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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Jan 25, 2009 13:51:45 GMT -5
Jerome’s confession caused every last one of Esmé’s insecurities to hit her full force, and with a sweep of her dark hair she’d turned away from him.
“I’m sure it’s just a faze I’m going through,” Jerome said unhelpfully. He reached over to touch his wife’s shoulder, which he was not completely surprised to discover was trembling. She flinched, and he reluctantly let go of her.
“Children go through fazes, Jerome,” Esmé responded bitterly, though the sobs in her throat were unmistakable. “Not forty-seven year-olds!”
Jerome felt his face flush hotly in the darkness, and he was grateful that Esmé couldn’t see it. It was difficult to tell if she was more angry than upset, or vice versa. He had an idea of what was causing his unusual sleep disorder, but was too embarrassed to say what it was out loud.
“Esmé,” he said. “Darling, there’s something else I should probably tell you.”
Her response was a sad little sniffle, and Jerome was encouraged by the idea that in another minute she would be laughing to dare and wrap his arms around her. She didn’t flinch as she had the last time, but she didn’t react, either, choosing to stay still as she waited for her husband to continue.
“It’s quite funny, actually,” Jerome went on, feeling his blush increase as he crept closer and closer to his next confession. “But you have the habit of squeezing my stomach in your sleep, the same way you do when we’re both awake.”
Esmé sniffed quietly. “I do?” she asked, and her voice sounded so sweetly stuffed up that Jerome couldn’t help but squeeze her in return.
“Yes, sweetheart, you do. For the past two weeks in a row I’ve woken up to the feeling of your nails poking at me.”
Esmé gasped, and then whirled around on the bed to face Jerome. “I didn’t ever hurt you,” she asked fearfully, “did I?”
“On occasion,” Jerome admitted, and it broke his heart to see her eyes widen with alarm in the faint light that was now seeping through the full-scale window. “I know you don’t mean to, my darling, and you’re ever so gentle when you’re awake, but your nails have left noticeable scratches on my belly.”
Esmé sniffed again, and her eyes filled with tears of regret. “I’m sorry,” she said, and then looked down. Very slowly, she lifted up Jerome’s pinstripe nightshirt to reveal his stomach, which she hadn’t fawned over in a while all because her schedule left her so exhausted. Sure enough, it was lined with an assortment of red marks, and she leaned down to very gently kiss every one she could see. Perhaps her actions were just another psychological problem, as she was already so terrified of losing Jerome, though she’d hate to discover she had another one on top of the others she already dealt with.
“What if I started wearing oven mitts to bed?” Esmé offered, and straightened back up to look at Jerome. She absolutely hated the idea of cutting her nails, which she was so proud of. “Would that make you stay?”
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Post by Jenny on Jan 25, 2009 14:27:33 GMT -5
Jerome couldn't help but chuckle just a little at the image of his wife wearing oven mitts to bed every night, although Esmé herself still looked very serious indeed.
'I do fear you wouldn't be very comfortable, my dear,' he said, still smiling to himself, although he supposed it was difficult for her to see that in what was still nearly total darkness.
'Well, what else can I do?' she asked. 'I don't really want to cut my nails, Jerome, even if I do poke you in your sleep sometimes----'
'---Every night, usually at about three o'clock....'
'--And so I'm going to have to wear oven mitts, or something, aren't I? Even if it will look a bit ridiculous.'
Jerome's smile slowly faded into a slight frown. She sounded a little upset with herself, and he thought this revelation would have made her happier, not more upset. He had thought she was going to find her habit funny, not berate herself more for it. He wrapped his arms around her a little tighter, and kissed her on her forehead, even though she still sat perfectly still and didn't respond at all to him.
'It's not really so much of a big deal, my love,' he said quietly, and rubbed her arm when she failed to even show signs of wanting to look at him. 'I think it's quite adorable, and---'
'--Well, obviously not,' she interrupted. 'Because otherwise you wouldn't have had to go sleep somewhere else in order to get away from me.'
Jerome was lost for words for a few moments, and that was all it took for his wife to roll away, out of his arms, and curl herself up under the covers, leaving him sitting on the other side of their bed alone.
'Sweetheart,' he said, still sounding a little shocked. Of all the things they could argue about, surely this wasn't going to be one of them? 'Don't be angry, darling. I only told you because---'
'--I'm not angry with you,' she snapped tearfully, and Jerome didn't know how she managed to sound so upset and furious at the same time. 'I'm angry with myself. How is it that even when I'm asleep I make life difficult for you?'
Jerome tried to speak, but no words came out. He couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't a repeat of the conversation they had about his distance from his brother earlier, but unfortunately this silence was something his wife took the wrong way entirely.
