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Post by Jenny on Sept 26, 2008 11:48:31 GMT -5
Jerome, unfortunately, wasn't having all that much luch. He was currently lodged on floor thirty, panting heavily and almost in tears from sheer worry and frustration. He quietly vowed to himself that he would improve his fitness--what if this happened again, and Emma was at school? He tried not to let the thought overwhelm him, but it was horrifying. Esmé wasn't allowed razors or knives without him around, but he thought that she would probably be able to find them if it came to it. Hiding them had worked for the first year after Emma was born, but now that she had lived in the apartment for thirteen years she pretty much knew everywhere he had them hidden.God. He hoped Emma was taking proper care of her, at least. With this in mind, he begn climbing the stairs up to the penthouse again as quickly as possible. Only another thirty-six to go, after all.
~
Emma made the tea as quickly as she ever had in her whole thirteen years of life. She didn't want to leave her mother's side for even a second now that she was so upset, and she started to see why Jerome was so protective over her all the time. She had never fully understood why Jerome was so unhappy to let Esmé stay in the penthouse alone, or go out for lon periods of time alone, but now she fully understood the necessity. What if this happened, and Emma couldn't get to her? She didn't know what her mother would have done all alone and terrified if left much longer, and it scared her to think it.
And so she simply carried the hot---but not too hot, just like her stepfather--tea back into the master bedroom and handed it to her mother, who offered her a weak, shaky smile.
'Thank you, darling,' she said, and it already looked as if she was sleepy. Emma wished for a moment that Jerome was a faster walker so that he might see her before she fel asleep, but she doubted he would arrive in time.
'I'm sorry I went down to the lobby without telling you, Mother,' Emma said, guiltily. If she'd only spared a thought for her mother, none of this potentially would have happened. She felt positively dreadful.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Sept 26, 2008 14:16:02 GMT -5
“It’s alright,” Esmé replied, and then slowly sipped her tea. “You had no idea that the elevators would be out of order. Just please make sure you tell me the next time before you leave the apartment.” “I will, Mother,” Emma told her. “I promise.” “Have you finished all of your homework?” “Yes. All I had to do was study for Tuesday’s English exam on A Catcher in the Rye.”Reaching out one trembling hand, Esmé gently brushed back the bangs from Emma’s forehead. “You’re so smart, Emma,” Esmé said. “Sometimes it seems you’re more Jerome’s daughter than mine.” Emma frowned. She knew little of her mother’s background, aside from the fact that Esmé had a high school education and two years of business school under her belt. Her original dream had been to study at the Moonstone University of the Performing Arts, but lack of expenses had caused her to abandon it. Emma often felt guilty that her parents would be paying to send her there as soon as she graduated from Prufrock Prep. “Jerome will be back soon,” Emma assured her mother, whose eyes were brimming with tears. “If you fall asleep, I’ll wake you as soon as he gets here.” “No, dear,” Esmé said. “Once I’ve drifted off, I’ll sleep through the rest of the night. I’d rather stay awake and wait for your father to arrive.” Normally, Emma would be in her bedroom underneath the covers with a good book, but she couldn’t bear the thought of taking her eyes off her mother for even a moment. Emma knew that Esmé would be fast asleep within the next half hour, judging by the way her eyelids were fluttering. Resting her own long-nailed hand on her mother’s, Emma said, “Until then, Mother, I’ll stay with you.” *** Jerome had no choice, and was forced to stop and rest on an average of five times. He knew he wouldn’t be any good to anyone if he went and had himself a heart attack, not to mention what it would do to his dear wife’s delicate state of mind. As Jerome sat panting on the fifty-sixth step of the spiral staircase, he reached into his pocket once more and took out his cell phone. Every time he left the penthouse and left Esmé by herself, he always insisted that she be near a telephone. There was one on each of their nightstands, and if she had taken his advice earlier then she was probably in bed now. Dialing the number of the penthouse, Jerome waited as patiently as he could for someone to pick up. *** Emma snatched the telephone off her mother’s nightstand and held it to her ear. “Hello,” Emma said. “Squalor residence.” “Emma, it’s me again. How’s your mother?”Emma looked down at Esmé, who was struggling to keep her eyes open. “She’s fine,” Emma answered. “She’s insisted that she stay awake until you get in. Where are you?” “I’m on the fifty-sixth step,” Jerome replied. “I should be there in about another forty-five minutes.”“Is that your father, Emma?” Esmé asked, and Emma nodded. “Let me talk to him again, will you?” “Mother would like to speak with you,” Emma said. “Put her on.”Emma handed the telephone to her mother, who took it and sat up on her elbow. Pressing the phone to her ear, Esmé said, “Hi.” “I’m sorry that it’s taking me so long to reach you,” Jerome apologized. “I’m more out of shape than I thought.”“Don’t be silly, darling. You’re nothing of the kind.” Esmé couldn’t tell, of course, but Jerome was looking down at his enormous stomach in disgust. He couldn’t see how his wife could still find him attractive, and the thought forced tears to come to his eyes.
