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Post by Jenny on Apr 10, 2009 16:02:54 GMT -5
Jerome threw his hands over his face. "But that's just it," he sobbed, muffled by his hands splayed out and partly covering his mouth. "You were trying to make me happy!"
It hurt possibly a little more to think that she had only been saying these things to him to try to make him happy, not because she meant any of it, than the prospect that he was too old for her in the first place. It was clear that she preferred him the way he was now than the way he had been fifteen years ago, but that hardly said anything--she had hated him fifteen years ago, and it was perhaps only natural that she wouldn't want him to resemble the man she had never liked.
It was true. She was too good for him. Perhaps he should always have known it. He only had to take one look at her azure eyes to remind himself of how plain he was in comparison to her, and it was all too clear all of a sudden that they weren't well suited like Fernald and Colette were. She deserved someone that could equal her.
At the most inopportune moment, a knock at the door interrupted them. Jerome spun away, and wiped his eyes quickly, and his wife--still suffering badly from a crippling headache that had originated when she'd jumped to her feet--bravely decided to open the door herself, wrapping her robe around her a little tighter in preparation.
Both Kit Snicket and Klaus Baudelaire were waiting outside the door. Esmé, still sniffling, she couldn't help but feel a little bit embarrased at the way the looked shocked at the sort of state she was in.
"We've called the doctor," Kit said. "Are you feeling any better, Esmé?"
The question was a little unnecessary when the woman in question was as white as a sheet. Esmé nodded politely.
"...I suppose so," she lied. If anything since darting to her feet to comfort her massively insecure husband she had felt much, much worse, and it wasn't entirely due to her fever. She couldn't help but feel a little guilty that it seemed to be her fault that he was thinking this way.
"Dr Rockwell said he'd come to see you after dinner," Klaus continued. "We tried to find Jerome to tell him to pass the message on to you, but--"
Esmé was a good liar on her feet. "He's in the shower," she said flawlessly. If there was anything that could possibly make her husband feel any worse, it was probably being questioned about how he felt by anyone other than his wife. She couldn't help but also be desperate in some way to keep her husband from Kit. She knew it was silly, but she still had a shadow of doubt about it, and she supposed it wouldn't be something that would disappear along with her fever.
The shower wasn't running, but nobody asked. "Alright," Kit said kindly. "Well, I hope you feel better later. I'll bring some dinner up for you if you'd rather not come down."
Esmé nodded. "Thank you," she said, but then her husband sniffed loudly, and she thought it was probably time to shut the door.
Jerome had regained some of his composure, but his eyes were red and he was staring miserably down at the carpeted floor.
"Jerome," she said, leaning against the door and unable to think of what to say to change his mind. "If you know you aren't too old for me, and if I know you aren't too old for me, and if everyone we care about knows it, then why would it matter?"
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 10, 2009 17:22:50 GMT -5
Jerome’s response to this was an uneven shrug. He knew he was being overly sensitive, and he knew a large part of that had to do with his own insecurities about himself. He had never been entirely comfortable in his own skin, and was beginning to understand a little more about what his wife had gone through following her pregnancy.
“It shouldn’t,” he said at last, and met her eyes. “But darling, I don’t… I just don’t like the person I am.”
Whether Jerome was referring to his outward appearance or his personality, Esmé wasn’t sure. But his words stung her heart, and in response her eyes filled with tears of sorrow. Never in all her life had she heard her husband utter one negative word about himself, whereas she had been guilty countless times in regard to herself. Throwing herself once more into his strong arms, she hugged him as tightly as she could, determined to never, ever let him go.
“Don’t say that!” she screamed, in spite of what it did to her already sore throat to raise her voice. “Don’t you ever say that to me, Jerome! Not to me, or anybody else! Not now, or ever again! Do you understand?!”
When he didn’t answer, Esmé shook him violently, which produced a little sob from him. A moment later he seemed to lose his ability to stand, and she found herself gently lowering him to the floor where they knelt together face to face. As he began to sob again, Esmé let him do so into her shoulder, stroking his brown hair gently with her long-nailed fingers.
“Please don’t do this,” she said, her voice kinder and gentler. It was nearly unrecognizable due to the sobs she was trying and failing to hold back. “I love you so much, my darling. And it absolutely breaks my heart to see you this way.”
Esmé didn’t mention how Jerome’s behavior made her think of herself and the way she had been: how she had fallen under the impression for the first year following the fire of how she didn’t deserve Jerome because of all she’d put him through; and how she had been so discouraged over the weight she’d gained following Emma’s birth. Esmé knew that she’d changed for the better in both ways, and was incredibly thankful that she’d had Jerome to help her through every period of self-loathing.
Perhaps now the time had come for her to repay him.
“Jerome,” Esmé said, and swiped at a tear rolling down her cheek with one manicured fingernail. “What can I say? What can I do to make you smile again?”
Jerome heaved back a sob, and then kissed his wife on her neck. She shivered a little, and then placed a kiss of her own on top of his head.
“Do you remember,” she asked, “how sad I became after Emma was born?”
Jerome nodded from where his face was still buried in his wife’s shoulder.
“And do you remember all you said, and the things you did to always snap me out of it?”
The billionaire nodded again.
“You told me I was beautiful,” Esmé went on, tears lining the corners of her blue eyes from the memories. “And what a wonderful wife and mother I was. The fact that you always thought so, and the fact that you loved me so unconditionally were like… you always knew exactly what to do to make me feel better about myself. It always worked. Now I need you to tell me what I can do for you.”
