôme press launch party or something? Franklyn's ocular pat-down of the premises in search of The Booze pauses when she sees Alex's wave. On rote, Franklyn smiles and wiggles her fingers at the honey-haired girl in return, the thin gold bangles on her wrists jingling together musically. The greeting doesn't escalate, though: Frank's attention glides on - little wave here, up-nod there: doing the rounds of acknowledging what passes for high society in these parts.
Jeez, this is like /hard social labour/, actual -work-.
Booze is needed. Franklyn points her pedicure in the direction of the bar and glides on over: giving Jo a curious glance. Does Frank recognise Jo? Not exactly - but her attention means she misses Green's look. Champagne, it is ordered and presumably promptly handed over. Drink in hand, the looking around continues: what did the invitation say about host/hostess again? Oh right, nothing.
Beatrice surveys the room with her height advantage, spotting someone she recognizes in the crowd. Parting the crowd like a rude nature photographer with a colony of penguin, Beatrice homes in on her destination. Beatrice gives Alex an almost predatory smile and a wink, having reached her target. "It is good you are here. If tonight goes poorly, will have someone to tell stories with after."
Alex seems content not to escalate greetings either. Hellos for all concerned but strangely she doesn't call out to anyone she knows. Max also draws a wave if she would like one. Green and Jo are both forced to accept one of those incandescent smiles and then the petite young woman settles herself in at the bar in order to order herself a drink. It takes a second, if only because she looks around to check what other people are having before she actually orders anything herself.
Despite the fact she's nearly fidgeting with anticipation Alex somehow manages to keep largely to herself. Right until Bearice is atop her like a gyrfalcon diving for a lone rabbit. The girl turns and starts with another of those smiles and a nod. "It's good to see you too. I hope it doesn't go poorly. This is- ... Well, did you see some of the dresses?" Her eyes drift back and forth, watching some of the people passing.
As she's approached by Green, Max offers her a smile. "Hey! Yeah, I got the invitation and I'm not the sort of person to usually get invited to these sort of things so I figured I'd check it out. See if maybe they sent it to the wrong person or not," she says with a chuckle and a playful wink. "How are you doing yourself?" she wonders. Those bright blue eyes of hers catch a glimpse of other familiar faces and slowly starts to make her way toward Beatrice and Alex, slow enough that it's easily implied that Green is invited to tag along.
"Forgive the hubris, but rather used to being invited to events like this. It's my job, you know. Show up, observe, write about whatever bloke thinks he's so special. With hope, it's not some numpty bastard who makes a fool of himself," Green explains, to Max. Seems she knows the woman. Appopriately, Green will follow Max, towards Alex and Beatrice. Along the way, she gives a few glances over to Franklyn. Overt glances. She's obviously looking, and staring. But then she looks back over. "Hel-lo," she says, with a smile.
Beatrice scratches a finger behind one ear, looking around the room. "Is my angle, maybe, but mostly I see small people in very expensive clothes." Beatrice carefully takes a seat, not putting her full weight on the chair to avoid a mishap should it not be as sturdy as it is fancy. "If the reason we are here is dull, I will not be staying long. Maybe get a burger. Still, I promised I would listen." Promised who, she doesn't say.
"If it ends up being dull a burger sounds nice," Alex agrees. She turns to carefully collect her drink from the bar, carefully holding the stem of the glaass in her white gloved hands. As the girl is turning people are aleady upon them. "Hello," Alex greets cheerfully, indicating both Max and Green with her smile as she does so. The girl takes a deep breath then and holds it for a second, perhaps two, then taps a heel against the floor. Four inches and white, not that they are visible often in a gown like hers. "I guess we'll find out soon."
Hey, isn't that the Miller girl who runs a style blog and firefighter widow's charity or whatever? Suddenly there is a riot of laughter, as Franklyn and the minor Miller cousin are exchanging air kisses and pleasantries by the bar. It's all very speedy and animated and overly-friendly. Dresses are complimented, phones are taken out of little purses - say 'champaign!' - SNAP. Hello Instagram. More laughter, some eye rolling and compliment deflection from Franklyn. Socialite 101 over there.
It's enough to make an ol' cynical curmudgeon sick.
But there probably aren't many around, right?
Franklyn, unable to continue the ruse of not spotting Green, finally 'ohs!' and exchanges theatrical goodbyes with her possible Miller Frenemy, then starts gliding on over to her and Max. Glass of champaign is lifted in greeting, as Franklyn sighs and smiles brightly, "Amaaanda, girl you slay me. Look at her," Frank turns and questions Max, "Ohmygooood, doesn't she just make you /sick/? Ugh I love it." Champaign, sipped as she side-eyes Green, then mms and gives Max her full attention as she asks: "Moschino?"
Jo returns Alex's large smile, but doesn't move from where she is. Possibly she's shy. Or just restrained. Who knows? She seems to be having a good time, however, in her own head, and in no hurry to change that.
A slight commotion in the gallery up above produces a small gathering of men and women, three of whom are carrying trays with a variety of items. Cards, it seems, and a few bowls, upturned, among others.