'Exactly,' she said to herself, softly enough that Jerome barely heard. Before he could say anything about that, or tell her how much he loved her, or tell her something else to reassure her, she raised a hand to wave it at him, without ever turning his way.
'Go away,' she said weakly, and his heart hurt to hear her say it.
'Darling, it isn't that---'
'I don't want to talk about it anymore, Jerome,' she said, and wriggled away when he lay a hand on her back. 'Maybe in the morning.'
The unspoken maybe not echoed loudly in the air, and Jerome simply sighed, before lifting hismelf up off the bed and shuffling sadly back into the spare room, imagining that he couldn't hear his wife's shaky breaths between sobs on his way back.
~
'Mother?' Emma asked quietly, shivering in her thin, short nightgown, and pausing to tap gently on her Mother's door before entering. Esmé, in the half-light, stared back at her.
'What are you doing awake?' she asked, but not unkindly. 'You've got school in three and a half hours, Em. You'd better go get some more sleep.'
Emma shook her head, and crossed the room to join her mother on her bed, and wrap her arms around her. 'I can't sleep knowing that you're upset,' she said.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Jan 25, 2009 17:41:42 GMT -5
“Everything is fine now,” Esmé replied, and turned her face away briefly to wipe away some more tears without Emma noticing.
“Where’s Jerome?” she asked.
Esmé couldn’t bear to tell Emma the reason for her stepfather’s absence from his wife’s bedroom. Just thinking of it made Esmé want to hurt herself, which in turn made her cling tightly to her daughter.
“Mother, what is it?” Emma demanded, and she suddenly felt very fearful. “Did something happen between you and Jerome? Are you ill?”
Esmé shook her head, but the tears streamed down her cheeks all the same, and Emma tightened her arms around her mother. It wasn’t often that Emma was forced to see her mother through a crisis, and she felt she might’ve been able to if she had any idea what had caused it.
As Esmé began to sob a little more openly, Emma said patiently, “Mother? Won’t you please tell me what’s happened to make you so upset?”
Esmé sniffed, and then nodded her head. As she gave Emma the account, she listened intently, being extremely careful not to laugh and watching her mother’s face closely in case the fourteen-year-old did let something slip out.
“Maybe Jerome can take you to see Dr. Leer,” Emma advised, once her mother had finished speaking. “He can probably give you a sleeping pill or something, can’t he?”
To Emma’s surprise, Esmé shook her head. “No, Emma,” Esmé said. “I don’t want to do that. I’m already on enough prescription medication as it is, and I’m tired of it.”
Emma kissed her mother on top of the head, and then snuggled down into the blankets beside her like the teenager had done as a young child. As Emma tightened her arms around her mother, Esmé allowed her mind to drift back to the early days of her daughter’s childhood. There was one time in particular that both Esmé and Jerome remembered vividly, and which amounted to a story that Emma had forbade her parents from ever speaking of: it was just after Carmelita had moved out and gone away to college, that Emma had begun wetting the bed. She had never done anything of the sort before, and so at five years old it had come as a bit of a shock to her parents. Esmé had no history of ever having wet the bed, though there was no way to tell for sure about Emma’s father.
After three nights of consoling an embarrassed little girl and washing sheets, Jerome and Esmé had taken their daughter to see Dr. Leer. He had found nothing physically wrong with Emma, but had advised her parents to take her to a child psychologist. Esmé’s first thought had been that her daughter had inherited her own emotional problems, but the therapist was quick to dismiss this. They explained that Emma’s problem had derived from her separation from Carmelita, who Emma had known all of her life. The therapist assured the Squalors that Emma would stop wetting the bed eventually, but in the meantime to assure her and that she refrain from consuming any liquids no less than two hours before going to sleep.
Esmé soon drifted off, and not long after so did Emma. When Jerome walked in three and a half hours later, he smiled at the way his wife lay cradled in the arms of her daughter.
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Post by Jenny on Jan 26, 2009 16:20:32 GMT -5
When it appeared that neither of them were going to wake up if he just continued to stand there pointlessly, Jerome ventually snapped himself out of his little trance and approached the bed. He wasn't certain his wife was going to have forgiven him, but she'd be in an even more sour mood if he let her sleep and she ran late for work and left Colette on her own. Jerome wasn't sure whether Esmé, with all the recent upset, had remembered that today was, in fact, Friday, and they were going over to the Hotel Denoument tonight for the weekend.
Just as he was considering packing a bag for his wife to save her some time, Emma yawned and stretched, and caught sight of her stepfather standing near the doorway.
