[Sodium_noir] Hell - That's Other People, right?

[Jennie Teakle]

Sinclair Party

Christine
Drunk


Christine sits on the toilet, clutching her spinning head. The stall  
door is firmly shut and when she is sure she can't hear anyone  
outside, she levers herself to her unsteady feet and opens it  
carefully. The bathroom is mercifully free of witnesses. Shakily, she  
emerges, reaches for the marble counter where the basins are set. She  
can't quite dare look at herself in the sculpted gilt mirror on the  
wall behind the basins. Not until she has washed her hands, cleaned  
her face and rinsed out her mouth. There is a decorative basket of  
soaps and other toiletries on the counter - including mouthwash.  
Seems like Lady S, seasoned party thrower that she is, has thought of  
every contingency for her guests.  Slowly, Christine does what she  
can to sort herself out. When she can finally pluck up the courage to  
look at herself in the mirror, she makes a face. Pallid, bleary  
eyed . . . fuck.

She fishes out her eyeliner and lipstick, loose in her jacket pocket  
- she didn't bring a purse. As she searches for these repair items,  
her fingers close on a square, flat, mannish wallet - not hers.  
Christine draws it out, confused, and then remembers finding it in  
the cab. Alison Beauchamp. Christine feels a sudden twinge of  
conscience. She really ought to do something about getting this back  
to its owner.

She shelves this thought as she applies herself to the delicate  
business of make-up. With shaky hands, It requires extra  
concentration. Once Christine has finger combed her hair and  
fumblingly reset her clip, she can stand to look at herself without  
flinching. She still looks wan but she'll just about pass, provided  
she doesn't stand in direct light. She does check her clothes for  
stains and is relieved to see that she at least managed to throw up  
tidily in the toilet bowl without splatter. Now to return to the  
party . . .

Christine hesitates. She needs a little more time. The bathroom/ 
cloakroom is large and there is a small antechamber type affair near  
the entrance with velvet seats and a low table - a gossip and powder  
room. Christine smiles a little. The only thing it lacks is an  
attendant. Perhaps she has stepped out, briefly. Christine has seen  
bathrooms like this in the fancier hotels she has been in - usually  
for daytime legal conferences, as Mara's scribe and proxy . They seem  
designed to camouflage the fact that even posh people occasionally  
need to take a piss.

Taking a glass from the bathroom counter top, and running it under  
the faucet, Christine walks carefully to the velvet seats. A glass of  
water  - or several - and a short breather and hopefully, she'll be  
fit to be seen. Christine close her eyes, works on pulling her woozy  
head back together.

Some instinct makes her open them almost immediately. There's someone  
else in the room. Someone who entered from the main ballroom - not  
the maid, not judging by the shimmer of opulent fabric, anyhow.  
Christine, who emphatically does not want to engage in conversation  
with anyone right now, shies from making eye contact with the  
newcomer but does glance fleetingly at her face. A delicate, blonde,  
slender and fragile like a rose sculpted from ice.

Christine's head pounds and for a second it's hard to draw breath.  
She stares arrestedly at the woman who is staring right back at  
Christine with a cold, inhuman gaze and a faint calculating lift to  
her silvery eyebrows.

"But  . . . you're dead," croaks Christine stupidly.

A tiny smile curves Camille Carlton's mouth, she lifts one perfectly  
manicured finger to her lips in a 'shh' gesture, flickering a glance  
behind her and around the cloakroom. It reminds Christine that they  
are, for the moment, both alone and unobserved. On instinct,  
Christine stands up. Camille moves in a ripple of silk, steps in  
front of Christine, places two silencing fingers on Christine's lips.  
Camille's fingertips are colder than snow.

"I am dead," she whispers to Christine, her eyes shining and remote  
as stars. "And so are you."



Tag, er, someone - Jack?   . . .  eep! :-)