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Post by Jenny on Apr 11, 2009 6:42:01 GMT -5
Jerome didn't answer. It was too difficult to explain why his insecurities were different from hers, but inside he knew they were. Hers had always been entirely unfounded in his eyes, but not even Emma--whose intention would never have been to hurt him--couldn't deny that there was a problem with his weight, and that he needed to do something about it.
"There's nothing you can say," Jerome admitted. He wasn't trying to be difficult, but no matter how often his wife told him that he was wonderful in her eyes, it still wouldn't make a change to the way he knew he really was. "It doesn't matter, love. This is something I have to sort out for myself."
Esmé frowned.
"I have to lose weight," Jerome said, looking at the floor so that he didn't hae to look at her heartbroken face. "What if in five years I have a heart attack because of all this?" he gestured vaguely at his stomach, which unsympathetically bulged over his belt. He could feel that his wife didn't understand it in the air that surrounded them--but, of course, it was only natural she wouldn't like it. He had stopped her for years from trying to lose the extra weight she'd gained, and how could he expect her not to do the same?
"But Dr Leer said that there's nothing wrong with you," Esmé said, and tearfully pressed her lips to his forehead.
"Apart from that I'm overweight," Jerome reminded. "And just because that's not a problem now doesn't mean that my cholesterol moght not be through the roof in another two years. I can't take the risk of having to...having to leave you and Emma any sooner than I absolutely have to."
Just the concept that he could ever "leave" them was enough to tear a loud sob from his wife's throat, and he feebly put his arm around her.
"But that's not why you want to change," Esmé said, and by the way he blushed it was clear that she was correct. "It's because you want to look different, not be halthier."
"I care about my health," Jerome said weakly.
"But it's the way you look that matters most."
Jerome blushed hopelessly. It was much more adorable when his eife felt insecure and needed to be reminded of how beautiful and amazing she was, but it just made him look sad[/].
"Well, maybe," he grudgingly admitted, and to his surprise his wife wasn't looking angry at him for it. She was listening, and nodding and understanding everything he was saying. "And I know you always say you supposedly find me attractive, but as much as I want to please you I don't want to be like this anymore."
Esmé nodded. "And so you only feel this way because of youself?" she asked. "Because I know that I used to compare myself to the way I used to be, and to the women at work, or other people I saw."
There were a lot of men more attractive than him in the city, but Jerome didn't say so. He'd never been entirely happy with the way he looked, ever since it had become clear so long ago that Andrew was going to be the better looking brother. He supposed it was partly to do with looking at Andrew and wanting to somehow be better than he was--sibling rivalry in the Squalor family wasn't foreign, but Andrew always, always won out--and looking at men his age that somehow looked so much better. He never had to look very far or hard--the doorman was forty-four and somehow still looked like some sort of Action Man, and Fernald Widdershins was forty-eight and---
--His wife was on to something, perhaps. He cursed himself for comparing himself to Fernald, and he supposed his wife wouldn't be pleased about that, but it was actually rather telling.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 11, 2009 12:53:24 GMT -5
“Do you still find him attractive?” Jerome asked. He purposely avoided his wife’s eyes while he waited for her to answer.
It wasn’t difficult for Esmé to figure out the person her husband was referring to, and she supposed that she couldn’t be too angry with him for it. After all, she had recently become concerned with the idea that Kit was going to steal Jerome away from her. If Esmé considered it long enough, then the thought was actually quite flattering. But as Jerome looked up at her with those big, shimmering emerald eyes, she felt anything but happy.
“You’re talking about Fernald,” Esmé said. Just in case it turned out she was wrong— which she doubted she was —she added, “Right?”
The sadness in Jerome’s eyes clarified her answer, and she leaned forward to kiss his nose.
“Well, I suppose,” she replied honestly. “But Jerome, anyone would. But it doesn’t mean that I’m still in love with him. Keep in mind that my relationship with Fernald ended long ago… the only way I would have considered going back to him was if you hadn’t been in the picture. Besides, he already had eyes for Colette at that point. And so he would never have—” Esmé had to pause, and turn her face into her shoulder to sneeze.
It suddenly reoccurred to Jerome that his wife was ill, and that he had been letting her sit here on the cold floor with him. Consumed by guilt, he instantly gathered her up in his arms and carried her over to the bed, tucking the blankets tightly around her.
“I know you don’t believe this when I tell you, darling,” Esmé went on. “But you really are the handsomest man in all the world…” She lowered her head and cupped her hands around her mouth as she sneezed again. “And I love you.”
That was enough to make Jerome smile through his tears, but it was not enough to dismiss the question he was dying to ask his wife from his mind. “So you wouldn’t mind,” he said finally. “If I lost weight?”
As much as it pained Esmé, she forced herself to smile. She hoped that her husband wouldn’t notice the fresh tears welling up in her eyes at the very thought of having to watch him lose something she had come to love so much. “If it will make you happy,” she asked, “then why should I mind?”
“You’d still love me?”
The question was enough to drive another sob from Esmé, and Jerome cursed himself for it. Wrapping his arms around her, he let her cry into his chest for a few minutes until she pulled herself together.