She glanced down half-protectively at her mother. 'Morning, Jerome,' she said, and he tried to ignore the fact that he still didn't think that nightgown was appropriate.
Before she could say anything else, Jerome smiled gently at her. 'Thank you for staying with your mother,' he said softly, careful not to wake Esmé until he was ready to. She looked so sweet and happy curled up in the many blankets on their bed that he almost wished that he could have left her sleeping a little longer.
''S okay,' Emma slurred, rubbing her eyes. 'It's way more comfortable in this bed anyway.'
Even if, as far as Jerome was concerned, Emma was a most loyal and amazing human being, she really was a teenager after all.
'She wasn't very angry,' Emma commented, and stood up after another few moments of stillness. 'I'm fairly certain she was only worried about you. You know how she is.'
That last statement sounded a little foolish from Emma's mouth--spoken from the girl who, to be absolutely fair, often did not take into account her mother's feelings as much as she ought, to the man who never stopped indulging them. But Jerome simply smiled, and said nothing about Emma's unnecessary little comment.
Just as she managed to pad her way across the floor to the door, and Jerome had lowered himself into place beside his wife, he couldn't help himself.
'Emma,' he said quietly, so that she only barely heard. She turned inquisitively, and he grinned sheepishly back. 'What kind of a nightgown is that?'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Jan 26, 2009 19:58:33 GMT -5
Emma grinned, very much aware that the garment she was donning was referred to as lingerie. She had bought it on a trip to the Clothing District with Carmelita, and when Esmé had discovered it her only response had been to “not tell Jerome”.
“Your father is very conservative when it comes to fashion,” she’d told her fourteen-year-old daughter. “And so I don’t think it would be in either of your best interests to wear this particular garment anywhere but your own room.”
Emma had, of course, promised her mother that she wouldn’t, but this had not been the first thing on her mind when she’d woken to Esmé’s panicked cries. Emma couldn’t bear to lie to Jerome, who could always tell when she, Esmé, or even Carmelita weren’t being completely truthful with him.
“It’s lingerie,” Emma responded, and waited anxiously for Jerome to react.
A moment later, he did, and found it quite necessary to keep his voice as soft as possible to keep from waking his wife. “Emma, are you— what do you mean you’re wearing lingerie? You’re far too young to— where did you get that garment from?”
“In the pajama department of the In Boutique,” she replied, and chuckled. It really wasn’t as bad as the other pieces she’d seen; the only reason it was all that risqué to begin with were the facts that it was form-fitting and stopped just above her hips.“Jerome, relax. It’s not like I’m wearing it outside the penthouse.”
“That is no excuse!” Jerome hissed. “Fourteen is far too young to be dressing like a… a…” His hands were shaking, and he felt angry with himself for being unable to come up with a proper word to express his outright frustration. “Go back to your room and change this instant,” he said at last. “And when you’re done, bring me that garment. It’s going in the trash; I refuse to allow any daughter of mine to prance around in something so indecent.”
“Fine!” Emma snapped back, too angry to remember that her mother was sleeping on the other side of the room. Glancing over her shoulder at her stepfather from the doorway, she added angrily, “Honestly, Jerome. Sometimes you’re so out it’s actually shocking!”
Before he could remind her not to slam the door, she did just that, and he felt the figure of his wife stir beside him as she was hauled rudely out of sleep.
“Mmm…” Esmé murmured. “What was that?”
Jerome turned his attention to her, smiling as she snuggled up to him affectionately. Her body was warm from having spent so much time beneath the covers, and the scent of the lavender lotion she was so fond of lingered heavily on her skin and in her hair.
“Nothing, sweetheart,” he assured her. “Emma and I just had an argument, but it’s nothing for you to concern yourself with.”
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Post by Jenny on Jan 27, 2009 14:32:47 GMT -5
Esmé turned her blue eyes up towards him, and he wished that he’d never said anything at all about his argument with Emma.
‘What did you argue about?’ she asked innocently, and slowly sat up, smoothing down her far more conservative nightgown as she went. He almost laughed at himself—he supposed he wouldn’t have minded one bit if it had been Esmé in the lingerie.
‘I told her I didn’t want her wearing that nightgown any more,’ he answered, and his wife laughed before falling gently back into his arms. ‘She’s a child. She can’t go around looking like that, even if it is only you and me who’ll see her.’
His wife turned to him. 'She's fourteen, Jerome,' she responded. 'She isn't a child. She's a young woman, and the more you tell her not to dress a certain way the more likely she'll be to try it.'
Jerome stuttered hopelessly, and then turned red. 'Did you buy that indecent nightgown for her?' he demanded, and his wife simply rolled her eyes and chuckled.