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Post by Jenny on Sept 26, 2008 14:38:30 GMT -5
'You can go to sleep, sweetheart,' he said into the reciever, still looking down at his stomach unhappily, and he swiped a hand across his eyes to wipe away the tears. 'I won't be up for a while yet. You can have the day off from work tomorrow and--'
'Noo,' she whined tiredly. 'I'll wait. How much longer will you be now?' he could hear in her tone that she was very tired, and he doubted that she could stay awake through the tranquilizers.
'I'm afraid I'll be forty minutes or so yet, darling,' he answered, cringing and feeling the tears lodge in his throat again. How dare he let her down so badly? 'And I promise his won't ever happen again. I'm going to go running every morning, and I'm going to get in shape again, like I used to be. Then I could run up the stairs, and I'd already be up there, and you wouldn't have to--'
'No,' his wife interrupted sleepily. 'You won't do any of that.'
'Why not?' he asked, mildly offended: did she think he was incapable, didn't have the will? After this, he was willing to do anything to ensure there would never be a repeat experience.
'Because I'll be terribly sad if you do,' she answered. 'Any change for you would be a change for the worse, Jerome. I couldn't bear that.'
'I'm going to get going again,' Jerome said, smiling at Esmé's words. 'I swear this is like a mountain climbing experience. However did I manage when--' he stopped. She didn't need to be reminded of that, did she? '--Nevermind. I promise I'll be up there soon, darling. I promise.'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Sept 26, 2008 15:43:09 GMT -5
“O.K.,” Esmé said. “I love you.”“I love you, too,” Jerome replied. It pained him to switch off his cell phone and slide it back into his pocket before he began a steady jog up the stairs. *** Even after Jerome and Esmé had said goodbye, she continued to hold the phone against her ear as if it was his hand. Tears of loneliness slipped from her eyes and onto her pale neckline. She was so desperately lonely and desperately sad, even with her daughter sitting on the bed next to her. “He’ll be here soon,” Esmé said softly, and Emma watched her mother’s eyes close for the last time. *** Jerome refused himself anymore rest stops, and he reached the penthouse shortly after ten o’ clock. He knew that both his wife and stepdaughter were probably asleep, and he himself would probably have no trouble dozing off the minute his head hit the pillow. He vaguely hoped that Emma hadn’t remembered to lock the door, just so he wouldn’t have to waste anymore time knocking. As it turned out, the good Lord had smiled upon him, and he found the front door to be unlocked. He burst into the penthouse and (after locking the door behind him) raced down the hallway to the master bedroom. When he arrived, he found both Esmé and Emma fast asleep in the grand bed. Esmé was in her usual spot on the left side, while Emma had curled up on the edge at her mother’s feet like a cat. Being careful not to wake either of them, Jerome quietly slid off his shoes and then walked over to the bed. Picking up Emma, he carried her across the hallway to her own room and set her down on the bed. He gently slid off her stilettos and set them in a corner of the room where she would be sure to spot them in the morning. After covering her with the patchwork quilt that his mother had made for her, he tiptoed out of the room and quietly closed the door. Jerome returned to the master bedroom and changed into his pajamas. After going into the bathroom to brush his teeth, he crawled into bed beside Esmé. He switched off the light and was just about to put his arms around her, when she stretched out her arm and laid her hand on his stomach. It amazed him to know that, even though she was so deeply asleep, she still knew that there was someone beside her. And, even more importantly, who that person was. He could already feel his eyes filling up with tears as he snuggled down beside her. Wrapping one arm protectively around her, he took his other hand and gently laid it on Esmé’s, which seemed to have no intent on ever abandoning its present spot.