“Of course I would!” Esmé cried, digging her sharp nails into the fabric of her husband’s shirt in order to underline her point. “You’d still be my little Jeromey-rome, wouldn’t you? You’d still be the same man I came back to and fell in love with fifteen years ago.”
Esmé couldn’t bring herself to tell him what this was going to undoubtedly do to her. It wasn’t so much that she was going to miss seeing the way his stomach hung over his belt, or how the women at the bank were going to start complimenting him. No. It was the way she was going to feel about herself, and how all of her old abhorrence toward her own body was going to come rushing back. She absolutely hated herself for thinking that way, for being selfish enough to turn Jerome’s decision to better himself into something about her. It made her tears come faster, and she clung to him desperately for comfort.
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Post by Jenny on Apr 11, 2009 13:34:13 GMT -5
Jerome wanted to ask what was wrong, but he feared that really he already knew the answer. He knew already that this was not going to be something his wife approved of, even if everybody else would be able to see that it was most certainly for the best, but he also feared what would happen to her if he stopped eating all the things he enjoyed most now. The only way he had ever found to force Esmé into eating was to set a positive example himself, and he feared if he started to eat less she might follow suit. He knew it was hypocritical of him to think like that--if his wife was going to allow him to lose weight, perhaps he should allow her the same. But he didn't want her to go back to being as thin as she once had been through simply never eating unless she was forced into it. She didn't have any of the worries he did about his health or about really looking out of place because of his weight--she was just normal, and nobody could see anything wrong with her besides herself.
Esmé didn't think of it that way. She managed to gain some control over her emotions, and she wiped her eyes miserably, and tried not to look too upset anymore. But that didn't stop her feeling upset. She couldn't have felt any worse for thinking that somehow she had any right to make her husband unhappy because she didn't want to be unhappy, and her guilt over feeling that way only added to her existing sadness.
"I'm going to sleep," she said, and tried to stop her voice from shaking so obviously. She sniffed and then attempted a tearful smile, as if their little chat had resolved all their issues. "So you may as well go downstairs. It's no use you staying up here with me if I'm only going to be resting."
"But you're ill," Jerome reminded. He hated leaving her, even if this time it was quite clear she was only asking him to go because she would have preferred not to have him around.
"I don't feel too ill," she lied. "I just want to go to sleep. I'd sleep better if you were doing something other than watching over me."
She hadn't meant to sound cruel. She was upset, still, and she didn't know how to react to it, and so all she wanted was for the first time in over twenty-four hours to have just a little time without him. The last things she wanted was to end up shouting at him when he was obviously just as saddened as she was, and she knew it would happen if he insisted on staying. Perhaps if he left her alone she wouldn't feel so hideously guilty for her own self-pity.
Jerome frowned, but she had already turned her back on him and curled up in the blankets. He knew that she knew that usually he would simply join her, but he knew there was a reason she didn't want him to. He believed her, of course--when she had said she'd still love him even if he changed he had believed every word--but it was as if things were changing right now, before his eyes, even before he'd done anything, and it was all his fault.
"All right," Jerome said quietly. He reached out a hand to pat her back, but then before he made contact, retracted it. "I won't be too long. I'll have to wake you before dinner anyway, because--"
"--I know," she interrupted, but didnt turn to look at him. Her tears were dripping down her cheeks and onto the pillow, and this time she didn't want him to see them. "The doctor. I remember."
Jerome knew when he was being snapped at, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. He didn't say anything else, but he leant down to quickly kiss the back of his wife's neck, before edging out into the corridor.
~
Jerome didn't have a lot to do that wasn't caring for his wife. Now that even she didn't want him he found himself wandering aimlessly through the Hotel, hands stuffed into his pockets, and eyes turned towards his feet.
Luckily the first people to find him were likely the only ones who might have understood why he was so miserable. He saw Emma and her new friends rush past him along another corridor, but luckily his daughter didn't stop, and then eventually he ran into the Widdershins.
Faust wasn't with them. He had seen the littlest one go past with the older children earlier, and so it looked as if Fernald and Colette had no more reason to be aimlessly wandering than he did.
"Jerome," Colette said, catching him before he could make the effort to slip past them. "How is Esmé doing?"
Much worse now that I've upset her. Jerome shrugged, even though he knew the two of them would know instantly from his red eyes and cheeks that he was upset the minute he looked up. "Fine, I suppose," he answered. "No better, no worse."
There was a short silence. It was as if the two were silently deliberating which of them the question would sound better coming from. Fernald eventually spoke up.
"Jerome," he said, and Jerome did all he could not to glare at stupid Fernald Widdershins and his lack of extra weight. "Are you alright?"