A man and woman descend the stairs ahead of the rest, the duo conversing quietly until they reach the bottom of the stairs.
The musicians, knowing their cue, complete their latest piece precisely as the gentleman's feet touch the floor, the woman's heels clicking down shortly thereafter.
"Delighted to see you all." His accent is slight, a hint of French Canadian not at all unusual in -this- state of all states. Urbane, he is a grey-haired man with bright blue eyes, slim rectangular glasses, and a charming smile. He wears a classically understated suit in dove grey wool, and his shoes are black and polished to a shine. "My name is Heinrich Feldmann, of the Feldmann Institute, and my lovely companion is Marguerite Dumont."
The woman is petite, of indisputably hispanic heredity, despite the very French name. Her eyes are large and dark, a polite smile lingering oh so naturally on perfectly painted lips. Her hair is pinned into a sleek chignon, and she wears a tastefully understated Little Black Dress which most assuredly did not originate in a department store.
There are a small handful of knowing looks, recognition scattered through the crowd, which waits in polite curiosity. Seems THEY weren't told the reason for this shindig either.
Heinrich speaks up again, lightly accented voice warm and amused. "A contest, this evening. A guessing game. We all know the Zener cards..." A gesture sends one of the assistants, a well-dressed, model-slim young woman, slipping out to begin offering cards to each guest by name. The cards have no immediate purpose, but they are thick cardstock, black, textured, and each does have an individual number written in silver ink.
"He," Marguerite speaks up, accent slightly more pronounced, "or she who guesses most correctly will win the prize." She smiles, posture self-assured, and of course doesn't specify the prize, no no. This is far too well-bred a gathering to ask -that-.
"Uh, moschino to you too?" Max replies a bit unsurely, thinking perhaps it's some sort of greeting. After taking a quick glance around, she returns her bright-eyed gaze to the small group that has gathered around each other. There's a friendly smile upon her painted lips and she tucks her clutch purse underneath her arm. Before she can say anything to them, her attention is pulled toward the man and woman. A brow raises at the cards that are handed out to everyone, her own is briefly studied over. "What exactly are we guessing?" she questions, looking back toward the couple that was apparently in charge.
Beatrice gives a small tch sound, speaking lowly in a tone to suggest she is losing hope in the evening being her shade of interesting. "Cards again." Beatrice glances over to Max as she speaks up, something said getting a short and sharp exhale through Beatrice's nose and a tinge of amusement on her face. She seems to have decided to let this play out.
"A designer, love," Green murmurs aside, to Max, quiet enough that most of the gathering shouldn't hear the correction. And while it's surely mean to be helpful, it also carries with it that weight. The weight of being corrected at a formal engagement. Green's smile, to Max, is entirely sincere. She means to help! She also ignores Frank, entirely, as she looks over towards the pair that descends.
"Wie gehts, Monsieur Feldmann, and Madame Dumont," Green greets, rather formally, as the two make their way onto the floor and announce themselves. Green doesn't ask a question, but merely accepts her card, as it's offered. "Well, suppose we shall have to find out," she says to Max. It's followed by a whisper to the woman. Green then gives a look, over to Franklyn. She stares for a moment, before she rather intentionally and overtly looks away, to focus on Beatrice. "Your accent is lovely, my dear. Any chance we've met?" she asks.
"We will probably find out soon," Alex reflects, tilting herh ead slightly as she studies the card she has been handed with some care. "How are you?" The girl asks of Max next before turning to look around. "All of you." Each person now in the group is studied briefly in turn by questing blue eyes but eventually Alexandra's gaze ends up on Jo.Perhaps she is testing something because Alex waves politely at the woman in the sparkling formal dress, her gaze bright. That, of course, is the direction in which Alex heads. "Your dress is lovely. Will I be intruding too much if I keep trying to start a conversation?"
Franklyn's lips compress with suppressed amusement, and she nods to Max's uncertainty: bobbing her head towards the woman's starry dress. "Your dress is cute." Smile widens, but before Franklyn can add anything beyond a side-eye to Green, there is a Commotion. Champagne, that bubbly drink from some part of Europe or whatever, is sipped while Franklyn turns to listen to M. Feldmann and Mme. Dumont. Curious and curiouser.
The polite curiosity doesn't stay though, as the details of tonight's game are explained: Franklyn looks dubious as she's handed her card, eyebrow arching as she scans the room to pick up on the general reaction. Beatrice's titchy huff gets a wry smile and Alex gets an affirming nod, before Franklyn speaks in sotto-voice to Max and those gathered close by, "Italian lottery, perhaps?" Then she's inspecting her card and shutting up, because there's only so much chatter Franklyn can offer without being /overtly/ rude.
Jo smiles warmly at Alex. She takes a card when it's handed to her, with the hand that's holding her clutch, until she can put the wine down on a circulating tray of empties. "I'm not offended at all. I'm Jo Montgomery. Your dress is lovely, as well. I haven't been in the area for very long, is this normal?"
Beatrice glances down to Green, looking her over thoughtfully before offering a shrug in return. "Maybe." She takes her card in turn, setting it down on the counter next to her without a glance before turning attention back to Green. "Beatrice Miller." The greeting is brief, but friendly enough. She gives a glance back over to the hosts. "Maybe talk after -" A mild skeptic shift in her expression. "- Whatever this is."