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Post by Jenny on Sept 26, 2008 16:03:21 GMT -5
Even though Esmé had taken two strong tranquilizers, it was her who woke the first on Monday morning, with Jerome still snoring softly next to her, one hand laid across her stomach affectionately. Her head was a little fuzzy--it always was after having to take her pills--but even through the haze she smiled.
'Jerome,' she cooed softly, noticing that it was eight o'clock already and she only had an hour before she had to be at work. 'Jerome, darling, wake up.'
He was a famously light sleeper--although he had started to snore a little lately, due to the fact mainly that he had gained weight over the last year. She made a conscious decision not to mention that. He eventually opened his eyes, and attempted to stretch out his legs, which ached tremendously after all the walking he had done the night before.
'I wonder if the elevators are fixed,' he said, half-yawning. 'If not, you'll have to walk down those ridiculous three-billion flights of stairs again...'
She couldn't hold down a giggle, even though the night before she hadn't felt much like laughing about it.
'You'll have to teach me to slide down the banister, sweetheart,' she said, and kissed his nose before standing and rubbing her eyes, which were also a little fuzzy from the tranquilizers.
'Must you go to work?' Jerome asked sleepily, attempting to move and failing. His legs hurt so much. He could barely remember what it felt like to be able to run anywhere for longer than five minutes anymore.
'Unfortunately, yes,' his wife replied, running a brush through her black hair, nd turning on the shower. 'I've got somebody coming to see me from some company or another at 12 o'clock. I can't miss that.'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Sept 26, 2008 16:35:06 GMT -5
“You don’t even know the name of your potential client’s company?” Jerome asked jokingly.
Esmé slid her nightgown up over her head and tossed it at Jerome, who caught it and blushed. As she stepped into the tub, she fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Normally I’d ask you to join me,” she said as she closed the curtain. “But I’m running late, and someone needs to wake Emma for school.”
“Why don’t you let me drive you?” Jerome offered. “That way, I can pick you both up and the three of us can go out to dinner at Café Salmonella.”
“That sounds like a smashing idea,” Esmé said as she squeezed a generous amount of lavender shampoo into her palm.
“Perhaps after I drop you off at the bank, I’ll stop by the park and go for a run. There’s no time like the present, you know?” Jerome only hoped that his legs would’ve stopped aching by then, though he knew for a fact that it would be at least a day before he could walk without any pain. He only hoped that the elevators were working again, or else he wasn’t sure he would be able to make it up the stairs a second time around.
However, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of something falling inside the shower. A moment later, Esmé’s long-nailed hands appeared at the corners of the curtain, and her face poked out from the opening. Her dark locks were invisible beneath the shampoo, and she looked so sad and ready to cry. Jerome could tell from the way her bottom lip was quivering.
“Darling, what’s wrong?” he asked.
“You’re a dimwit, that’s what,” she said, and it was hard to tell if what he saw was water or tears running down her cheeks. “I think you’re perfect just the way you are.”
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Post by Jenny on Sept 26, 2008 16:51:20 GMT -5
'But, darling--'
'No, Jerome, I don't want to talk about it anymore,' she told him. 'I'm going to be heartbroken if you lose all your weight, Jerome. You look much better now than you ever did before. Please don't change.'
He wished she could not make being overweight so attractive. He decided not to speak anymore about it--if it made her so upset, was it really worth it? Maybe he'd just run in secret, and see if she noticed.
Or maybe not.
'Perhaps give Carmy a call before we go to dinner,' she suggested. 'You know how busy she is some nights now, it's best she knows we're coming by.'
Incredibly quickly, she was out of the tub and back into the bedroom wrapped in a fluffy pink dressing down with her hair wrapped in a small white towel.
