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Post by Jenny on Feb 2, 2009 4:14:25 GMT -5
(OH YES. THE JACQUES ;D There has to be a flashback in which you can make him as adorable as in your fic...)
Esmé hugged her husband tightly, as if that might somehow erase her behaviour. She couldn't bear to think she might've bruised him, and didn't look for fear her suspicions would be confirmed.
'I wish I hadn't found out,' she said softly. Her head rested on his shoulder, but even at that proximity she could not be sure he'd heard her speak. 'I wish I'd never known.'
'But it doesn't matter,' Jerome reminded. 'You know as well as I do that Kit only ever really had eyes for one person. And that certainly wasn't me.'
Esmé sniffed again--she didn't need reminding that really Olaf and Kit had only ever truly been capable of love with one another--and then pulled her arms free of his grip.
'You can let go now,' she said calmly. 'I promise I won't run. Or touch the cabinets.'
Jerome slowly loosened his arms from around her, and allowed her to shift away from him.
'This is going to be a difficult weekend,' Jerome admitted, and his wife let out a bitter chuckle, as if it had already begun. 'But please remember; it doesn't matter what happens,' he pasued, and stood to kiss his wife on the tip of her slightly upturned nose. 'I'll still love you. And that's a promise.'
~
'For God's sake,' Colette practically growled. She rubbed her eyes, still a little sleepy, and then remembered she had been wearing mascara (which was now utterly smudged and useless),a nd this only served to annoy her further. 'What's wrong with it now?'
'If I knew that then I'd fix it, wouldn't I?' her husband irritably replied from behind the bonnet of the car. For Faust's benefit, Colette bit her lip to keep her temper under some semblance of control.
'I cannot be late, Fernald,' Colette reminded. 'Esmé and I are on shaky enough ground, and my job's hanging in the balance. What do you think will happen if I fail to show up?'
'Well, I didn't choose for the car to stop working, Lette,' Fernald replied. His wife's incessant complaints grated on him, no matter how much he loved her. Didn't she know yet that he'd buy a new car for them given enough money to do so?
'Well, there's no point getting angry with me.'
'I wasn't getting angry with you,' Fernald responded crossly. 'But now I am.'
Colette did her best to close her eyes and count to ten, and take a few deep breaths. How did Esmé and Jerome refrain from arguing? It seemed like some sort of miracle to her, especially for someone with Esmé's temper.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 2, 2009 13:35:55 GMT -5
[Sure, of course we can do a flashback featuring the Jacques! ] The Widdershins had been halfway to Faust’s school and forty-five minutes from the bank, when smoke had begun to rise from the hood of the car. Now, all three of them were gathered together on the side of the dusty road, wondering how their latest setback was going to impinge upon the rest of their day. “Does this mean I’ll get to miss school?” Faust asked hopefully from beside her mother. “No,” Colette told her. “It means you’ll be a little late, but you’re still going.”Faust folded her arms over her chest, pouting as her father rounded to the back of the car. She watched along with her mother as he opened the trunk and searched through it for a few minutes. He retrieved a jug of water from inside and then returned to his position at the front of the car. “What are you doing now?” Colette demanded. “The engine is overheating again,” Fernald responded patiently. “If I pour some water in it, then it’ll cool down and we can be on our way.” Colette sighed, but said nothing as she and Faust watched him tilt the jug forward and pour a fair amount of water into the engine. “It stinks,” Faust remarked. “Daddy, why does the car smell like somebody’s dirty feet?” Fernald smiled, while his wife chose not to comment. He knew he couldn’t blame Colette for being annoyed by the situation, but she really had no right to place all of the responsibility on him, either. Setbacks happened, no matter how minor or serious they were, and are issues that all of us must learn to cope with. Colette, however, was not someone who adjusted well to disappointment, which was just another quality that connected her and Esmé. “There,” Fernald said, and twisted the cap back onto the jug of water. “We’ll give it fifteen minutes to finish cooling, and then I’ll start the engine.” Colette muttered something under her breath and then crawled back into the front passenger’s seat, slamming the door a little harder than necessary behind her. It was at times like this she wished she could afford to have a cell phone. *** “Esmé,” Jerome said, as he pulled into the parking lot of Mulctuary Money Management, “I’m going to ask you one last time: are you sure you wouldn’t like to spend the day at home with me?” Esmé, whose eyes were still puffy from crying, shook her head. “Darling,” she replied, “as much as I’d love to, it would be both unprofessional and selfish of me to ignore my obligations at the bank. Colette still hasn’t gotten completely used to her position, and I want to be there in case she needs me.” Jerome nodded understandingly, and then leaned over to kiss his wife on the lips, which were slightly swollen. “How’s my face?” she asked, pressing the tips of her long-nails fingers against her cheeks. “Do I look as though I’ve been crying?” “I think you look adorable,” Jerome said, careful not to mention that it was plain to see that she had only recently stopped crying. “So I look O.K.? You don’t think anyone will be able to tell that I—” Jerome kissed Esmé again, extracting a dreamy sigh from her. “For the last time, my love: you are nothing short of perfect.”