Max gives a small nod to Green at the whisper, offering an appreciative smile as well. "I'll definitely keep that in mind," she says quietly to her. Then she glances to Franklyn and chuckles. "Thanks!" she replies as she smooths her dress out with a swift motion of her hands. "My friend Logan picked it out for me for his birthday party," she explains. Wearing the same dress to multiple parties? Scandalous! Not that Max actually cares.
"Es geht mir gut, and thank you for the courtesy," is Heinrich's reply, his German accent as flawless as his English isn't. Slender and erect, he glances at the remaining two assistants, who seem to have been waiting for their cue. A man and a woman, they scatter, going different directions, to begin murmured conversations with guests. Since Green addressed him, he follows the young woman headed their way, Max's question answered by dint of the cards laid on the tray as examples.
https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/29/Zener_cards_8color9.svg
Heinrich plucks five cards from the deck, careful never to reveal them while deftly inserting them into faint slits beneath the bowl-like cover of the ever so expensive whatever it is. "Do us the honour of guessing first," he instructs Green, warmly amused. The assistant waits, attentive, hand ready near the back of the device. "Which cards are where?"
From the sound of it, Marguerite is conducting a similar test across the room. There are only thirty people or so, in all. Not so many.
Alex disappears, swirling down into the black hole of the exit portal.
"Hel-lo, Jo. Amanda Green," Green says introduces herself, with a smile, to the woman standing her proximity. Jo might recognize the name - she writes for the Tamarack Times, and was just recently broadcasting on WFBR. She's also wrote a best-seller novel, but who cares about that. Green then turns to Beatrice, and gives a gracious nod. "After whatever this is," she agrees, just as clueless as the other woman, even if she if she seems entirely put together and nonplussed.
Green turns her attention to Heinrich as he approaches. She flashes a smile. "Das ist ein wunderbares Ereignis. Danke für die Einladung," she says, her German entirely fluent, if not marked by her English accent. She then listens, and gives a faint laugh. "I had always thought green stars ought to go first. Followed by the red cross, blue waves, and then-" She pauses, the glance up to Frankly, gazing at her for a moment, then back to Heinrich, "-golden circles. Squares at the last, of course," she declares.
"Hmm, what was that? I missed what she said." Franklyn asks airily, leaning in to better her Max's answer: she's acting as if she's privy to whatever Green whispered to Max. Bold move, Ms. Garreau. She's smiling though, all casual and cool and totally composed. It's probably the bubbly - raised in toast to Max's dress. "To Logan's taste, then." Bottom's up. Franklyn looks for a place to abandon the glass, while trying to keep an eye on whatever's happening with Heinrich and Green.
Some kind of funny business with cards. Has Franklyn all caught up. German? Why German? And why -those- symbols? Franklyn turns and speaks sotto-voice to Max and Beatrice: it's the first time doubt has creeped into her voice all night. "...Have either you played this before?"
Max curiously watches the interaction between Green and the man, smiling curiously. Those bright blue eyes of hers flit between the cards and Green, interested in seeing how close of a guess would she get.
The assistant presses a button on the back of the device after each of Green's answers, showing immediately whether or not the guesses were accurate. Only the last two were, in this case, golden circle and black square. She makes a note, checking Green's card and name, but only offers a shy smile if spoken to, keeping her own communication to murmured requests and courtesies.
"Two of five! A worthy effort." While Heinrich laughs, a genial, warm expression inviting others to join him, he glances from face to face, then settles on Max, a gesture inviting the woman to approach. Curiosity should be rewarded, after all.
Across the room, other attendees seem to be getting into the entertainment, albeit peculiar entertainment, laughter drifting over the soft, renewed strains of Classical music from the instrumentalists.
Beatrice gives Heinrich a look as though she is still struggling with the fact he is serious. She decides to fortify her ability to participate, turning away to look towards whoever is managing the bar. "Shot, that bottle."
"A worthy effort, mein Herr, is the best I can ever hope for," Green says, her smile warm and polite as ever. She then glances aside, once more, to Franklyn. "Seems the golden circle and black square was correct," she declares, as she stares at the other woman. Then a glance back to Max, and she reaches out, to lay her hand on the woman's shoulder. "Have a go. Worst case, you're entirely normal and go about living life," she says, with a faint, but sincere, smile.
Two outta five. Franklyn makes a low humming sound: she's dubious and concerned, now. A skeptic, if you will. Giving Heinrich and Max a look as they go about the whole guessing-game process, Franklyn folds her arms across her chest and lifts her chin. Sheesh, girl, it's only a /game/. Why so serious? Her questions unanswered, Frank leans towards Green so she can speak softly, "I suppose you've played before, Lieber Frau?" Yeah. Frank doesn't speak German - that's all gleaned from screen and stage. "Golden circle, black square..." She echoes back, then attempts to return to that oh-so-casual demeanour; smiling a bit as Beatrice barks at the bartender. Nice. Shame she just doesn't seem as carefree as before. "Why them, Mz Green?"