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 11, 2009 15:04:14 GMT -5
“It’s nothing,” Jerome answered shortly. He made an attempt to brush by the Widdershins, only to have Colette coil her arm around his. “Did something happen?” she asked, her pale blue eyes looking brighter with the onset of her concern. All Jerome felt capable of doing at that moment was finding himself a private place to cry until dinner was ready. It was going to be hard on him, seeing all that rich food and knowing he couldn’t have any of it. The thought was enough to drive fresh tears to his eyes, and he slowly slid his arm out of Colette’s grip before heading in the opposite direction. “I can’t talk now,” he called to the Widdershins, and hoped that neither of them would dismiss his desire to be alone for rudeness. *** Jerome waited until he was outside and made sure that no one was around before letting all of his frustrations free. He wasn’t prone to self-harm like his wife, but did have a tendency to sob like an infant whenever he was upset— which was exactly what he did once he had situated himself underneath a tree. It was such a beautiful, picture-perfect day, but the singing of the birds was drowned out by the middle-aged man’s pathetic sobbing. Middle-aged. The realization only caused his sobs to intensify, and he struck his fist angrily against the ground. His father had always told Jerome that he cried far too much for a grown man, a fact which only increased his self-consciousness. The last time Jerome had carried on in such a fashion was when Esmé had left him. It had never occurred to him that there would come a day in which he’d repeat this behavior, but it made him feel better that it was not Esmé who had caused this particular reaction. She was right inside the hotel, more deeply in love with him than ever; even if she was annoyed with him at the moment. Eventually, Jerome’s sobs began to slow and his tears stopped flowing. He reached inside his pocket for his extra handkerchief (he always carried two, just in case) and wiped his eyes before blowing his nose. Gazing across the lawn, he noticed a small rowboat sitting by itself at the edge of the pond. If Esmé wasn’t so ill, he would have loved to take her on a boat ride. The only thing that would have been missing would be a parasol for her to hold while he rowed. “Jerome?” Jerome had been so preoccupied with his thoughts that he wasn’t aware that he was also being watched. He looked up to see Emma and Beatrice hurrying towards him. “Jerome,” Emma gasped as the girls reached him. “What happened? Mr. and Mrs. Widdershins said that you left the hotel all upset.” Not wanting to worry his stepdaughter or anyone else, Jerome merely shook his head. “I’m fine,” he reassured Emma. “You were crying,” she said, and he blushed in embarrassment. “We could hear you.”Had Jerome really been that careless with his emotions? He hated to think so, and even more he hated the idea that any of this could possibly make it back to his wife. “I wasn’t crying,” he insisted. “I… I was laughing. At a joke Mr. Widdershins told at breakfast.” “But you didn’t eat breakfast in the dining room. I brought it up to you, remember?”
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Post by Jenny on Apr 11, 2009 15:29:06 GMT -5
Why was Emma so clever all the time? Jerome loudly sighed.
"I mean a little bit after breakfast," he said, wondering why he didn't just admit it and stop so shamelessly insulting his daughter's intelligence by lying to her. But he worried that she might ask her mother what he'd been so upset about, and he couldn't bear the thought of what Esmé might do in response.
"What was the joke?" Beatrice shyly asked. Emma's eyes slid sideways to look at her, as if she knew that was the wrong question to ask, but she didn't say anything about it.
"It's--" Jerome tried to think of a joke himself that would be funny enough that they might laugh at it, but he couldn't even do that properly. "Well, it's rude. I can't tell you."
Of course, anybody acquainted with the Widdershins would have known that was unlikely, but luckily Beatrice had very little experience with the hook-handed man, and so she looked a little like she might believe him. Emma wasn't so easily convinced.
"How's Mother?" she asked, and he could almost her the accusation in her voice. She didn't like that he'd left Esmé alone, he could tell, even if she had suggested the possibility earlier. By the fact that he was out here sobbing like an infant and that he had left his wife upstairs on her own, it became abundantly clear to Emma that they had argued over something, and this caused her to frown again.
"Well, I think she's feeling a little bit better," Jerome lied, just like he had to the Widdershins. "She's sleeping, and she insisted I went downstairs for some fresh air."
Emma nodded. "Do you think she'll mind if I go and see her in a few minutes?"
"She'll be asleep," Jerome said, though he was not convinced she would be. She would be too annoyed to sleep, probably."But no, Em. I shouldn't think she'd mind it if you went up."
Emma couldn't fail to notice the stress he put on the word 'you', and she frowned. How could her parents have fallen out now? They never fell out if one of them was ill, so what had brought it on now?
"OK," she said, hesitant to ask questions when Beatrice was with her. "I'll go up and see her soon."
~
"Do you think I should go up and see Esmé?"
"For the last time, Lette, no. There's a reason she hasn't come down since she's gotten ill, and that's because she doesn't want to see anybody."
Colette folded her arms, and frowned. Ever since Jerome had raced past them with tears in his eyes, she had been worried. She knew nothing serious had happened, but if Jerome was upset, Esmé was bound to be inconsolable. Colette didn't like to think of her friend upstairs, alone, possibly crying...
"Well, I think I should."
Fernald put a hand to his forehead, and exhaled, trying to regain some sort of patience. "Well, if you want to," he shrugged. He'd been worried about Faust all day in case she fell into the pond again or one of the older kids upset her, and he didn't need to be forced to worry about anything else. "But you know they've already called the doctor, and I hardly think Jerome would have left her if she was too ill."
