Logs:Handkerchief

Handkerchief
Dramatis Personae Kitty, Lucien
In Absentia	the grand opening of le bonne entente If someone in there has been ruining your night, I could have them thrown out. I happen to know the owner.
Location <NYC> Le Bonne Entente - Astoria - Queens
This hotel is the reincarnation of a condemned neoclassical cathedral, drastically yet skillfully renovated such that its majesty feels distinctly sacred but agnostic of any particular creed. The annexes and exterior redesigns harmonize stunningly with the original architecture. By day plentiful sunlight streams in through tall stained glass windows. At night the white marble exterior is lit from below to faintly ethereal effect. The grounds are not extensive, but meticulously landscaped, with tables and seating arranged within a circular colonnade and benches scattered along paths through the surrounding gardens. In stark contrast, the interior columns are richly gold-veined black marble, relieved with lighter accents, softer furnishings, and a surprising amount of greenery. The lobby is magnificent yet welcoming, expansive but not imposing, The reception area is nestled between twin staircases ascending to a mezzanine that circles the grand ballroom to an expansive multi-leveled cafe in what was once the sanctuary. The gallery hallways that look down from the upper levels are lined with conference rooms, spas, gyms, and guest rooms, many with external balconies and all sumptuously appointed. The crypt chapel and part of the crypt proper have been converted to a matched club and lounge respectively which manage to convey a sense of almost scandalous intimacy despite their considerable size. The crown jewel of this ambitious architectural endeavor is the sprawling restaurant that spans the airy clerestory to spill out onto a crescent-shaped grand balcony with a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline across the East River, especially at sunset. Above this, the soaring bell tower remains a mystery to most guests beyond the lush conservatory in its base, and though the original bells have been restored, they are not currently in use. Years of work in publicity is no doubt an immense boon when finally opening a venture of your own. The cafe, the restaurant, the basement club, have been packed with food critics, culture reporters, celebrities and curious locals alike. The harpist providing gentle background to the restaurant spends most of her regular music career with the Philharmonic; the DJ for the night in the basement is up for several Grammys next week. The impeccably conscientious staff have been bustling all evening giving tours to the curious or showing those eager-early guests to their rooms, where tasteful gift bags await all these first-week visitors. By all metrics tonight is going swimmingly, and yet currently, the star of the event has fled the cameras and congratulations and tucked himself away from the guests he has been welcoming in all evening. This tiny nook of a balcony is not, technically, private -- it's quite easily accessible from an upper floor exit -- but, unattached to the bustling restaurant or event rooms on the Proper Tour, it has been largely undiscovered by the tipsy guests draped around the hotel. It bears only a couple small and comfortable chairs around one low conversation table, a small gas firepit ensconced in glass in the table's center. Lucien, dressed in a silver tuxedo with peaked black velvet lapels, skillfully tailored to minimize rather than accentuate his impressive musculature, black monk shoes embossed with floral scrollwork, a brocade waistcoat in black and green with tiny glimmers of bright gold to match the cravat tucked soft and loose beneath the open collar of his brilliant white shirt, is breaking one of his cardinal rules. Is he currently in a show? That's a problem for tomorrow-Luci and his singing voice; tonight-Luci has just lit a slender black cigarette, the sweet-spice smell of cloves curling up along with the tobacco. He's just draped himself against the railing with his relieved exhale, eyes focused outward where the skyline lights glitter against the East River. Said tiny balcony might not be on the tour, but the woman slipping though the unopened exit door now does not seem to be looking for a view. Kitty did dress up for the grand opening -- she's in an a-line black dress, polyester inner panels under neatly embroidered tulle adorned with black florets. Kitty has attached luminously green planet pins attached along a silver chain to the collar, the gold of her Magen David pendent muted where it hangs between the tulle and fabric layers. There’s a polished jade bangle so close to the skin of her wrist it looks impossible to remove. Black tights blend into the dark blue velvet of her heeled ankle boots, adorned with stars in silver thread along the sides. For all that glamour -- and all that it looks better here in the shadows, with fewer people around to notice the cheapness in the stitching, the places in the velvet where it has rubbed too many times against itself -- Kitty does not look elegant or carefree or comfortable here. Her hair is beginning to coil at the ends, whatever unholy combinations of Products, Heat, and Time spent getting it slick-straight foiled by the natural path of the keratin. Probably the braid holding down most of the half-up do will keep her hair in check. Maybe. As for her makeup— well. The lip color is already faded, and the mascara is beginning to run from the water welling up in the corners. She leans back against the door, sucks in a deep breath, and only then seems to realize there is anyone on this balcony. “Sorry,” she calls, voice wavering, “I’ll be gone in a—” The flush rolling across her face comes in time with the realization. “Lu- Mr. Tessier,” she says, with the tremor of someone trying Very Hard to hold it together before bursting into tears. Looks to the railing like it offers escape. Looks to Lucien. Curtsies, just a quick one, like that is the rational greeting upon seeing an estranged friend. “It’s — this is amazing. Congratulations on this and the strike and the —“ Kitty looks at the balcony again, an embarrassed flush in the bottom of her cheeks. “I’ll just.” Looks back at the closed door. “Be a minute. Need a minute of fresh air.” The back of her heels sink eeeeever so slightly into the floor. With his eyes on the river and no opening of the door to signal an imminent intrusion, it's only when Kitty speaks that Lucien realizes company has joined him. There's a quick tense of his shoulders, unclenching just as easily. He's stubs his cigarette swiftly into the filigreed silver pocket ashtray that is cupped in one palm, turning with a well-practiced