Still. Franklyn can't help but glance to Max and Heinrich again. Reluctantly curious.
Green smiles beatifically to Franklyn. She leans aside, then, as Max takes her turn. "Few are the games I've not played before," she stage whispers. Loud enough for everyone to hear. "Lieber Frau," she adds, "Generally means 'dear wife'. Or something appropriately dear," she explains, to the other woman. Then a pause. "And I just felt the golden circle and-..." she stares. "...-sqaure. Ought come last."
There are as many shots as Beatrice can pay for, and none of the liquor here is anything lower than top shelf. Much of it is tippity tiptoes barely possible to reach above the top shelf shelf, even.
Max studies the man for a few long moments before a smirk touches her lips and she chuckles. Her expression relaxes, although it was already pretty casual. Then she sets her sights on the cards. "Hmmm. Okay. The square. The circle. The squiggly lines. The star. Then the plus sign," she guesses without any real thought. Glancing down to the cards, she is still curious to see how many she got right. If any at all.
As before, the assistant presses what is presumably a button on the back of the device with each guess spoken, cards slid out, out, out, out, out... and not a single guess is accurate. Smiling down at Max, Heinrich lifts a hand to pat the back of her shoulder, consoling, "Better luck next time... Max, is it?" A quick study, or good at reading things the assistant wrote. Either way, he lifts that smile toward Franklyn, next, seeing as Beatrice is drinking herself into readiness. "Ah, and if it isn't ElektraEtc." Why, yes, these total strangers did, indeed, look into the backgrounds and lives of their guests enough to learn their Instagram handles. "Care to give it whirl?" A perfectly germane spark of what appears to be hostly mischief lights blue eyes.
To her credit, Franklyn only looks semi-embarrassed at her German faux pas - her straucheln if you will. A hand is waved dismissively to Green and she laughs quietly to try and cover it up, like /she/ knew what she was talking about in German. Not her finest performance. At least she skips to the next subject - squinting as she peers back at Max and the tray, waiting to see the cards revealed. "So like... Gut intuition? Not some Hildergardian vision, or whatever?" Soo dismissive.
Maybe she regrets that tone, as Franklyn's next move when she's referred to by that moniker is to laugh again and put on a face of affable ease. Why should she be upset or wary? She's been Recognised - Franklyn's apparently /flattered/. "Well, since you asked so nicely..." That smile doesn't quite reach her eyes as she hesitates, then responds swiftly: "Black square, red cross, gol-- green star, blue waves, and the gold circle." Bit done, Franklyn glances to the side - reading the faces of those around her.
"Perhaps, love, you're not psychic," Green says, to Max, with a warm smile. Teasing and comforting, all at once. Because, really, it was no foul to 'lose' at a silly made up game. Once Max is done, Amanda Green takes a step aside, to Franklyn. Without any sort of invitation, she reaches out, to lay a hand at the other woman's waist. "Impress me, dear wife," she says, with a grin. "Though let's not take Hildegard's name in vain. She was quite impressive," Green says. As if Franklyn is not.
A veteran of social wars, any recognition of the Instagram princess' faux pas goes completely unmentioned by either Heinrich or his so-polite, so-quiet associate, cards inserted, guesses made, and...
Incorrect.
Correct. Correct. Correct. Correct.
Well-groomed brows lift in surprise at Franklyn's accuracy -- point in fact, the only card which WASN'T accurate was the Black Square. It should have been a gold circle.
"Well, well..." the man applauds, restrained, quiet, not carrying far. "The best guess yet." Flashing a swift smile toward Beatrice, he asks, "Will you do better?"
Beatrice doesn't look at Heinrich when he comes to Beatrice, simply downing the shot before speaking to him in a calm and disinterested tone. "Boxes." Seems the drink didn't /quite/ fortify her enough to take the exercise seriously. If she card counted even a little she'd know that isn't possible still. She gestures Heinrich on towards the next person without looking to see the result, not seemingly particularly apologetic. She looks over to Green and Franklyn. She may have yet more snark in her, but instead picks up the now empty shot glass to roll between her fingers introspectively. "That is a good drink." Seems she can appreciate some things at least.
The man blinks slowly, visibly displeased by Beatrice's dismissive attitude, but regains his composure with a tight smile for the lumberjill Miller, slender, manicured hands deftly sliding fresh cards into the slots on the back of the device. "Come, now," he urges, albeit without quite as much professional warmth as before. "Surely you don't mind a simple guess. A few moments of your time, and you could win oh, so much."
Across the room, a groan heralds someone else's failure at the little 'test' -- amidst much laughter from others, Marguerite never once looking Heinrich's way.
"Hah, maybe I should take a note from her canticles and be thy goode wyfe and valorous jointress of our lord-- /Jesus/." Franklyn's airy quip back to Green takes a sudden u-turn into alarmed territory as Heinrich's assistants reveal her cards. Lip bit to hold back a possible f-bomb, Franklyn's features scrunch up into a rather terse scowl: much too bitchy for this polite society.
Seems like someone didn't get the result they wanted.