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 11, 2009 18:02:15 GMT -5
The Widdershins were seated on the loveseat in the lobby, having just recently come down in the elevator following their brief conversation with Jerome. “I’m worried about her, Fernald,” Colette said. “And I think that is a perfectly suitable reason for me to go up and see her.” “Go ahead,” he told her. “In the meantime, I’m going to have a look around and see if I can locate Faust. If she’s been playing then she’s probably gotten dirty. If that’s the case, then I want to allow enough time for her to have a bath before we all go down to dinner.” After kissing her husband on his pale lips, Colette rose up and left the lobby. She headed back in the direction of the elevators, her heart beating in anticipation of what she would discover once she’d reached Esmé’s room. *** Esmé had just barely started to doze off when there came a knock at her door. She sat up, not sure who might be standing on the other side. She knew it couldn’t be Jerome, considering he hadn’t locked the door on his way out. She supposed it might be Emma, or possibly one or both of the Widdershins. She very much hoped it wasn’t Kit or one of the Baudelaires, as Esmé still felt so awkward around them. Clearing her still sore throat, she uttered in as clear a voice as she could manage: “C— come in.” The door pushed forward, and Esmé heaved a silent sigh of relief at the sight of Colette Widdershins, whose face was painted with concern. “I hope you don’t mind me dropping by like this,” said Colette. “But Fernald and I both saw Jerome not long ago, and he appeared to be deeply upset. Is everything alright?” Colette’s question caused fresh tears to engulf Esmé’s eyes, and she threw her long-nailed hands over her face. The contortionist froze momentarily, and then took a brave step forward before closing the door quietly behind her. “Oh… oh, Esmé,” Colette said. Esmé absolutely hated crying in front of anyone but Jerome, who had seen her through so many of her fits over the years that she’d lost count. This was the only time she could recall in which he hadn’t been there to hold her and tell her that everything would be alright. Why had she told him to go? She would give anything to have him here now, to wrap his arms around her and console her… “Esmé,” Colette repeated. Esmé drew her hands away from her face to see the contortionist standing directly in front of her. “What happened?” Letting out an anguished little sob, Esmé struggled to find the words with which to recount the conversation she and Jerome had had. It was such an embarrassing account that she wasn’t sure if she could explain it properly. But as Colette’s arms coiled around her and Esmé’s shuddering sobs halted, she found the strength within herself to explain what had happened. “Jerome wants to lose weight,” she began tearfully. “He wants to be like he was when we first met, even though I’ve told him many, many times how handsome and perfect he is.” Colette couldn’t say she had ever found Jerome Squalor to be the most attractive man she’d ever come across, but she had certainly always thought him the kindest and most gentle soul next to her own husband. She knew that such qualities certainly meant more than looks, and so it wasn’t difficult to understand how Esmé could love Jerome the way she did. Colette remembered how skinny Olaf had been, and wondered if that had anything to do with why Esmé was so upset by the idea of her husband losing weight. “And i-it isn’t f-fair,” Esmé went on. Colette could tell by the way Esmé’s words were beginning to tumble over each other that she was growing more and more upset. Colette responded to this by tightening her arms around Esmé in a way Jerome might. “Th-that I-I’ll s-still b-be f-fat.” Colette almost laughed at that, but stopped herself just in time. How ridiculous can one woman be? the contortionist thought, and smiled to herself behind Esmé’s shoulder. It was true that she was nowhere near as skinny as she once had been, which was something that Colette had always thought to be a positive aspect. Even though she had a normal apatite, Colette had never been able to gain weight, and the fact that her best friend now donned such beautiful curves was something that made her quite jealous.
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Post by Jenny on Apr 12, 2009 7:48:37 GMT -5
Colette didn't have Jerome's patience, but she knew that when her friend was so upset there was no use making her even more so. It did tire her to see her best friend's insecurities--Esmé wasn't fat, of course, but no matter how much she tried to tell her that it seemed to have no effect--but she knew that showing any impatience with Esmé would never end positively.
"You aren't fat," Colette said, but Esmé didn't look as though that had made her feel better. "I'd love to be your weight."
This didn't seem to have any effect, either, but it couldn't have been more true. Esmé wrapped her arms around her stomach underneath the blankets, and, rather than scold her, Colette simply wrapped her arms around her friend instead. She didn't want to try and explain how Jerome losing some of the weight he was carrying might be a good thing when Esmé was already in such a fragile condition.
"Esmé," Colette said hesitantly. "Why is it that you don't want Jerome to lose weight?"
Nobody had asked her that before, and she simply shrugged in response, sniffing sadly. "Well, just because," she answered. "I like him the way he is now. I don't want him to change so he's thinner than me!"
"But that won't happen," Colette convinced. She honestly couldn't see Jerome Squalor--the all-time lover of everything sugary--would ever really lose his sugar-tooth, and therefore would never really slim down too much.
"You don't know that," Esmé said, laying back in her pillows and rubbing her already pink nose. "Jerome has really put his mind to this, Colette. He wouldn't have said anything to me about it if he wasn't sure."
Colette rolled her eyes. "Even so," she said. "What does it matter? What is going to be so terrible about having a husband who's a normal--"
Esmé's glare was even scarier when her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and Colette bit her lip.
"--A husband who weighs a bit less than he does right now?" Colette corrected. "Esmé, he's never going to leave you, no matter how much either of you weigh. And if he's a bit slimmer, that doesn't mean that he's going to turn into somebody else."
Esmé wasn't stupid enough not to understand what Colette was referring to. "That isn't the reson!" she cried. "Jerome is always going to be Jerome, Colette, and I know that!"
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 12, 2009 12:59:09 GMT -5
Colette was about to apologize when there came a knock at the door. Esmé sighed. “Would you like me to get that?” Colette asked.
Esmé replied by nodding her head, and Colette unraveled her arms reluctantly from around her friend. She was halfway to the door when she glanced back over at Esmé, whose eyes were closed. She was humming softly, probably in an attempt to distract herself from all of the unpleasantness surrounding her.
Another knock at the door ripped Colette out of her thoughts, and she hurried over to answer it.