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Post by Jenny on Feb 2, 2009 14:34:22 GMT -5
Esmé caught sight of her puffy eyes in the mirror, but carefully said nothing. If Jerome thought she looked perfect, she decided, then perhaps that was all that mattered.
Jerome made his usual effort to walk in with his wife to Mulctuary Money Management--he wasn't sure when this habit had begun, only that it was something he didn't want to stop doing. He supposed it was his way of making sure his precious wife got into work safely before he left her alone, and it helped to set his mind at rest for the rest of the day (even if he still would have preferred she was at home wih him where nothing could happen to her). He couldn't help but smile every morning at the way she would lean lightly on his arm as they made their way into the building, and the way she made every effort to be as close to him as possible. It was such a refreshing change from the woman she had been fourteen years ago--the woman that would have died from embarrassment if he'd dared come anywhere near the bank, let alone hold her hand--that he promised himself he'd never, ever learn to take it for granted.
'It doesn't look like Colette's here yet,' Jerome said, after lengthly scanning and not seeing the curly blonde hair of Mrs Widdershins. 'Would you like me to sit and wait with you, my love?'
'You don't have to---'
'--Oh, well, I'd be delighted to, sweetheart,' he interrupted, before she could find a reason to send him on his way. She grinned up at him, cheeks and nose still a little pink from the tears she'd shed earlier, and he walked them both to her desk.
'I have got friends, you know,' she reminded gently as she sat in her usual chair and he occupied one of those that would later be filled by her clients. Jerome didn't seem particularly interested in this latest snippet of information, his large hands still completely encasing hers and his eyes focused hopelessly on her lips, as if watching her speak without any of the words registering.
As flattering as it was, Esmé couldn't let that carry on.
'So, what's your name, Jerome?' she asked conversationally, trying hard to restrain her wide smile that might have given her away. A few people at desks nearby looked a little puzzled by her latest comment, but she simply laughed to herself.
Jerome, still transfixed on either her lips or nose, or possibly her slightly visible freckles, simply hummed a response. 'Yes, my darling,' he replied automatically, and Esmé could't quite refrain from laughing.
Some wives perhaps would have been annoyed that their husband's hadn't been listening properly. But it wasn't as if Jerome had been too transfixed on a football game or a computer screen to pay attention--he'd been too busy looking at her. It was very difficult to stay angry at someone who had only done wrong because they were too busy admiring you.
Jerome seemed to have just snapped out of his latest fascination with his wife (how he found more after fourteen years was a mystery--she'd looked for these imaginary perfections in the mirror and not caught sight of any) when he took a glance to his left and caught sight of a group of Esmé's (frightening) office-friends, who had apparently been watching with avid interest, and instantly transformed into a blushing, embarrassed, shaky wreck.