It takes Frank a few moments to compose herself, looking any which way but Green. Beatrice gets her attention, and a slightly too keen laugh. "Do you think they'd bring over a bottle?" As Heinrich get's all Super Disappointed with Miz Miller, it's Frank's cue to turn away: trying to get the attention of the bar staff. There's a lot of hand gesturing. Mime camp's really paid off.
"One would think-..." Green starts, as Franlyn's guesses are revealed. She doesn't continue her thought, though, as she turns to look at Franklyn. She stares at the woman, as the woman looks any which way but at her. "You might be psychic, Miz Garreau. Though I doubt you'd make a 'good wyfe' to anyone. Especially Jesus," Green opines. Still, she keeps an arm about that woman's waist as she, too, looks over to Beatrice. Green smirks. "Believe you've insulted our host, Miz Miller. Despite be not-square..."
Beatrice picks up the card with her name on the bar in front of her, rising from her seat and stepping over to Heinrich. She looks at the man for a long pause before speaking. "Appeal to greed. Very American." She takes the card she was given, slipping it into his suit's outer breast pocket and giving it a light pat. "Das Vedanya." Turning, she starts walking towards the door man to collect her jacket.
Max gives Franklyn a small applause as the woman manages to guess most of the cards correctly. "I hope you win. I think you'll really like the prize," she says with a wide grin. Of course, Max wouldn't know what the prize is, right?
Heinrich permits Beatrice her choice, expression bland and oh so polite. "A pleasant evening, miss Miller." No, he does not state any polite expressions of seeing her again, though he does cast a subtle look aside toward Max when she intimates knowledge of the prize. Regardless, he ushers his assistant onward, toward the next group, shuffling cards as he goes.
Franklyn oophs and presses her fingertips to her breastbone, staggering back a step and rolling her eyes up as Green speaks to her in an exaggerated display of pain. "Slings and arrows, Mz. Green, slings. and. arrows - but why be a /wife/ when you can be a success?" Esoteric theatre re-referencing over, she stands up straight and brushes her hair from eyes with a flick of her wrist - only to have that smile to Green melt right off her face as the exchange between Beatrice and Heinrich gets heated.
Ooooh.
Frank leans in closer, speaking sotto-voice to Green and Max as her eyes watch the Miller woman lumber off towards the exit. "...What was her name? Beatrix Miller? I haven--" She stops, full attention on Max, curiosity piqued. "...Why do you say that?" Franklyn's brow knots with concern or scheming, moving to stand a little straighter: trying to read Heinrich's reaction without outright gawking at their Host. Another low-volume high-speed message is murmured to Green and Max, "C'mon then, spill it you two: what's going on?"
Beatrice disappears, swirling down into the black hole of the exit portal.
"Do not call me Miz Green, Franklyn," Green quips back, agitation in her voice, a level of offense seemingly entirely unsuited for the offense given. As if Green was already ready to be mad at Franklyn. Neverind that Green herself used similar language! "And if you are suggesting Miz. of Bingham was anything but a success-..." She eyes Franklyn, but stops any further criticism. Her gaze turns off to Max, then back to Franklyn. "Haven't the foggiest. I'm just used to this nonsense," she admits. Though she does turn an eye to Max. "Some insider information, Max?" she asks.
A bubbly blonde, all cheer and giggles, seems to be making the rounds of the room, wearing clothing which looks like it must be utterly impossible to -bend- in, it's so perfectly form-fitting, tailored to each and every curve. Hope she doesn't eat anything, or she won't fit in the bugger. Her voice is a perky soprano, chirpy and sweet, and her perfect, expensively streaked curls bounce as she teeters her way over on too-high heels to enthuse, "Isn't this fun?" to the group of total strangers, with all the goodwill and you're-my-best-friend-even-though-we've-never-met-before of a puppy dressed up by some horrific well-intentioned owner's whim. "I thought I'd do poorly but I got three right and my mother always said I was something special and I knew she was right because I always guess well on lottery tickets and papa even let me kiss his stallion before he raced because I was his lucky charm, and oh! I'm so sorry!" She does seem deeply crushed by her lack of good manners, too, blue eyes wide with shamed dismay. "Penelope Bingham. But you can call me Penny!" As if that will make things all better.
The look that Max is given by Heinrich is returned with an innocent expression. How would /she/ know what the prize is? Maybe she just figures that Franklyn will be happy with whatever she's given if she wins. Maybe. Glancing back to Green and Franklyn, the enchanted mortal simply chuckles. "Franklyn is a woman with tastes. This party is a classy one. I'm sure that she'll enjoy whatever the prize is," she states, because being vague and not actually answering anything is better than attempting to lie or come out with the truth of her psychic nature. Then she looks to Penny, offering her a friendly smile. "Nice to meet you, Penny!"
Franklyn's smile is gracious at Max's cold-reading of her situation: it's true flattery will curb a lot of nosey questions, at least for the moment. But what's this?
Oh, giiirl. At Green's agitated quip, Franklyn's eyebrows raise and her mouth drops open - just a little - with shocked amusement. Oh, it's gonna be like this, eh? She leans back and gives Green a careful once-over, but before the preverbal earrings can be taken off an Real Talk started, up pops a bran new Penny.