'Well, no,' she answered, and ruffled his hair affectionately so that it ended up a little messier, just the way she thought it looked best. 'I don't know where she got it, but if she---'
Jerome let out an involuntary loud squeak of panic. 'Well, if you don't know where she got it,' he reasoned slightly unreasonably. 'And neither do I, then who did she buy it with?' Somebody might've bought it for her, Esmé, what if some boy---'
Before Jerome could complete his irrationally paranoid ramblings, Esmé had completely collapsed into his chest, laughing.
'You're so silly!' she cried happily. 'And even if it was some boy that bought it for her---which I'm certain isn't the case--it's hardly risqué. And it's absolutely none of our business besides...'
'But she's our daughter!' Jerome cried. 'Of course it's our business, and it always will be! At least until she's eighteen!'
Esmé rolled her eyes again, but there was no escaping the differences between her upringing at her husband's, and this undoubtedly affected the way they thought they needed to look after Emma. She knew, of course, that at fourteen she would not have been allowed to dress in anything except clothes that enabled her to do her chores most effectively due to hoe controlling her guardian at the time had been. Although Jerome's childhood had been very different from hers, he had still been influenced by an extremely controlling parent, but had also had some freedoms that Esmé didn't have, simply due to his place at bording school. Even if Jerome was the single most wonderful man in the wolrd as far as Esmé was concerned, it was only natural that some of Maxwell Squalor's personality traits would have rubbed off on him.
'You were like this over her wanting to wear make-up,' Esmé reminded. 'And wanting to wear heels, and even over Walter Dali. And you were exactly the same with Carmelita.' She grinned and kissed him. 'I'm sure you'll get used to having a teenage daughter one day, darling.'
He laughed, but also became acutely aware as she stood to leave of how wrong it was not to discuss with her the night before.
'I'm sorry,' he eventually blurted, just as the stood in the doorway of their ensuite bathroom. She turned quickly to face him. 'I'm so sorry I upset you, my love,' he said with almost shocking sincerity. 'It breaks my heart to think I've upset you, sweetheart.'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Jan 27, 2009 15:56:00 GMT -5
Esmé blinked her blue eyes in confusion, and she looked so cute that Jerome would have hugged her had he not been so anxious to hear her reply. “Just because you and Emma had a little argument?” she asked sweetly. Jerome smiled, and looked away while shielding his bright red cheeks with his hands. Esmé laughed out loud, and threw herself into his arms. “I wasn’t talking about that,” he said as her own arms curled around his back. “I was referring to the conversation we had early this morning.” “Oh,” Esmé replied, and still her arms stayed locked tightly around Jerome. “It’s alright, darling. You didn’t do anything wrong. If anyone is to blame, it’s me for being—” She stopped, right before she could utter the word ‘stupid’. Jerome always hated it when she scolded herself, and so she was always careful not to say anything suggesting it in front of him. “Never mind,” she said eventually. She kissed his cheek, feeling her lips graze over the first hint of stubble there. “I love you,” Jerome said, before kissing his wife on the lips and taking her by the hand while sliding into the bathroom. Just like she had done on a thousand other mornings prior to this, Esmé trailed after her husband, slipping into the shower behind him. *** Twenty minutes later, Esmé was sitting at her vanity blow-drying her hair, when Jerome turned from where he was standing sideways before the full-scale mirror on the other side of the room. “Sweetheart,” he said. “May I get your honest opinion on something?” “What is it, darling?” she asked. “Do you think the Baudelaires will have any trouble recognizing me?” “What makes you think they wouldn’t recognize you?” Jerome merely shrugged, too embarrassed to tell Esmé what he was really thinking. “Is this about your weight?” she asked finally, and he felt his cheeks redden. “It is, isn’t it?” Jerome nodded, and then turned full circle to face the mirror. As he began to fiddle with his tie, Esmé came away from the vanity and wrapped her arms around him from behind. Her hands squeezed his stomach, making sure to be careful of the marks her nails had left there, and she nibbled lightly at his ear. “You’re so sweet,” she said. “And you’re very lucky, because self-consciousness happens to be very in this month.” Jerome had a feeling Esmé was only saying this to make him feel better, but it did help to lessen a small part of the anxiety he was currently experiencing. He finished fastening his tie, and then covered both of his wife’s hands with his. “I think you’re the innest, handsomest, most smashing husband in the entire world,” Esmé announced. “And anyone who thinks otherwise is nothing but a—” “Mother?” Esmé and Jerome spun around simultaneously, to see Emma standing in the doorway of their bedroom. “What is it, darling?” asked her mother. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright,” Emma explained, “after last night.”