Esmé seemed to take no notice. She managed to retract one of her smaller hands from the grasp of Jerome's, and lay it against one chubby, hot cheek.
'It's not our fault they're all so jealous,' she whispered, and leant over to press a passionate kiss to his lips.
'It's enough to make a person ill at this time of the morning,' Ellinoire Connelly grumbled, and might have said more if a very angry, very windswept Colette Widdershins hadn't stumbled through the double doors of Mulctuary Money Management that very second.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 2, 2009 16:29:41 GMT -5
“Colette,” Esmé exclaimed, and tore her lips away from her husband’s so that she could rise. “Whatever is the matter?”
Colette looked as though she was just about to respond, when the doors swung open once more to reveal Fernald, who was trailing desperately after his wife.
The mouths of Esmé’s co-workers fell open at the sight of Fernald’s hooked hands, and even Jerome looked a little annoyed as one of the women lifted a hand to cover her mouth in shock as Esmé— whose back was turned to them —headed towards the Widdershins.
“What’s happened?” she asked, drawing her arm around Colette and leading her over to her assigned desk. Esmé really didn’t feel up to taking part in another crisis, but seeing as it involved her best friend, she didn’t feel she had much of a choice.
“Nothing,” Colette replied, as she slid down into her chair. “We just had a little bit of car trouble, that’s all. It isn’t anything to worry about.”
Esmé raised her head, hoping for a more detailed answer from Fernald. But when she saw that his eyes were focused on the floor, she glanced over her shoulder and spotted the reason.
“Well?” she shouted angrily at the gawking women, her arm wrapped tightly around Colette still. “What are you all staring at? Haven’t you ever seen a man with hooks for hands before?”
Esmé knew that she was probably drawing more attention to Fernald than he would have preferred, but it made her angry to know that people still treated him the way she and Olaf had so long ago. She had never quite forgiven herself for it, which strengthened her determination to defend Fernald and his family whenever the need arose.
The sharpness in his wife’s tone caused Jerome to shudder, and he watched the women who had just a moment ago been staring at him as they scurried like mice to their appointed tasks. He stood up, and made his way over to where his wife and the Widdershins had assembled.
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Post by Jenny on Feb 2, 2009 16:46:42 GMT -5
Fernald allowed himself a smile as all the people who had been staring, open-mouthed and rather rudely at his hooks, all turned their backs and hurried to get on with their normal tasks and hurried to get away from Esmé, who had looked very angry that people had the nerve to look at him in such a way. He knew it had more than a little to do with the way she still blamed herself for what had happened to him, even though he had tried on many occasions to get through to her that it had been his choice to stand up to Olaf about the way he treated Esmé. Fernald hadn't planned on Olaf catching them , and perhaps that was something thatc ould have been avoided. But it had been his choice at the time to attempt to fight the older man, and in the end that had cost him his hands. But no matter how many times he mentioned this, Esmé was likely never to stop believeing it had been her that caused it. But it was, on occasion, nice for someone to stand up for him so much when really people were only looking.
'Thanks,' mumbled Fernald. He didn't mean to sound in any way ungrateful, but he'd never excelled at great displays of gratitude, and he hoped Esmé had known him long enough for that to have become apparent.
She nodded, and smiled. 'Don' worry about it,' she answered. 'I was getting sick of the staring, anyway.'
She said this last part a little louder, so that some of the women who had never stopped looking at her since her arrival might overhear, and Jerome grinned and kissed his wife on her forehead, completely and inexplicably proud of her.
'Thank you for agreeing to come to the Hotel Denoument this weekend with us,' Esmé addressed both of the Widdershins', her and Colette's argument still fresh in her mind. Perhaps she had been right about certain parts of her argument. 'I know it's a lot to ask.'
'Not for me,' Fernald said cheerfully, and then adjusted his hat with one of his hooks. 'Well, I'd better be getting to the---' he paused then, and took a look sideways at Colette.
'What?' she asked.