"...Ohmygod, /right/?" Hmm. Is Frank being snarky? She's definitely suddenly mirroring Penny's bubbly attitude. "You must be -sooo- lucky, kissing a stallion? That's like, Catherine the Great level, for sure." Biiiig smile, and Frank cocks her head to the side. "-Suuuper- great to meet you Penny, that's like a totally mind blowing dress. So. Why are you here?"
Yeah. Franklyn's being a fucking bitch to this poor girl. She can't even fake nice.
Green gives Franklyn a wholly skeptical look. Franklyn. Taste. What is this world she's found herself in? One wherein she keeps her composure, and reacts to nothing. That's what. "If you care to share the prize with us, Max, we'd not be opposed," she says, to the other woman, entirely pleasantly and politely. No demand, to be sure.
She then glances over to Penny. Penny Bingham. Bingham, Bingen, sounds enough alike, who's to say! "Pleasure to meet you, Penny. Amanda Green, you can call me Green. "This is Franklyn Garreau, who has no idea how rude she is. Call her whatever you please. And this is Max-... Forgive me, Max, I cannot recall if you gave me a last name," she says, with a wholly apologetic smile to the other woman.
Oh. Oh dear. Franklyn broke a puppy.
Penny all but wilts under the theatrically bitchy reaction, at least intelligent enough to recognise that it IS bitchy, expensive heel clicking on the expensive parquet floor as she takes a slight step back out of sheer self-protection. "I--" The blonde hesitates, be-ringed and be-jeweled fingers wringing in front of her expensively flat tummy. Is that...? Yes. That is a tear, a single perfect dewy tear escaping the falsies of the blonde's lower lash line to roll down over her cheek. Franklyn should be ashamed of herself; what if Penny messes up her contouring when she fixes her face?
The blonde sniffs, once, quite distraught, and looks at Green as she wails, "I just wanted to see if I woooonnn!" in a wobbly soprano before teeter-tottering off in a click-click-click-click rush to the powder room, leaving behind a waft of sweet rose perfume.
"Just Max is fine," the enchanted mortal replies with a flash of a smile to Green. Then she looks over to Penny, her brows furrowing a bit, then a frown touching her lips as the blonde runs off, possibly in tears. "Aww. You didn't have to be mean to her," she says to Franklyn. There's a pause, a moment of thought and consideration before she says, "If you go apologize to her, and sincerely mean it, I'll tell you what the prize it." And with her tone of voice, it's apparent that she knows what it is. Or at least thinks she knows what it is.
So. How can being a super bitch be spun? With arrogance and social clout, of course. Only does Franklyn have any influence? She definitely has no shame: at Green's words she gasps, as the shock of being called out openly is swiftly reconfigured into a front, like she has no idea why this is happening. "What? I'm serious - honey, you're dress is like--" Too late, Frank. Damage done. Penny is click-click-clicking away, and Franklyn is left... Arching an eyebrow and snorting huffily under her breath. Judgey.
The a smidgen to sympathy. Right around her eyes.
It's quickly eclipsed by more judgment, as her jaw sets in stubborn defiance and she looks from Green to Max, assessing what she-without-a-last-name has to say. Takes a second, but she softens - finger pointing at them both in turn, "Look, it's not my fault that girl's fortitude is like candyfloss left in the rain. How'dja think she's /ever/ going to survive in the world, if she can't deal with a little conflict, eh?" HUFFY sigh, and Frank consents, "If the both of you really think it's /valuable/, for your butts and your Herr Hiemlick or whatever, /we/ can all go talk to her."
Chatty Franky pauses, leaning towards the bar to try and lift a rogue drink. "...Unless someone even incrementally more interesting engages us midway 'tween here and the bathroom. Then bets are off. Deal?"
Green just stares at Franklyn. Stares and stares. Finally, she gives a huff, and looks to Max. "She can't help herself. This is Franklyn in her natural state. Offensive and lacking empathy," she says. This comes from Green, who still has an arm about Franklyn's waist. She turns to look back to the other woman. "People are allowed to enjoy themselves. And yes, she's likely wholly useless, but-..." She looks back to Max, then gestures. "We'll never know what the prise is without!" she declares. Then her hands shifts, off Franklyn's back, and to take her hand.
"Hurts me that I feel so strongly for you," she mutters out, as she turn and starts in pursuit of Penny. Dragging Franklyn with, all the while. And, hopefully, Max as well. She'll go right into the ladies, if that's where the blonde went.
Heinrich is not the one to approach, as it so happens. That honour belongs to Marguerite, after a brief conference with Herr Heinrich unt his assistant. Before Green and Franklyn can go much farther than a few steps, the petite, caramel-skinned woman is click-clicking her elegant way across the floor toward the group, the only male assistant making a bee-line for the foyer in the background while the two females go to have a quiet word with the musicians, who obligingly find a graceful place to conclude their latest piece of auditory art. "You are Franklyn Garreau," she confirms, dark eyes bright, sharp, alert, but not unfriendly. On a mission, she is. "You are ze winner. If you will follow me, please?" A slender arm gestures toward the foyer where they all entered the building. Heinrich seems to be waiting there.