As she pulled it open, she wasn’t entirely surprised to see Emma Squalor standing there. She looked as concerned for her mother as Colette felt, and the contortionist beckoned the teenager inside.
“I just talked to my stepfather,” Emma explained. “How is my mother?”
“She’s very upset,” Colette said honestly.
“Is it O.K. if I talk to her?”
Not wanting to tell the girl that she had no right to speak to her mother, Colette nodded. “I think she’d like that.”
Emma smiled, and hurried past the contortionist to her mother’s side.
“Mother,” Emma said, and her voice was enough to snap Esmé out of her trance. “Are you alright? How are you feeling?”
Esmé hated to worry her daughter, but the financial advisor was really in no mood to put on a mask to hide her distress. “I’m sad,” she confessed, and Emma took a step closer to the bed. “About your father. About myself. About everything.”
Emma hadn’t the slightest idea what her mother could possibly be referring to other than the situation regarding Kit Snicket. The only clue Emma had that something else was very, truly wrong were her parents’ tearful faces, and it frustrated her not knowing the reason.
“I’ll just leave you two alone,” Colette said. “I’ll be back later, Esmé.”
Esmé nodded, and waved to Colette as she left. After the contortionist had disappeared, Emma threw her arms around her mother.
“What is it?” Emma asked, as her mother began to sob. “What are you so upset about?”
“It’s your stepfather,” Esmé confessed. “We had an argument.”
“What about?”
Taking a deep, unsteady breath, Esmé told Emma about Jerome’s desire to lose weight, and how Esmé was terrified that he was going to end up being thinner than her; and even worse, as thin as Olaf had once been. Emma listened intently, every now and then nodding, until at last Esmé’s sobs overwrought her to the point where she was forced to lie down and sob into her pillow.
“What did Mrs. Widdershins have to say?” Emma asked patiently, as she rubbed her mother’s back to try and soothe her. “Did you tell her what you just told me?”
It was too difficult for Esmé to answer under the pressure of sobs that had built up in her throat, and so she chose to nod her response instead.
“I’ve seen pictures of Jerome from when he was my age,” Emma said. “He was sort of heavy, wasn’t he? We learned in health class that a person’s weight has a lot to do with their metabolism— so if Jerome’s metabolism has always been low, then I’m sure he won’t lose too much weight. Just enough to make him healthier.”
Emma had always been clever, and Esmé hated to think she had gotten that from Olaf’s side of the family rather than from hers. Olaf’s father had been extremely clever, having been the one who had organized the schism in the V.F.D. Esmé and Jerome had still not told Emma about that, and the Squalors still weren’t sure if they ever would.
“Where is your father now?” Esmé asked, her voice husky from leftover sobs.
“He was outside when Beatrice and I last saw him,” Emma replied. She was careful to leave out the part about Jerome crying, knowing it would only upset her mother.
“I’m going to take a bath before the doctor arrives,” Esmé announced. “Will you go downstairs and see if you can find Jerome for me, darling? If you see him, tell him I miss him and that I want him up here with me.”
Emma couldn’t help but smile in response to that. It was just like Esmé to stay angry with Jerome for only a short time before she grew too lonely and wanted him to return from wherever it was he had wandered off to.
“Of course I will, Mother,” Emma promised, and kissed Esmé on her flushed cheek. “Would you like me to run a bath for you before I go?”
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Post by Jenny on Apr 13, 2009 15:14:07 GMT -5
Esmé shook her head. "No, Em," she said, and would have given her daughter a kiss on her forehead if she hadn't been so concerned that she might catch her cold, or whatever it was. "I need to get out of bed. If you can just find your stepfather for me, that's the best thing you could possibly do to make me feel better."
Emma nodded. It was an integral part of their relationship that Emma, ever since she'd been a baby, had been like Jerome in that she never wanted anything but to please her mother. Esmé couldn't say it was something she really minded much.
It couldn't have been much more than five minutes from when the door closed behind her daughter to when her husband reappeared, and in a hotel so large, Esmé couldn't deny that that impressed her. Jerome was panting and hot, and his extra weight made running up the flight of stairs he'd had to climb a far more traumatic event than it actually was.
Esmé, who was sitting on the rim of the bathtub, leaned to the left so that her husband would be able to see her and not panic that she had somehow gone missing.
"Are you alright?" Jerome softly asked, stopping himself from adding any of his numerous terms of endearment, in case that really wasn't something she was in the mood to hear. "Emma said you wanted me to come up."
"I missed you," Esmé whined, and stood up unsteadily to wrap her slim arms around her husband, who was still--for now--chubby enough that she felt it reassuring. "And I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry."
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 13, 2009 16:47:29 GMT -5
Esmé had always found it difficult to apologize to people— in particular those she loved most of all. And so as she uttered the words to her husband, Jerome couldn’t help but be exceedingly proud of his wife.
“All is forgiven,” he said, making sure to add “my darling” at the end of his sentence. Now that Esmé was back to her sweet, affectionate self, Jerome had no reason to avoid any of the usual pet names he was known for showering her with.
Her response was a little purr and an affectionate nuzzle into her husband’s shoulder. “I love you so much,” she said. “And I absolutely hate it when we fight, Jerome.”
Jerome hugged Esmé a little tighter, as if he was afraid that speaking of the past might cause it to repeat itself. “Me, too.”