'Well, I didn't know if you were telling people about where I work,' he answered shyly. 'It's not very upmarket, is it?'
Colette snorted, although this had been exactly what she'd been thinking the day before. 'What isn't very upmarket?' she repeated loudly. 'Working in a supermarket?'
Fernald blushed, and adjusted his hat again. 'Alright, you don't have to advertise it, 'Lette,' he scolded gently, before kissing her on the cheek. 'I'll pick you up with Faust at five o'clock, OK? I promise I won't be late.'
Jerome did not feel the need to make a similar promise--he had never, ever been late to pick his wife up from work, and so instead simply chose to give his wife another kiss on her painted red lips before turning to leave.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 2, 2009 20:33:52 GMT -5
“Have a good day, darling,” Esmé said, loudly enough for everyone around her to hear. “I love you.”
Jerome, who had gone back to blushing like a schoolgirl, nodded and waved before slipping through the front doors with Fernald.
*** Try as she might, Emma simply could not force herself to concentrate on what her history instructor, Mr. Cook was saying. History had never been her favorite subject, but her mind kept drifting back to the conversation she’d had with Jerome, and her eyes seemed to drift by their own accord over to Beatrice, who was seated beside her. Emma wished more than anything to share her secret with her best friend, but remembered what her stepfather had told her about her mother finding out, and knew it would be in everyone’s best interests to keep her mouth shut on the matter.
Beatrice was listening intently to Mr. Cook’s lecture, and every now and then she would scribble something down into her notebook. Emma sighed, looking down at her own blank notebook. She had never been very skilled when it came to note-taking, a quality she’d inherited from her mother, and often felt stupid in a room filled with other children she believed to be cleverer than herself.
Emma was well aware that she was an intelligent person, a fact she was reminded of every time she stepped onstage and delivered her lines for whatever play she was currently performing in. But when it came to classrooms and lessons, she felt anything but talented.
She was eager for the bell to ring, just to have an excuse to stretch her legs. Her next class was gym, and even though she hated it most next to history and math, it would be nice to get outside and enjoy the sunshine for a while.
“Miss Squalor?”
Emma looked up, suddenly realizing from the stern look on Mr. Cook’s face that he was addressing her. Feeling her face go as red as her stepfather’s every time he was embarrassed, she asked, “Yes, sir?”
“I said,” Mr. Cool repeated, “or asked you, rather: what year did the Second World War begin?”
Emma’s mind went blank. She knew the answer, but she couldn’t concentrate with what must have been every eye in the classroom focusing on her. She lowered her head, feeling her cheeks grow hotter with every passing second of silence. She was just about to tell her instructor that she didn’t know the answer, when Beatrice’s hand rose slowly into the air.
“Yes,” Mr. Cook said, and pointed across the room to her. “Miss Snicket.”
“The answer,” Beatrice replied casually, “was 1937.”
Mr. Cook smiled. “That’s correct. Good work, Miss Snicket.”
Emma closed her eyes, irritated with herself for not having said exactly what was on her mind. For once in her life, she actually wished she could be more like Faust Widdershins.
*** Emma rarely participated in dodge ball, and normally would have faked cramps just to get out of it rather than break a nail, but it was a good way to release her pent-up frustrations without the concern of taking them out on someone who didn’t deserve it.
Namely, Beatrice.
“Hey, Eyebrow!” Davey Foxworth called from across the field. “How about kicking that ball over to me?”
“With pleasure!” Emma shouted back, and slammed her pink-sneakered foot hard against the ball.
It sailed across the field, landing right on target in the center of Davey Foxworth’s forehead.
Emma smiled with pride as she watched her arch enemy collapse on his back on the grass.
She felt better already.
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Post by Jenny on Feb 3, 2009 11:23:11 GMT -5
The sound of a whistle blowing made Emma sigh in irritation.
'Emma Squalor!' the gym teacher--a burly woman with blonde hair pulled tightly back into a ponytail at all times--called. 'The aim of dodgeball isn't to injure your classmates!'