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Post by Jenny on Jan 27, 2009 16:27:46 GMT -5
Esmé loosened her arms slightly hesitantly from around her husband and turned towards her daughter. Jerome, for one, was very glad she appeared to have changed out of that nightgown he so disliked, and was now wearing suitable clothes for school, even if she was wearing too much mascara in his opinion. He decided he'd let that one slide; after all, he really did hate arguing.
'Yes, darling,' she answered. 'Thank you for asking. I'm perfectly alright now.'
The now on the end of her sentence made Jerome feel a little guilty, even if it was clear she didn't blame him. He finsihed adjusting his tie and shirt properly, before turning to see that Emma was holding something out to him.
'There it is,' she said, and he suddenly understood that the piece of cloth in her right hand was that piece of inappropriate lingerie. 'If you hate it so much, then there's no point me keeping it anyway.'
Esmé turned sideways to her husband and raised a sculpted dark eyebrow, and of course, with a sigh of impatience at his own lack of substance, he gave in.
'No, Emma,' he said. 'It's your choice, not mine. It's your choice what you wear, especially around the house. I'm sorry I overreacted, sweet.'
Emma shrugged confusedly. She knew it would have been her mother's influence that changed his mind, but she was grateful for his apology all the same. Esmé looked like she agreed completely with his decision.
'As long as you don't wear it at the weekend,' Jerome quickly added, and Emma found the humour within herself to laugh at that, though Esmé rolled her eyes.
'I wasn't going to,' Emma said quickly. 'I'm just going to take my pyjamas.'
Jerome nodded approvingly, though at the mention of the weekend Esmé had seemed to get a little shock. Perhaps she had forgotten that today was Friday, or that tomorrow was the weekend, but in any case she rubbed her forehead as if very stressed.
Emma had a feeling the weekend had the potential to be either wonderful or absolutely terrible.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Jan 27, 2009 17:44:23 GMT -5
“Did you pick out which outfits you’d like to take with you and lay them out on your bed like I asked you to do last night?” Esmé asked her daughter. “Yes, Mother,” Emma told her. “I’ll be sure to pack a suitcase for each of you,” Jerome said, and then turned to his wife. “Darling, were there any garments in particular you’d like to take with you?” “Whatever you think looks the most modest,” Esmé replied, not adding that she wanted to give the Baudelaires every reason in the world to believe that she was a changed woman. After all, showing up at the new Hotel Denouement in a lettuce leaf bikini really wasn’t the best way to go about making amends with three children she had once pushed down an elevator shaft. “Alright, sweetheart,” said Jerome, wondering if he should pack one or two of Esmé’s extra special garments she wore only for him. “I’m going into the kitchen to start breakfast,” she said. “Four pancakes as usual, Jerome?” The billionaire grinned, and pulled his wife into a hug. “You read my mind like a book, darling.” “Yes. However, that statement would only be true if I actually read.”Jerome pulled Esmé a little closer, and kissed her on the tip of her adorably upturned nose. “Why don’t you and Emma go into the kitchen,” he suggested, “while I get started on the packing? I promise I’ll be there in just a little bit.” “O.K.,” said Esmé, giving her husband a hug back before pulling out of his embrace. “Come along, Emma. You can help me by stirring the batter.” *** As a child, Emma had always enjoyed helping her mother in the kitchen. Given, Esmé hadn’t had much of an interest in learning how to cook until she was in her early thirties, when her devotion to Jerome was no longer a secret. For his thirty-fourth birthday, her gift to him had been a plate of heart-shaped pancakes, and she had never forgotten the look on his face when he’d taken his very first bite. He had gone on for weeks about how delicious they were, and she had made them for him every morning afterward. “You’re going to be O.K. this weekend, aren’t you, Mother?” Emma asked as she stirred the batter around in the glass bowl with a wooden spoon. “You aren’t going to run off or anything, right?” Esmé knew that her daughter was only expressing her concern, but her words had the capacity of making the financial advisor feel like a child. “No, Emma,” Esmé answered, hoping that Emma could sense the firm tone in her mother’s voice. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll be doing no such thing.”
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Post by Jenny on Feb 1, 2009 9:06:57 GMT -5
Emma nodded in silent agreement, but she silently vowed to keep an extra careful eye on her mother over the coming weekend. It didn't take a genius to figure out what had upset Esmé to begin with, and that had most certainly been the arrival of Kit Snicket--although she had not seemed particularly delighted meeting Beatrice either. Emma knew it was no use asking what Esmé found so upsetting about the prospect of spending time with Kit Snicket---who was obviously a friend of Jerome's. If she was a friend of her step-father's, then surely she couldn't be that bad? Emma had never yet met a friend of Jerome's that hadn't been at least pleasant, and didn't know why Beatrice's mother was going to be any different.