'I'll wake Emma, I suppose,' Jerome said, and eventually managed to get himself up enough to move, reluctantly. The minute his legs touched the floor he grimaced, but tried not to show it.
'Thank you dear,' his wife replied with a smile at him through the mirror. I'll be ready in about half an hour--we can't be much later than that anyway, if I'm hoping to get there in time to properly prepare for that meeting with my client. And Emma simply can't miss her bus again.'
Jerome didn't add the fact that many of the times Emma had missed her bus had been deliberate--if that horrible boy looked at her through the window she tended not to get on on purpose. He didn't think Esmé would react well to that, at all.
~
'What time are you planning on going to Café Salmonella, Jerome?' Esmé asked as her husband turned to his usual radio station on their way to the bank. There was a fair amount of traffic, as usual, but she hardly cared. It was half-past nine already, and she hoped nobody would pick her up on being late when she arrived.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Sept 26, 2008 18:24:25 GMT -5
“I thought I could stop by on my way home from the bank,” Jerome replied. “A telephone call seems terribly informal, and it’s on my way besides.”
Esmé patted her husband affectionately on the knee before leaning over to kiss his cheek. “You’re so noble,” she said. “Yet another quality of yours I admire.”
Jerome blushed, almost missing the traffic light as it turned from red to green.
Esmé hated for the morning with her husband to end, and she pouted noticeably as Jerome parked the car at the curb in front of Mulctuary Money Management. “You’re pouting,” he said.
“No, I’m not,” Esmé replied petulantly.
“Yes, you are. And I find it adorable.”
“Jerome, I have to go to work.”
Esmé reached behind her for the door handle and yanked, forcing the door to open. She was just about to slide out of the car, when Jerome caught her by the other hand and pulled her back. She turned just in time to see him kiss her hand, and she blushed.
“Thank you for being the world’s most wonderful wife,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” Esmé said. “And thank you for being the world’s most smashing husband.”
“Have a good day at work.”
“I will. Have fun rearranging your ties.”
Jerome let go of Esmé’s hand, and after a brief but passionate kiss on each other’s lips, the two said one final farewell. She slid out of the car and waited until she had seen her husband drive off before turning to face the bank’s front doors.
She went inside and walked quietly passed Mr. Poe’s desk, only to have him call to her a moment later. He wasn’t her boss, but he did have a tendency for reporting others’ lateness to the one who was, a quality which irritated Esmé greatly. She firmly believed that Mr. Poe had it in for her due to all the trouble she’d caused in relation to the Baudelaire orphans.
Esmé froze, suddenly feeling like a teenager in high school who was trying to sneak into the classroom without their teacher noticing.
“Esmé— a word, please.”
Biting lightly down on her bottom lip, Esmé turned back around to face Mr. Poe. “Yes, Arthur?” she asked as sweetly as she could.
Mr. Poe coughed loudly into the same handkerchief he’d had since Esmé had known him, and she grimaced in disgust. Had he ever been to see a doctor? Maybe he was a former smoker, she thought, and had a debilitating case of emphysema.
Once his coughing fit had passed, Mr. Poe raised his arm and pointed across the room to Esmé’s desk. She followed his finger to see a person in a hat and trench coat sitting in front of it, their back to the two co-workers.
“That man,” Mr. Poe said, and cleared his throat, “is the client you’ve been expecting. He just arrived twenty minutes ago.”
“I see,” Esmé replied. “Will that be all?”
“Yes.”
Esmé nodded and smiled falsely at her co-worker. She was just about to go over to introduce herself to her newest client, when she reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a cough drop, which she tossed to Mr. Poe.
“You sound like you can use one of those,” Esmé said, and then hurried off before it could occur to him that she was late.
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Post by Jenny on Sept 27, 2008 12:29:42 GMT -5
Esmé couldn't say he was exactly her usual type of client--he was wearing a light brown trenchcoat, thick black boots, a bowler hat and even a pair of sunglasses, which couldn't possibly have been needed indoors. She sighed--she didn't even know his name, or what he was here for, which was going to make introductions even more difficult.
'Good morning,' she said, holding out a long nailed hand politely. She had expected him to stand to greet her, but he chose not to, which forced her to bend a little. She couldn't see his eyes behind his black glasses which made her feel a little more awkward.