Some of Davey Foxworth's friends sniggered loudly, and Emma just glared, feeling her blood heat, and threw a ball with all her might over to them (which struck one of them directly in the centre of his wiry back).
'Squalor!' bellowed the gym teacher, and Emma couldn't hold herself back from jumping a little at her loud voice. The first time Esmé and Jerome had encountered Ms Sargeant, they had both returned quite considerably shaken, and offered to write Emma a note to get out of gym whenever she liked. 'Would you like to take a trip to Vice Principal Nero's office?'
Emma rolled her eyes, but didn't let her frightening teacher see that.
'No,' concluded Ms Sargeant. 'I bet you don't! Now play th game by the rules and you won't have to!'
'Yeah, eyebrow!' cried Davey Foxworth, scrambling to his feet and pointing a skinny, long finger at her. 'Play by the rules!'
Just out of spite, and not seeing Beatrice gaping at her, Emma hurled another few balls in his direction viciously, and although all of them missed, this was the end of Ms Sargeant's patience.
Unfortunately, ways of punishing Emma Squalor were rather limited at Prufrock Prep, mainly due to the fact that the Vice Principal was her brother-in-law, and if he dared punish her too harshly his wife would be decidedly unimpressed with that. And so, Emma happily trotted away to the administrative building, at least happy that she'd given Davey Foxworth a bruise.
~
Colette, even though the computer still confused her mightily, was finally feeling that she was getting the hang of her new job. It wasn't a friendly job--Esmé and many of the other financial advisor's often talked during the day, and Esmé's clients were all different, and therefore she always had some sort of varied conversation to concentrate on. This was a luxury that was not present in Colette's job. Except asking the different people to sign various things, asking their name, and other mundane questions, she didn't egt to talk much ,and never got more thn a word or two out of the people behind the glass. The people on either side of her were equally busy, and never had the time or the inclination to speak to her. Not only that, but all of the people occupying the different areas of the counter were ten years or more younger than she was, which she had to admit was a little off-putting.
But then she remembered that she was going to get paid in a few weeks, and that made her content enough to continue.
At around ten o'clock, a cough let her know that Mr Poe had dropped by to see her again. She jumped out of her skin when she heard his horrible cough, and wondered if she was ever going to get used to that horrible sound.
'Mrs Widdershins,' he said. 'I'm glad to see you're doing better at your----' he paused to cough again. '---job.'
Colette nodded nervously. 'Thank you,' she said awkwardly, not entirely sure how to respond. 'I think I'm finally getting a hang of the computer.'
Mr Poe smiled in a friendly way back at her. 'I'm glad of that,' he said, and then coughed again before continuing. 'I'll need to come back again later,' he said, and she felt herself dreading that time already. 'We need to take down some details about--' another cough. '---you.'
'About what?' Colette nervously asked. What if all Esmé's judgemental friends found out that she had never worked in Wall Street as a receptionist? Or in fact that she'd never been to Wall Street?
'We need to verify your identity, I suppose,' he said. 'Some money went missing a few weeks ago, and although the issue was resolved, here at the bank we need to be sure that everyone working for us is----' he coughed again into his hankerchief, and Colette flinched. '--trustworthy.'
~
'Emma,' Nero drummed his chubby fingers on his desk irritably, chewing noisily on a piece of candy. Emma held her tongue, of course--she wasn't insolent--but she did feel like reminding him that his belly was certainly growing, and perhaps he ought to take it easy on the candy. She decided maybe that was a thought for some other time. 'Emma, as nice as it is seeing you every day, it would be better if you could possibly refrain from causing Foxworth any serious harm in future.'
'Well, then stop him teasing me,' she said quickly. It had been years since she had told Nero and her parents about Davey Foxworth's teasing, and nothing had ever been done about it, except an ocassional slap on the wrist for Davey. 'Then I wouldn't have to. I don't do it to anybody else.'