There's a glance between Marguerite and Franklyn as the trio are suddenly stopped in their tracks. Max smirks fainly, then glances to Franklyn. "Well. It would still be nice for you to apologize to Penny. She survives just fine in her world, it seems. No reason you have to burst her bubble with reality. I mean, wouldn't it be nice if we were all so blissfully ignorant of some of the realities of the world?" she points out. Then she chuckles and shakes her head.
Franklyn snorts - incredulous and possibly defensive in the face of Green's assessment, "/Whatever/. I am *not* getting into this with you here," Yeah, this isn't even Frank's final form. She turns, addressing both Green and Max, "But that's wrong. I'm /pragmatic/. That girl just came trouncing on over, unannounced, right? It wasn't my fault she wasn't ready to engage socially. If you don't like my peaches, then don't shake my tree." See? She's totally not even getting into it here, really.
What Frank is getting is a drink. Champagne in hand, she does an about face - shoulders back, head held high, mentally preparing herself to glide over to the bathroom and straight up lie to that poor girl for the sake of politeness and--
There's Marguerite. Damn. She looks incredible. Franklyn just smiles and listens and... Looks from Marguerite to Green and Max, gesturing for them to come along as well. See? Doesn't matter if Frank's offensive and unempathetic, she's still rewarded because she's #blessed. "C'mon then lovies, let's go see what the fuss is about?" Her smile tightens a bit, and she laughs with and/or at Max's words. No reply. She's assuming Marguerite will let the two come along with her to the Secret Prize.
"Never have I ever tasted peaches so salty," Green quips, to Franklyn. She then looks past her, to Max. There's a touch of objection in her features, but she doesn't voice whatever she was feeling. Overall, the message is the same, and she puts her faith in that. And so she drags - yes, if Franklyn resists she'll be dragged - Franklyn along, towards the bathroom. Until the intervention comes.
"Oh, Madame Dumont," Green says, flashing a smile. A lovely smile, entirely inviting, as if she wasn't just scolding the woman whose hand she holds. Mention of a prize, she looks aside, to Franklyn. Agreement to head onward, and Green just gives a faint nod, and heads that way. She does not let go of Frank's hand.
Why, yes, Marguerite has no qualms about letting Franklyn's apparent entourage follow along, and with the ushering of the assistants and a genial wave of Heinrich's arm, the other guests are urged to trail outside as well.
A very different outside than it was before, one might note.
Bright lights have been set up, fully camera-worthy, to combat the evening's shadows, along with cameras to catch everyone exiting the building, and at the bottom of the walk -- a car.
A very expensive car.
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The event is timed meticulously, Marguerite walking just slowly enough to ensure that the other party-goers are almost all outside and lining the stairs down before she turns, angled oh so perfectly for the cameras, to hold a hand out for a clasp, an emotional control unit offered with the left hand. How well does Franklyn remember the shake, accept diploma maneuver from school?
"Congratulations! Franklyn Garreau has won the Feldmann Industries contest, and we are most pleased to present her prize: a month-long retreat in Arcadia, all expenses paid, and an Aston Martin Vanquish to get her there in grand style."
Cameras? Well, Max hangs back and tries to remain out of the way of them as best as she can. She's unimportant, focus on Franklyn, the winner! She's even all smiles when they start to announce the prize... until they mention Arcadia, that is. She blinks a few times, then frowns. Even if she hates being in front of cameras for various reasons, she moves quickly (though still subtly, because Max is all about that finesse when it's important), toward Franklyn. There's a wide and beautiful smile for the cameras as she leans in and whispers something to Franklyn.
"I know we don't know each other very well, but please, trust me on this.... You can take the car if you really want it but do /not/ go on that trip. Not now, not ever if someone offers something similar to you again," she whispers to Franklyn. There's an urgency to her tone that is very opposite to that casual demeanor that Max usually gives off.
Franklyn's mouth opens to reply to Green, but before sound happens, they've stepped outside.
Oh. This is... Unexpected.
But is it a bad thing, though? Franklyn blinks - the cameras are going to have some footage of actual shock on her face, the uncomfortable kind of 'is this going to be a horribly embarrassing situation' kinda thing. But hey, it's only a flash: then she's putting on a big, gracious-yet-happily-surprised smile and looking from Max to Green with wide 'OMG' eyes. Green? Get's a big ol' tight squeeze of a hug that lasts long enough for Franklyn to murmur something. If she wanted. Who knows, she's not facing the cameras or most of the crowd. Letting go, she turns to the retreating Max and gives her a wink, raising her hands over her mouth in a very gesture heavy display of 'I've just won all this stuff'.
But wait. There's a whisper. Frank's brow knots in Pure Confusion at Max's words - ugh, that's gonna look weird on camera. Smile! Laugh a bit like it was a joke, and not something unsettling to hear. Only her two companions can probably hear Frank speak lowly, through her hands, "Uuh, okay... But what the /actual/ fuck is going on?" Laughter - carefree enough, - then she's hunching her shoulders, adding quickly and quietly. "Damn, think this is going to make that apology a little harder to swallow?"