His hand was scraggly and wrinkled and very, very cold. She felt like pulling her hand back as soon as his touched hers, but forced a smile anyway.
'Good morning,' he rasped, and smiled a yellowed, toothy grin. 'Mrs Squalor, is it?'
At least he knew that much. 'Yes,' she answered, and finally he dragged himself to his feet. He stood at a formidable height--possibly 6'3'' or something similar, and towered over her in an almost threatening way. 'A pleasure to meet you, Mr.....?'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Sept 27, 2008 13:16:04 GMT -5
To Esmé’s surprise, the man didn’t answer, and instead chose to lower his sunglasses just enough for her to catch a glimpse of his eyes.
His shiny, shiny eyes.
“Oh,” the man whispered, as he watched the financial advisor shrink down into her chair. “I think you know the answer to that… Esmé.”
So was not to attract the attention of those around them, Esmé sat up straight in her chair and looked her former boyfriend straight in the eye. “How did you find me,” she asked, and then lowered her voice to a soft whisper, “Olaf?”
“You live in the most expensive luxury apartment in the city,” he replied. “How hard could it be to track you down?”
Esmé stood up and leaned across the desk. “I thought you were dead,” she hissed. “Why did you wait thirteen years to return?”
Olaf leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Because I wanted to see you, and I thought you’d want to see me, too, my dear.”
“We broke up. What the hell kind of future did you expect us to have?”
Esmé paused briefly, and glanced around at the other faces. Everyone appeared to be too busy to take notice of her private conversation with her ex-boyfriend, but one could never be too careful.
Turning back to Olaf, she said, “This is a place of business. If you didn’t come here to receive financial advice, or to start a bank account, then I think you’d better leave.”
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Post by Jenny on Sept 27, 2008 15:47:13 GMT -5
'But I did come here for financial advice, Esmé,' he said, voice low and slightly threatening, pulling her hard;y back into her chair by her wrist. 'I meant to ask how much your husband is worth. And how much of it you're able to tranfer to me.' 'Absolutely none' she hissed back, noticing that Arthur Poe was watching from his desk in the adjacent office. 'And it's none of your business.' 'What about Emma?' the older man asked, and Esmé felt herself freeze, and her breath catch. 'What about my daughter? Does she know who her father is? Is she aware that she isn't related to that ponce you share a house with?' ' Stop talking about Jerome!' she cut off angrily. 'And Emma's got nothing to do with you! She hasn't known you for thirteen years, and she isn't about to know you now!' 'Surprised you never tried to find me,' he hissed back, pushing his chair in a little closer. 'Surprising that you never tried to tell me you were pregnant when you were wandering around that hotel dressed as a salad bowl.' ' I didn't know! And what would you have said? What would you have done?' Olaf gave a raspy, hoarse little chuckle. 'She's ever so like you,' he sneered. 'And thirteen, too. How terribly appropriate.' Esmé felt tears rising in her throat, but she refused to let them show themselves. Olaf had never taken much to tears. 'You stay away from her, you stay away from my--' It took her a couple of moments, and Olaf's satisfied smirk, but then she caught on, and her breath grew short. 'How?' she asked, feeling her head grow a little fuzzy again, but not from the tranquilizers. 'How do you know what my Emma looks like?' He grinned again. 'You'd be surprised,' he rasped, and reached into the pocket of his coat, handing her a selection of photographs. 'at how long I've been keeping tabs. You'd be surprised how much I know about you and your clever little game of happy families. Ironic how Carmelita owns Café Salmonella now, don't you think? Strange how Emma wants to go to the same school you did, wants to be an actress. How you're always at least twenty minutes late for work, and how the elevators broke in your building yesterday, and you panicked when you realized you were on your own.' He stopped for another chuckle. 'Or so you thought.' Esmé let out a little choked half-sob, and felt very short of breath. 'What will it take?' she asked. 'What will it take for you to leave us alone?' 'I'm afraid there's nothing you can do, sweetheart,' he said, running a thin, bony finger down across her cheek, and then splayed a hand across the base of her neck, as if about to constrict it and strangle her. 'The only thing that might convince me to let little Emma alone,' he continued, tapping one finger on her bottom lip. 'Is if you might consider assisting me.' 'No,' she answered immediately, and stood. 'No, I won't.' 'You don't even want to know with what?' he asked. 'It might be perfectly innocent.' Reason for Editing: ps--It's quite long, sorry