'I believe you,' Emma said, though really she didn't. 'But Mother, what was it that made you so upset about meeting Mrs Snicket?'
Esmé was facing away from her daughter fetching a carton of orange juice and the glasses to pour it into, and so Emma didn't hear her sigh or see her frown. No matter how much she adored Emma, sometimes she really did wish that she could be a little less inquisitive.
'We've known each other for years,' Esmé said. 'And never gotten along.'
Emma was concentrating on the pancakes, determined not to burn them when she knew that would make them all late for school and work. 'But why?' she asked. 'If Jerome can get along with Kit, then I'm sure you can.'
'Just because Jerome likes somebody doesn't mean I do,' Esmé responded, wishing her husband had never mentioned his previous friendship with Kit Snicket. Couldn't he have thought a little bit before that particular comment? 'After all, Jerome likes Nero, and you know he and I are never going to be close.'
'Jerome doesn't really like Nero,' Emma said. 'He just pretends to because of Carmy. And Jerome wouldn't be friends with Mrs Snicket if she wasn't a nice person.'
Esmé rolled her eyes, but was careful not to let her daughter see that. Jerome had married her, after all, and she hadn't been any sort of nice back then. But rather than point out the flaw in her daughter's argument, she simply nodded.
'Some people just don't like other people,' she said simply. 'Regardless of how nice they are. There are other reasons that some people mightn't get along.'
Before Emma could ask what exactly those reasons were, Jerome's nose and the smell of pancakes led him into the kitchen, his hair still damp from his shower.
He opened the cupboard and set out plates on the table before taking a seat. It didn't take him long to notice that his wife and step-daughter hadn't said a word.
'Something wrong?' he asked cautiously, an his wife shook her head.
'No,' she answered, seeing no reason to explain the conversation that she and Emma had been having. She leaned down to give her husband his customary morning kiss all the same, and Emma started to put the pieces of her own little puzzle together.
All she knew was that Kit was a friend of Jerome's, and Esmé didn't like her at all, and wouldn't be swayed on that issue. Esmé didn't seem to think that Kit wasn't a nice enough person, but also wasn't in any position to be making friends with the woman she seemed to hate.
Emma didn't know it for sure, but it looked to her like Jerome and Beatrice's mother might have been more than friends at one point in their lives. After all, it seemed to make an awful lot of sense.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 1, 2009 13:21:02 GMT -5
“Fernald and I will be swinging by the bank around five o’ clock,” Jerome said, as Esmé spooned his standard four heart-shaped pancakes onto his plate. “You and Colette can meet us outside, or we’ll come into get you. It’s your choice, darling.” “We’ll meet you out in front,” Esmé replied, serving Emma her customary pancakes made to resemble smiley faces before taking a seat beside Jerome. As usual, Esmé’s plate remained empty, her only breakfast being a cup of coffee in front of her. She knew she tended to get grouchy and lightheaded whenever she didn’t eat, though she hoped for once that her husband would let it go. But perhaps she had thought too soon, because the next thing she knew, Jerome was giving her The Look. It was the look he gave her whenever he was sorely disappointed— whether it was over something that had happened, or something she herself had done. It was the same look he had given her that morning at Veblen Hall, when she’d revealed her true feelings for Gunther and broken Jerome’s heart. “I know it’s asking a lot,” Jerome said, “but won’t you please eat a little breakfast?” Esmé seemed adamant to answer the question, and her husband reached across the table to lay his hand on top of hers. His face was so sweet and sincere, that she found herself unable to resist. She picked up her fork, and a moment later was reaching for the platter of pancakes she had set down in the middle of the table. She supposed she could allow herself one, since she would be skipping lunch as usual again that afternoon. Perhaps it would even be wise to have two pancakes, seeing how difficult a time she was going to have over the weekend being surrounded by so many people. Emma smiled to herself as she watched her stepfather (who was closer to the platter than her mother) take the fork from Esmé and use it to scoop up three pancakes. She looked as if she might protest, but he dropped them onto her plate before she could. Emma was eager to take Jerome aside before she went downstairs to catch the bus and inquire more about his relationship with Kit Snicket. The hard part was going to be avoiding Esmé, as she was practically glued to her husband every morning before leaving for work. Not wanting to raise any unwanted suspicion, Emma started on her breakfast, glancing every now and then at her parents. Apparently, Esmé didn’t seem to mind eating if Jerome was feeding her, and Emma grinned as he popped a bit of pancake into his wife’s mouth and then kissed her on the nose. They really do love each other a lot, Emma speculated, while at the same time praying that they would keep their romantic gestures relatively private over the weekend and not embarrass her. *** Emma waited until her mother had excused herself to go put on her makeup before asking her stepfather the question that had been riding on her mind throughout breakfast. “Jerome?” Emma said. “May I talk to you? It’s rather important.” Jerome looked at his stepdaughter from where he stood over the sink, washing dishes. “Why, certainly,” he replied. “What’s on your mind?” Emma glanced over her shoulder, as if she was expecting Esmé to return suddenly. Once Emma had assured herself that this was not going to happen, she turned back to Jerome and continued: “It concerns Beatrice’s mother— you know. Kit Snicket.” “What about her?” “Well…” Emma hesitated, and shuffled her foot across the smooth tiles of the kitchen floor while she figured out a way to properly word her question. “Were you two ever involved? Like Mother was with Count Olaf?”