'Except his friends.'
'Well, they don't count,' she excused, and snatched a piece of candy from the bag in front of him and popped it into her lipsticked mouth.
'This is a detention,' Nero said, attempting to be stern. 'Stop taking my candy.'
'Oh, I think you have enough there for me to have a piece,' she said, and smiled when she saw his attempt at looking cross with her. It was no secret that Nero was very fond of her--after all, he had known her since she was a toddler, and what he felt for Emma was almost parental. In some ways, he was almost like a favourite uncle that couldn't stay angry at her no matter what.
'I'm going to tell your parents how badly behaved you are one day,' he muttered.
'You already told them,' she reminded. 'And I said it was because of Davey Foxworth, and they don't mind.'
'Maybe next time I'll tell your mother instead of your father,' he said, and Emma's one eyebrow furrowed. 'And we both know that won't go down very well.'
'My mother understands why I have to throw things at Davey Foxworth,' Emma said calmly. 'And I think after meeting Mr Foxworth, Davey's father, she mentioned something about wanting to throw pencils at him.'
Nero smiled. It certainly did sound like Esmé.
'And, if your going to,' she said, taking another piece of candy before Nero could stop her. She was surprisingly quick for someone who hated gym so much. 'Then at least wait for Monday.'
'Why?' Nero asked, and buried the candy inside his desk before she could steal any more.
'We're going to the Hotel Denoument,' she said, and Nero choked promptly on his piece of strawberry flavoured candy. 'And staying for a weekend with the Baudelaire's and the Snicket's.'
'What?' blurted Nero, after he'd stopped choking. 'Esmés agreed to this?'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 3, 2009 21:28:11 GMT -5
“She certainly did,” Emma confirmed. “Is that really so surprising?” “Well, frankly,” Nero said, and chewed uncomfortably on the inside of his cheek before continuing, “yes, it is. I assumed that after the fire and the violent death of Dewey Denouement, the last thing on everyone’s mind would be to return to the hotel.” Emma’s blue eyes widened with interest. “You knew Beatrice’s father?” “Only briefly. We met the day before he died— your mother was set to host a cocktail party at the Hotel Denouement, and was gracious enough to send me an invitation. It’s a pity about his death… he seemed like a very kind and noble man.” “That’s what Beatrice says,” Emma agreed. “Or her mother, at least. He died just a few weeks before Beatrice was born.” Emma considered telling Nero about the supposed ‘ghosts’ said to haunt the premises of the hotel, but her uncertainty of how her brother-in-law would react held her back. She wasn’t at all sure what his opinion on the supernatural was, but she had a suspicion that he would be difficult to convince unless he could see the proof with his own eyes. “The Widdershins are coming with us,” Emma went on. “Mother insisted… of course, that also means that Faust will be tagging along. I’m not too thrilled about it, but the Hotel Denouement is supposedly very big, and so I’m hoping she’ll be too interested exploring to bother me much.” Nero smiled. “You just be sure to give everyone my best,” he said. “And tell your mother that Carmy will be sure and give her a call this evening. I’m that’ll be the first thing she’ll want to do when I tell her where you’ll be spending the weekend.” “Really, Nero,” Emma assured her brother-in-law, “there’s no reason for you to worry so much.” “I know that, Emma. But I’m part of your family. It’s my job to worry about all of you.” “Well, if that’s the case, then I feel I ought to express some concern I’ve been having.” “And that would be…?” Emma could feel a smile beginning to creep around the corner of her mouth, and she avoided Nero’s eyes as she answered. “I was thinking,” she said, “that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea if you were to…” She lifted her head, meeting Nero’s eyes momentarily before resting hers on his stomach. “…Lay off the candy?” She thought about adding “or go to the gym”, but felt it wasn’t completely necessary and therefore left it out. To Emma’s great surprise, Nero chuckled. She looked up, and her surprise only intensified when she saw that he was smiling at her. “I’m not angry,” he said, and the honesty in his voice put all of her worry on the subject to rest. “In fact, Carmelita said something similar to me just the other week— though the way you put it was a lot more courteous.” “I just