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Sept 27, 2008 17:03:24 GMT -5
[It's okay! Long posts are always good. Besides, I did a few long ones the other day.] Not wanting to attract anymore unwanted attention than she already had, Esmé sighed. “Well, then,” she said, “what is it?” “You’re acquainted with the entire Squalor family,” Olaf said, “aren’t you?” Esmé glared at him. “That is none of your concern.” “Oh, but I beg to differ. It is very much my concern.” “Why can’t you just leave me and my family alone? Jerome and I have enough problems without you showing up out of the past and making our lives even more difficult.” “Why do you care so much what happens to him?” Olaf asked. “From what I remember, you could never stand being in the same room with him for more than five minutes. All those late-night telephone calls I received about how he did nothing but stare at you all the time.” “Things have changed,” Esmé emphasized. “I’ve changed.” “So I see.” Olaf scanned his eyes slowly up and down Esmé’s body, taking in the newly attributed softness that hadn’t been there during the entire course of their relationship. “I never could quite picture you with curves. Though I must say they certainly become you from where I’m standing.” “What is it you want with my husband?” Esmé asked boldly. “He doesn’t have a fortune if that’s what you’re thinking. His father had him written out of the will and left everything he owns to his other son and his mistress when Jerome refused to divorce me.” “Well,” Olaf said, “I suppose it’s safe to assume that your husband is as foolish as he is portly.” By now, Esmé could no longer hold back her tears— it was very difficult for her to stand by and listen to someone insult her husband in any way: particularly when his weight was being slandered, as he was already so sensitive about it. But even as she felt the first of her tears roll down her cheeks, she permitted her voice to take on a venomous pitch that she had not used on anyone since her days as Count Olaf’s villainous girlfriend. “Jerome has nothing,” she growled. “Not a damn penny. My position here pays extremely well, and we get by every month with plenty to spare.” Of course, it was Jerome’s trust fund that was responsible for the Squalors’ entire lifestyle, while the money Esmé made as the city’s sixth most important financial advisor went mostly for frivolous novelties.
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Post by Jenny on Sept 27, 2008 17:38:06 GMT -5
Olaf looked speechless for a second, but soon recovered. 'Whether that is true or not,' the last two words hung in the air as a warning for her. He always was the only person that could ever tell if she way lying. 'I'm already aware that you're acquainted with his brother. If Andrew Squalor's the one with the money now, then that's where we'll get it.'
Esmé didn't point out that Jerome was actually wealthier than his younger brother--as horrible as it sounded, she preferred the idea of putting kind Andrew in danger than her husband.
'We?' she repeated, and Olaf's hand reached up to wipe her tears away from her cheeks, the nail of his thumb nicking her slightly. 'How do I have anything--'
'If you find a way to make me a billionaire by the end of the month,' Olaf told her patronizingly. 'Then I might consider leaving Emma alone. And I might consider not paying Carmelita a visit. Or maybe I won't spy on you again.'
'And how exactly--'
'I don't care how you do it, Esmé,' he hissed, growing a little angrier as the moments passed. 'Trick him, kill him, I could care less. But you'll find a way to do it, else there might be a car waiting for Emma outside tomorrow with her father inside it. I'm sure she's going to like me.'
'Stop it,' she said, feeling more tears spring from her eyes. 'Stop it, stay away from Emma, stay away from me!'
'Shhh!' Olaf hissed, for a moment looking flustered. She had never acted like this years ago--and now he wasn't really sure what to do with her. 'You could make things easier for everyone if you just get Andrew Squalor to change his wills o that he leaves everthing to you, and then you can run away with me again, like last time.'
It was enought to coax a bitter chuckle from her. 'I love Jerome,' she said softly. 'and I love Emma too much to subject her to you. Like I said, things have changed. I'm not like I used to be.'