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Post by Jenny on Feb 1, 2009 16:16:26 GMT -5
Emma knew by the way her step-father's cheeks flushed bright, beetroot red and the way he began to stutter that she'd been one-hundred per-cent correct in her assumptions.
'Really?' she blurted, unable to help herself. She knew it made sense, but it was difficult for her to imagine a time when Jerome hadn't only had eyes for her mother.
'I'm not sure 'like Mother was with Count Olaf' is a great comparison,' Jerome eventually corrected. 'Kit and I were just friends really, I mean, we were friends first.'
'And that's why Mother doesn't like Mrs Snicket?' Emma concluded, but the way Jerome's eyebrows furrowed told her wordlessly that she hadn't been correct.
'No,' he said, sighing as if defeated. He decided it was best to reveal some of the long story to his step-daughter, and hoped his wife could forgive him for it. 'Your mother doesn't know that Kit and I were---used to---' he rubbed his face embarrassedly, which just made him even redder. 'But the reason your Mother doesn't like Kit much is actually because of Count Olaf himself.'
Emma's one eyebrow--so like her father's--raised, and Jerome swallowed.
'As far as I know,' Jerome said. 'Count Olaf was in love with Kit Snicket,' using the term relating to a man who didn't seem capable of the emotion seemed rather strange. 'And your mother always felt second best in comparison.'
'And she doesn't know about you and Kit yet?' Emma cried, worry creeping into her voice. 'Well, are you going to tell her?'
'No,' Jerome said firmly. 'No, no, no. Kit and I weren't anything special and we've both long out-grown that phase in our lives. And you know how it'll upset your Mother if she finds out.'
'But isn't it better if you tell her?' Emma asked. 'Otherwise she might find out, and you know that'll be worse!'
'No,' said Jerome stubbornly. 'She's not going to find out, Emma.'
Before Emma could answer, a cough from surprisingly nearby startled them both. Esmé's eyes were paler, diluted by tears, and she met her husband's eyes with a surprisingly stony gaze.
'You have got to be joking,' she said, and sunk into one of the kitchen chairs. 'Not you as well!'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 1, 2009 17:00:13 GMT -5
For a moment Jerome froze, his left hand hovering in the air while his right clutched the countertop. “Sweetheart—” he began, but Esmé held up a slim, pale hand, and he quieted at once.
“Why?” she whispered, and it was clear that she was struggling her hardest not to cry. “Why is it that I am always second best when it comes to that… that woman?”
“Mother,” Emma said, and began to stroll forward. “You must not have heard the entire conversation. Right before you walked in, Jerome said—”
Like she had with her husband, Esmé cut her young daughter off, though it was with the power of a glare rather than with her hand. Emma sensed the oncoming of an argument between her parents, and she backed down at once.
“Darling,” Jerome attempted to explain. “What Kit and I had meant— it was a long time ago, before I’d even met you. Her parents were friends of mine… we met one evening at a party that her family was hosting. Kit was four years older than I, and we started out as friends. I was a sophomore in high school, and—”
“Oh, shut up, Jerome!”
Jerome bit down hard on his bottom lip as the words Esmé had not used on him in more than fourteen years slowly registered to his brain. It was obvious from her tone that she was more hurt than angry, but that didn’t mean her words didn’t sting him painfully.
“Emma,” he said, not taking his eyes off his wife for fear of what she might do if he did. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you to ride the bus to school today?”
Emma took one look at her mother, who was shaking as if she had just come in from the snow. “No,” Emma said, deep concern lining her voice.
“Good. Go fetch your things, and then go downstairs.”
“But what about—”
“I’ll handle it.”