Esmé sniffed, and then loosened her arms from around Jerome so that she could disrobe. Her nightgown slid off from around her shoulders and crumpled on the floor at her feet. She blushed, and when she saw where her husband’s eyes were he did the same.
As Esmé glided slowly down into the hot water, Jerome sat beside her on the closed toilet seat. Peering over the rim of the tub, he smiled when he saw that the water just barely covered his wife’s stomach. When his eyes drifted back up to her face, he immediately noticed the faint smile on her lips.
“Jerome,” Esmé asked. “Do you think I’m prettier than I was before I had Emma?”
Jerome and Esmé had had this discussion many, many times, and his answer had always been the same. “You’ve always been beautiful,” he said, and reached down to rub her back. She shivered a little, and he smiled in response. “But now you’re healthy on top of that.”
Blushing, Esmé reached for the bar of soap and began to lather herself. “It’s been so long since I’ve worried about my weight,” she said. “And by that I mean really worried. I don’t want to go back to being that sort of person again.”
“I don’t, either,” Jerome replied. “I’d hate it if you went back to being a size four— you’re much prettier now that you’re a… what are you again?”
“A ten.” Esmé set the soap down on the side of the tub so that she could lie back in the water and wet her hair before shampooing it.
“It suits you.”
Esmé beckoned with a pair of long red nails to Jerome for him to lower his head over the tub. As he did so, she pressed her hands against the sides of his chubby face and kissed him. “That,” she said, “is for being the most wonderful husband on Earth.”
Jerome blushed, smiled, and then kissed his wife back. “Would you like me to shampoo your hair for you?” he offered.
Esmé nodded. “That would be helpful,” she agreed. “Especially since the muscles in my arms haven’t stopped aching since this morning.”
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Post by Jenny on Apr 19, 2009 7:01:01 GMT -5
Since fetching Jerome, meanwhile, Emma had been able to forget about her worries. She knew that as long as her parents weren't arguing then she didn't have to worry much about her mother. Jerome would take care of her. Besides, Beatrice had been showing her all the places she thought ghosts might dwell that they hadn't already seen, and they had eventually found their way back to the pond Faust had fallen into yesterday evening.
Faust stared down into the water with a frown plastered onto her face, and Beatrice chuckled. "I'm sure you won't fall in again," she said. "But, look on the bright side. By falling in, you got to see the man that lives in the pond."
Sunny looked as if the topic of the man in the pond made her a little nervous, but Emma couldn't understand why. Sunny hadn't found the other ghosts frightening in the least, and yet she looked at her younger sister as if she wished Beatrice could stop herself fromt elling their new friends the story.
"His name's Dewey," said Beatrice, unaware that Sunny was still staring at her worriedly.
"You know Kit doesn't like it if you talk about him," Sunny reminded quietly, her dark eyes turned down, staring into the pond as if she feared this Dewey might surface and drag them all down.
"She's not here," Beatrice said. "And besides, he's a friendly ghost, and Faust has already met him. It would be rude of us to pretend he didn't exist."
"I haven't really met him," Faust said. "All I knew was that one minute I was sinking and the next I was back on dry land, and that there was a sort-of man saving me. I never spoke or anything."
"Maybe now you can say thank-you," Beatrice said, and while she crouched low to look into the pond more closely, Emma joined her. They were nearly the same height--Emma was probably a little bit taller--and though they were very different on first glance in looks, there was something Faust couldn't quite figure out that linked them. The way their eyes were set in their faces, and the way their faces were built were almost identical. Their respective similarities to their mothers overrode it, but it was there nevertheless, and Faust couldn't help but wonder what had made them look so similar, and whether anybody else had noticed. Perhaps she would ask her parents, or Emma herself, but she doubted that they would have had the time to study the two girls similarities as she had.
Beatrice reached out a cupped hand and gently rippled the water, as if beckoning the man who had saved Faust to come to the surface. Sunny hung back a little, but Faust--desperate, perhaps, to be part of the older children's games--leant forward along with them.
"Why don't you try to get his attention?" Beatrice asked. "He might remember he saved you."
Faust nodded, and then reached out a pale arm to lightly brush the surface of the water. Then, gowing with the confidence that she wasn't going to fall in, she reached a hand down a little more into the water and splashed a little. She swore she saw something move beneath the water, and then she felt soemthing she couldn't see touch her hand. She refrained from pulling away in fear, and gazed, perplexed, into the water, looking for any fish or plant that could have made that movement.
Just as she thought she saw a shape gathering together under the ripples, and she felt fingers close around her own that were submerged, someone snatched her up from the floor and broke the contact with the ghost.