Then she's turning, raising a hand to give a wave to someone she presumably knows, before gliding over to shake Marguerite's hand in that old school style. It was /offered/, after all.
"I don't know what to say!" Frank really does look a little lost for words. Hopefully that comes across as charming. Mostly.
Now, Green had no idea /this/ was happening. No idea at all. But when she walks, hand-in-hand with Franklyn, into the surprise, she instantly assumes a different face. Because, honestly, this isn't the first time she's been in a similar situation. Without missing a beat, Amanda Green is on. She gives Frank's hand a tug, only so much so she can pull the woman towards her, and kiss her cheek. Then it's all smiles and laughter. Because, hey, isn't this just wonderful!
At least, until Max's warning comes. There's a brief flash of confusion on the woman's face, but it's quickly dispelled. She gives a nod, and a quick whisper, before she's back to smiling. "We'll talk," she promises, to Max. As if she has some power to control what Franklyn does or does not do. Then her eyes are back on the woman who has won.
"Oh, Franklyn! This is incredible!" she pipes out. "Mention the theater!" she adds, quickly, in a stage whisper. Because Amanda Green is familiar with the concept of 'publicist'.
The Emotional Control Unit, a little rectangle which easily fits in the palm, is handed to Franklyn as Marguerite half-turns, an arm moving about behind the winner's shoulders to gently urge her, and Green by default as her mobile bestie appendage, down toward the car itself.
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She explains sotto voce, "It is key, keyfob and start button in one. Place it into the slot and press to start," all while smiling for the cameras, playing the part of Vanna White, and guiding Franklyn toward the driver's side door to open it for her.
Heinrich, meanwhile, goes into a patter about how lovely the Florida resort is, how private, how many wonderful things Franklyn can expect to experience there in her escape from reality, etc. etc.
The other guests listen with mild envy in some cases, ennui in others, interest in more, and -- yes, there is Penny, makeup repaired, just in time to see Franklyn, puppy-crushing bitch monster, being escorted into the prize. Her face crumples again, and she starts to rush down the stairs without recalling her teetery heels...which is a severe miscalculation.
Not only does she have six-inch stiletto heels not meant for being run in, but she also has a dress too tight to allow for much mobility below the hips. Penelope Bingham makes quite the show-stealing disaster-in-progress when she catches her heel in the carpet, said heel snaps with a sharp crack .. and the bubbly blonde's ankle snaps similarly a few stairs down, foot quite visibly at an angle it should not, by nature, be capable of bending in.
Penny, predictably, shrieks like a banshee cross-bred with a rabid, anguished teakettle, but even if her ankle weren't broken, she couldn't stand. Her ruddy skirt's too tight, and she can barely bend enough to kneel.
When Franklyn breaks a puppy, she breaks it hard.
Max gives a nod to Green, a curious expression lingering in her bright blue eyes. Before she can say anything, to either Green or Franklyn, Penny comes crashing into the scene. She blinks a few times, unsure how to react. After a moment or two, she glances to Franklyn, offering a smile. "This would be a good time to step in. Help someone you wronged in the past. The very near past," she says with a chuckle.
What even is this thing, which Franklyn finds in her hand? With Marguerite guiding her and Green-by-proxy down and over to that preposterously expensive car, Franklyn seems overly preoccupied with the small, rectangular glass-ish cube. It takes her a few seconds to process Marguerite's words, and who knows if Heinrich's are even getting through -- Green's do, though, although Franklyn doesn't immediately act on them. Presumably that will be later, with press or something.
Franklyn, for all her smiles, seems preoccupied. She's looking around for Max, all inquisitive.
What she finds instead is Penny Bingham absolutely stacking it down the stairs. That pained grimace Frank gives is -very- real, but at least she figures out where Max is: giving her advice. It gets the woman a rather /sour/ look before Franklyn on the move, looking very determined indeed. Doesn't take a Dr. Garreau to note poor Penny's ankle is broken: Franklyn is taking that ever-present smartphone from her little clutch and dialling 911.
Oh. Franklyn's not going to get -close- to Penny, of course. That girl's too far gone to be soothed over with well crafted assurances.
Green is all to happy to stand nearish Franklyn. Out of the cameras, as best she can manage, but near enough to help, if needed. Of course, it's not Franklyn that needs help. It's poor Penny, and the fact that her days in six inch heels are over. Green keeps polite look about her, and moves as Franklyn does, but doesn't otherwise react. No sympathy. Contrary to Max's advice, she murmurs out to Frankly, "Soon as the paramedics arrive, it's time to depart." ... Because eff compassion, apparently.
And through it all, the cameras are flashing, flashing, flashing...
If nothing else, the news services will be happier with the event. Tragedy makes excellent ratings.
Marguerite, too, only awaits the paramedics' arrival, putting as good a face on it as she can, what with Penny caterwauling and wailing and refusing to hush up or accept any consolation. Predictably, it's the $10,000 shoe she is proven to be sobbing over the hardest.
The other guests, wisely sensing that the party is over, make their discreet way out, some few murmuring congratulations on their way past.
Frankle-breaker.
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