'My darling,' Olaf said, boring of her quickly. 'Either you choose to co-operate with one of my suggestions, or I'm afraid we'll have to go about it the hard way, and I can promise with some certainty that you won't like that way much.'
'And the Spats' fortune!' he continued. 'Do you remember? We planned that all out, and then the incident at Hotel Denouement--'
'You left me,' Esmé cried. 'to die, for all you cared!'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Sept 27, 2008 19:33:01 GMT -5
“I was trying to find where that sugarbowl you treasured so much was hidden,” Olaf snarled, and this time a few heads turned in their direction. He chose to ignore them, and continued. “Forgive me for trying to do one final nice thing for you. I’m sorry that—”
“You aren’t sorry for anything,” Esmé shot back. “And you never loved me. It was Kit Snicket you had your heart set on, and you know it.”
“What does it matter now which one of you I loved?” asked Olaf. “In the end, you chose Jerome Squalor over me.”
“I had no choice,” Esmé said. “I was alone and pregnant in a cabin nestled somewhere in the Mortmain Mountains. The only person I had to depend on was Carmelita, and she was just a child at the time.”
“What were you doing in the Mortmain Mountains? We had the last safe place burned to the ground when—”
Esmé smiled cunningly. “You missed one.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Olaf said.
“You don’t remember, do you?” Esmé asked. “I tried to tell you, but you refused to listen and kept insisting you were right.”
“That’s because I’ve always been right.”
“Not that time you weren’t.”
Olaf clenched his fist, forcing himself not to make a scene and possibly get himself arrested before he had even committed any crimes. “I’ll give you forty-eight hours,” he said, and reached into his pocket. Esmé was expecting him to pull out a gun or a knife, and was surprised when he handed her a piece of folded-up paper. “When you’ve come to a decision, give me a call.”
Before Esmé could say anything more, Olaf turned and exited through the doors of Mulctuary Money Management.
Esmé continued standing for a few more moments, before grabbing her purse and quickly heading in the direction of the restrooms. She hadn’t even reached them before she allowed more of her tears to fall, and by the time she was inside the stall she was sobbing uncontrollably. Her hand shaking, she reached into her purse and took out her cell phone. Dialing the number of Jerome’s cell, she held the phone to her ear and waited until she heard the voice of her husband on the other line before she spoke.
“Jerome, I’m sick. I need you to come and get me.”
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Post by Jenny on Sept 28, 2008 6:19:05 GMT -5
'Darling?' Jerome's voice was worried in an instant, and he counted himself lucky that he hadn't yet gotten out of his car. 'You're sick?'
'I'll explain it all to you when you get here,' Esmé replied, voice obscured by her tears. 'We need to pick Emma up from school, and then we need to go to Café Salmonella to speak to Carmy,' she was very aware that Olaf had in fact gievn her forty-eight hours, but she wasn't prepared to take his word for that. 'Quickly.'
~
Jerome had never recieved a speeding ticket in his whole life, but he got the feeling that if any one were to see him now he would be extremely likely to get one. The traffic had died down in the city over the last hour or so, and he found himself driving to Mulctuary Money Management at at least twice his usual speed-- as was evident by the fcat that it took him all of ten minutes to arrive, where it would usually take him near half an hour. He was met with a few strange looks as he entered the building through the heavy glass doors, but he cared very little at the time. All Jerome cared about was the fact that he couldn't see his wife anywhere, and he needed to find her right now.
Just as he was considering taking out his cell phone again and dialing her number, his wife thankfully appeared at a doorway, and then crossed the room to his side, all the while keeping her head down. As soon as she did look up it was apparent that she had been crying. Rather than ask in front of her colleagues, he simply fetched her coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, and led her back to his car.
'Sweetheart,' he said, climbing into the drivers seat after closing the passenger seat door. 'What's wrong? You do look quite pale, actually, perhaps you've got the flu again...'
Esmé ignored his comments, and stared ahead at the windscreen. 'He's come back, Jerome,' she said softly. 'He's back.'
'Who?'
'He knows where Emma is,' his wife continued, wrapping her arms around herself. 'He knows Emma's his.'
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