warmth in his expression -- that falters, eyes widening, head bowing, that faint tension returning. He presses the ashtray closed, slipping it into a pocket; his other hand has started to lift as if to wave away the congratulations, the curtsy, the Mr. Tessier. But instead he pauses, eyes flicking over his erstwhile friend. Whatever he was about to say dies away on just-parted lips and, instead, he dips his hand back into a pocket, retrieving from there the immaculately folded handkerchief -- an exquisite silk affair in fine lightweight gold with black microdots -- to shake it loose and offer it, quiet, to Kitty. Whatever Kitty was expecting from Lucien, here, it was not this. Her eyes go wide at the offered handkerchief -- its another moment before she actually steps forward to take it, fingertips light and careful on the outer edge. She opens her mouth, lips poised to begin saying 'thank you', but what bubbles out is just a gasp before tears flow readily from her eyes. Kitty sinks into one of the chairs by the table-fire-pit, face turned away from Lucien and handkerchief pressed firmly to her face. The outburst lasts only a couple of minutes, all in all. Kitty sniffles, looks down at the smear of wet makeup on the -- "Oh no what is this made of? I can -- I can get it dry-cleaned I'm so sorry." Lucien does not hover, although a lingering concern that wrinkles his brow suggest he might otherwise be inclined to. Instead, as the tears begin, as Kitty turns her face away, he crouches to light the fire in the center of the table -- it gives off a contained but strong warmth against the February bite. It's not a warmth he seems to need overmuch -- he's settling back against the balcony railing once it is lit -- but then, he is in several layers of menswear. He retrieves his stubbed cigarette, frowns at it -- bent, in his haste -- and starts to pull his cigarette case (its filigreed detailing matches the ashtray) from his pocket before evidently thinking better of this. The nicotine is tucked away with only a hint of wistfulness that flees him entirely once Kitty speaks again. "It is made of handkerchief," is his answer, soft and with only a very fleeting tug at his mouth that he does not allow to resolve into an actual smile, "I think it can survive fulfilling its intended purpose." He's settling down, now, into a corner seat from Kitty, fingers idly tracing the intricate detailing on the face of the ashtray. "If someone in there has been ruining your night, I could have them thrown out. I happen to know the owner." “S’very nice handkerchief,” is Kitty’s reply, muffled just a bit by the application of said cloth once more to her nose. “Oh, no, thank you but I don’t think that’s a good idea, he’s very —“ she pauses, searching for a word to describe the person distressing her, gives up and instead describes “— he’d make a scene and then that’s your big night ruined, probably, and whoever does your hiring will probably be upset too and it’ll be a whole thing and it does not have to be a whole thing.” She closes her eyes — her breathing, which in this run on sentence has begun to spin up again, begins again to slow. “I just need to breathe. Fix my makeup.” Which, she is just seeming to realize, patting at her sides with growing frustration, is not with her. “Pretend he’s not the worst for another half hour or so.” "Hiring --?" There's a very mild compression to Lucien's lips, his thumb pressing down against the edge of the slim silver case in his hand. "Someone who works here is the worst." Less a question, more a quiet and quietly displeased statement. "Have they --" He begins, and then pauses, studying Kitty for a long and intent moment. His mouth thins further. "Carmen Pryde is your father." Kitty leans forward into the heat of the fire, shoulders pulled in, looking even smaller than usual. “Mmhm.” There’s some resignation in her voice to this truth. “He’s where I got my uncanny ability to say the exact wrong thing at the wrong time from.” More bitter, this. “I’m sure he was smooth enough in the interview. Don’t blame your hiring manager.” "I cannot fully blame her, regardless," Lucien admits mildly, "he did pass muster with me well enough to pass along to her. His -- accounting skills came highly recommended, which." He turns one hand slightly up, slightly apologetic, "says very little, of course, about his skills as a parent." His hands fold together, the silver ashtray cupped between them. "My deepest apologies, if I have been party to reopening some wounds." His tone has slipped just a little dry as he adds: "-- it is, at least, a position that can mostly be done remotely." “With—” Kitty is stuck, still, a sentence behind, looking at Lucien now with black rimmed, bloodshot eyes and a palpable sense of betrayal. “With you, he talked to you first.” For a minute it seems like Kitty is going to either burst out in anger or flee as she sinks deeper and deeper into the cushions. “God of course he did. Of course you wouldn’t've thought to ask me, we weren't -- aren't -- I never --" Kitty pushes the palm of her left hand against her mouth, handkerchief crumpled in her right. Breathes in slow. Mutters against her palm, "Man, your judgement is something else." "Ask you?" One of Lucien's eyebrows has ticked up just slightly, and he sits just a little straighter in his seat. "You never mentioned your father before now. I'd no idea the man was -- ought I have consulted you on every one of my hires? Just in case? Unlike the company you are used to keeping at that school of yours, I can't simply invade your mind for this kind of knowledge. I'm sure if I could I would be consorting with the types of violent racists that meet your typical standards of judgment." "No I said of course you didn't because it would've been ridiculous because I never talk about -- what are you doing?" When Kitty looks across the table at Lucien now, her wide eyes carry a sense of accusation even though she hasn't begun to point fingers. "Is everything you know about me a weapon? At least I try to own when I fuck up, you're just -- hurling knives." She stands up -- does she seem taller because of the heels, the anger in her voice, or the fact she's standing just a few inches above the ground? "You two are so much alike, now that I think about it. This whole deal makes perfect sense." "Goodness," Lucien's voice has gone very soft. He does not stand, only flicks a quick glance up -- up, up? -- to Kitty, down to where her feet hover, back up -- then dismissively away. "Do you? You and I clearly remember our last meeting very differently." He tips one hand elegantly outward towards the door back into the hotel. "I know you can see yourself out, Ms. Pryde. Do enjoy your supper."