The teenagers and Faust had been too immersed to notice Fernald Widdershins striding towards them, and he scooped Faust into his arms without difficulty.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, and Faust whined when she realized the shape had gone and the water was clear again.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 19, 2009 12:44:13 GMT -5
“Daddy!” Faust exclaimed, and the disappointment became visible on her face as she met her father’s dark eyes. “I was—” “Disobeying me,” Fernald concluded, as he set his daughter on her feet. “Faust, we talked about this. Under no circumstances are you to go near the water. You can’t swim, which makes it—” Faust’s eyes widened, and her face went red with embarrassment. How dare her father announce in front of all of her older friends that she couldn’t swim! The very thought that Emma, Beatrice and Sunny now knew that Faust’s near drowning was not due to panic but an inability to swim was just too humiliating to comprehend. Glaring up at her father, Faust made a childish noise and then stormed off back toward the hotel. Fernald took one look at the three confused teenage girls, and then hurried to catch up with his daughter. As much as Faust irritated Emma sometimes, the older girl couldn’t help but feel sorry for the little acrobat-in-training. Emma knew what it was like to have a parent who was overprotective: when she had been Faust’s age, Jerome had treated Emma very much the same, and it had always frustrated her. But now that she was growing up, he had refrained from treating her like a child and more like the young woman she was quickly blossoming into. She hoped that Mr. Widdershins would learn to let go of his daughter the way Jerome had learned to detach himself from Emma. “They’ll be O.K.,” Emma assured her two friends. “I’m sure of it.” “Faust is cute,” Beatrice commented. “I hope her father isn’t too upset that I was showing her the pond.” Emma, who had taken on the role of an older sister to Faust over the last year, shook her head. “I doubt it. It’s not as if she was by herself, and we were all gathered around her in case she did fall in.” “I was going to ask you earlier if you’d like to take a boat out on the pond with me later tonight,” Beatrice said. “It’s supposed to be a warm night, and I thought maybe we could do it after dinner. I was just waiting until Faust wasn’t around before I brought it up. There’s only one boat, and it seats no more than two people.” “That sounds like a fabulous idea,” Emma exclaimed. She was rather pleased that she was finally going to get to spend some time alone with the friend she’d come to see, without little Faust Widdershins tagging along. *** “Leave me alone!” Upon returning to the hotel, Faust had barricaded herself inside the second bedroom of the suite that the Widdershins were occupying for the weekend. She had thrown herself down onto the queen-sized bed and buried her face in the extra-fluffy pillow, kicking her feet in frustration after what her father had put her through. Fernald and Colette were standing on the other side of the door, trying and failing to get their daughter to open it. “Faust,” Fernald called. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean—” “I hate you!” Faust cried. Her voice was so muffled in the pillow that she wasn’t sure if her father had even heard. “You embarrassed me in front of Emma and Beatrice and Sunny. They prob’ly think I’m a baby now, an’ it’s all your fault, Daddy!” However, Fernald had distinctly heard the words ‘I hate you’ echo clearly from the other side of the door. They were the same words that Esmé had spoken to him following the incident the night they had planned to flee to Britain. On that night, Olaf had chopped off Fernald’s hands, before doing the same to Esmé’s long, beautiful hair as an equal punishment. Fernald had always suspected that was the reason she’d seemed so angry with him for so many years, though her reasons had always been because she’d wanted to protect him. Now, his daughter had repeated the same words of his lover. It was a hard blow to take, and one which summoned tears of sorrow to his eyes. Fernald turned to Colette. “You know what?” he said at last, doing his best to disguise the growing sobs in his voice. “You deal with her. I’m going downstairs to find Fiona.”
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Post by Jenny on Apr 19, 2009 13:18:10 GMT -5
Colette could see just by the way her husband's jaw set and his eyes began to shine that he was on his way to tears, but as she reached out to stop him he strode quickly out of the door and down the hallway. His wife rested her head against the smooth surface of the door of the bedroom, and tried her best to keep her temper. She could hear Faust sobbing behind the door, and becoming angry with her was not going to make the eleven-year-old come out in a hurry.
"Faust, darling," she called, taking a couple of deep breaths and counting to ten, but wondering all the same when her husband and daughter had learned to throw such spectacular tantrums, and what it was going to be like when Faust was sixteen and they had more to argue over. "Please, sweetheart. Your father has gone downstairs. I just want to make sure you're alright."
This new approach worked better than shouting ever could have. Colette waited a minute or so for her words to sink in, and then she heard the lock of the door open. Faust threw herself into her mother's arms immediately--or rather, around her hips: Colette was about five-foot-eight, and Faust was still only the size of an everage nine-year-old--and Colete bent to kiss her daughter's forehead.
Colette couldn't have agreed more that Fernald was overprotective, and she understood her daughter's reaction even if she did think it a bit dramatic. But what worried her most was how her husband had reacted to Faust's behaviour--she knew there must have been a reason for it, because he wasn't a man given to emotional outbursts, and he must have known deep down that Faust hadn't meant what she was saying. She resolved later to find out what had upset him so much.
But, for now, she was otherwise occupied.
"What did your father say?" Colette asked, patting her daughter's back, and leading them both to sit down.
"He told everyone I couldn't swim," Faust said, wiping miserably at her eyes. "They already think I'm a baby and he's made it so much worse."
"But you can't swim," Colette reminded.
Faust groaned. "I know," she whined childishly. "But I wasn't going to fall in. Emma and Beatrice and Sunny were there, and so even if I had fallen in they would've helped! And he came over and made me looke stupid in front of all of them."
Colette frowned, but didn't let Faust see it. She knew that Fernald had his little darling's best interests at heart, as always, and she didn't much like the diea that Faust had been hovering over the pond after her experiences only yesterday, but she couldn't say Fernald's methods were the best she'd ever heard of.
"Oh, Faust," Colette said, and wiped her daughter's eyes. "If they like you, it won't matter."
That didn't make Faust feel any better. She still didn't really think they did like her--Emma might have, but only if she didn't have her other older friends around, and Beatrice and Sunny didn't seem to feel one way or the toher about her.
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