Emma nodded, and then sprinted out of the kitchen.
Jerome waited until his stepdaughter had disappeared, before taking the initiative of approaching his wife. He recognized her uncontrollable shaking as the first sign of an anxiety attack, but knew she was capable of harming herself if given the chance. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, and as he reached for her arm, she bolted from her chair; he went to grab her by the waist, but she tore away from him before he could get his arms even halfway around her.
Esmé was so upset, that she tripped in her stilettos and went sprawling across the kitchen floor. She began to sob loudly, and Jerome practically had to crawl on top of her as he wrapped his arms around her to keep her away from the cabinets and sharp utensils they contained.
“Let me g- go, Jero-ome!” Esmé screamed. “I— I— I hate you!”
Her words went straight to his heart, and he felt tears engulf his eyes as he wrapped his arms even more tightly around her shuddering body.
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Post by Jenny on Feb 1, 2009 17:15:02 GMT -5
'Shh,' he said quietly, and had to fight to keep her arms around her as tightly as he had done. 'Please stop, please, my darling, I---'
'--that woman,' she hissed. 'that woman takes everything I love away. I don't know w-why it d-didn't occur to me before now that you were going to be next!'
'No,' said jerome, but it didn't come out as firmly as he'd have liked. 'I only love you, sweetheart, it was year and years ago--'
She twisted in his grip with a renewed determination, and he flinched as one of her knees stuck his stomach, but refused to let her go.
'Let go!' she cried, and tears were streaming down her cheeks. He knew she was just upset, and he tried to block out all of her following words. 'I don't want you, hate you, leave me---'
Jerome, arms wrapped firmly around her, swiped at her stray arm, which was reaching for one of the kitchen cabinets. 'Stop it!' he bellowed, hating the way he was forced to shout to stop her, and hating himself afterwards for the frightened whimper he caused.
When he next looked at his wife, she had ceased her struggle to get away from him, and her long nailed hands had reached up to cover her eyes as she sobbed.
'I should h-have g-guessed it,' she said quietly from behind her fingers. 'I-I should h-have known. S-She's always been better t-than m-me.'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 1, 2009 18:49:49 GMT -5
“No,” Jerome whispered into his wife’s ear. “That’s where you’re wrong, my love. There is no one on this Earth who can possibly compare to the wonderful, kind, talented, and unbelievably beautiful woman you are.”
Esmé felt a warm tear roll down her cheek as the honest words of her husband echoed in her ears. Her self-loathing was beginning to dwindle, and she sat up a bit and allowed Jerome’s hand access to the part of her body that he loved best of all. His hand slid up her blouse and rested on the spot beneath her ribcage, rubbing slowly and lovingly. It was the one thing he knew would calm her down during her moments of extreme upset; she lay still, like a wounded animal, her small body tensed and her shoulders hunched, sniffling sadly as her hands continued to cover her face.
“I’m sorry,” Esmé whispered finally. “I’m sorry I said I hated you. I… I didn’t mean it.”
“I know you didn’t, sweetheart,” Jerome replied, before silently swallowing back his tears.
“It’s just that… the thought of someone taking you away from me is… it terrifies me, Jerome.”
Jerome pressed his hand firmly against Esmé’s belly, as if to reassure her that she had absolutely nothing to worry about. She purred, but the sound was ravaged by her leftover sobs, and so it came out sounding more like a croak. Even so, he found it adorable, and he squeezed her stomach just a bit as he reached down with his other hand to draw one of hers away from her face.
“I love you,” Jerome said sincerely, “and I could never leave you for someone else.”
This included Kit’s brother, Jacques, Jerome’s deceased best friend and who’d made several romantic advances to him in the past. Esmé knew all about it, just because Jerome had told her, and the only thing that bothered her was the idea that Jacques would have taken Jerome away from her had he been bisexual. It was a silly notion, Esmé knew, considering that her husband was as straight as a telephone pole, but that didn’t stop her from constantly considering all of the what-ifs.
She sniffled, and finally lowered her other hand away from her face. She rolled over on the floor, and rested both of her hands on top of Jerome’s, one of which still occupied its place on her stomach. She looked up at him, and he wasn’t surprised to see that the tears were still visible in her eyes.
“Where’s Emma?” Esmé asked.
“Downstairs,” Jerome clarified. “That is, if the bus hasn’t come by yet. Do you want us to take the elevator down and check?”
Esmé shook her head, and her husband was relieved to see that she had at least stopped trembling.
“I’m sorry that I kicked you,” she said.
Jerome smiled. “I’m just lucky that it was the toe and not the heel part of your shoe you used to kick me with.”
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