worry about you, Nero,” Emma replied. “I love you, and I want you to be around for a long, long time.” “Thank you for your concern, Emma. And I promise you that I plan on sticking around for quite a while yet.” His words having comforted her, Emma gave Nero one of her biggest and brightest smiles just as the bell rang, signaling the end of her detention. *** “Thank you,” Esmé said pleasantly to the young couple, as they handed her back the papers she had just asked them to sign. “Your money will be put into the account within twenty-four hours. If you have anymore questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me personally.” The couple smiled and thanked Esmé, before rising from their chairs. She was watching them head towards the two front doors, when Ellinore Connelly rushed up to her. “Esmé,” she said, “I don’t mean to alarm you, but Mr. Poe wants to see you in his office immediately. He says it’s urgent.” Naturally, Esmé’s first thought was that whatever it was involved Colette, and the financial advisor glanced over her co-worker’s shoulder. Colette was standing at the counter, speaking with a customer. She didn’t appear to be having any trouble, which prompted Esmé to turn questionably back to Ellinore. “You’d better go and see what he wants,” she advised.
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Post by Jenny on Feb 4, 2009 6:00:16 GMT -5
Esmé nodded, and tried to look as nonchalant as possible. After all, she had done nothing wrong, and she wasn't in school anymore: this wasn't sending her to the Principal's office because she'd done something wrong. This was just Mr Poe---and how much less scary than him could it get?--wanting to talk to her. The only thing that made her wring her hands nervously was that she had no idea what he wanted to talk to her about, and that if it was urgent, then it had to be important. But she forced herself to simply walk over to Mr Poe's office without letting any of these nerves show on the outside.
As she was preparing to knock on the door of his office, he shocked her by opening the door ahead of her.
'Come in, come in,' he said, before coughing into his handkerchief. Esmé sincerely hoped that wasn't the same hankerchief as yesterday. His office was very stuffy and disorganized--papers were spread all over his desk in seemingly random piles, and many photographs of his two brutish sons---she didn't remember their names, but she remembered that they were both now amateur football players--and his wife lined the desk messily. She resisted the urge to dust off the chair he indicated before sitting down.
'Esmé,' he said hoarsely--it seemed as he got older his cough seemed to be getting the better of him. She wasn't sure when they'd moved on to first name basis. 'As you may or may not know, we are---' cough '---running basic background checks on a lot of the people working here. Now, it isn't puzzling to me that in your case there were bound to be certain---' he coughed again, though this time he also seemed quite embarrassed. '--irregularites.' She was perfectly aware of what he meant, but didn't take any offence to it. Mr Poe had never once brought up her past before, and for this she was incredibly grateful, and no matter how much she disliked the man's unpleasant habits she had no reason to hate him, especially since he had been very kind to her.
'But I have found something that needs an explanation,' he said, and leafed through one of his piles of papers until he found what he was looking for. 'These,' he said, and coughed. 'Are your birth certificates. Yes, certificates. It's not unusual to have two, if you had another printed at some point, but it is a little unusual to have a two year difference in your birth date.'
Esmé frowned as he passed the papers across to her. The two pieces of paper were identical, except that the writing on both was different, as were the dates.
'This is the right one,' she said, indicating the one on the left. 'My birthday's in December, not August.'
Mr Poe coughed. 'Well, if you don't mind my asking Mrs Squalor,' he began. 'Then where did the other one come from?'
Esmé just shrugged. She looked over the two certificates, and noticed nothing that would have set them apart. Her mother's first name, however, was spelled differently on each of them: on the one that she considered the real one, it was spelled 'Adele', and on the second, strange one, it was spelled 'Adelle'. As far as she knew, there were two spellings of her mother's name, but why had it been spelled wrong on one of them?
One of them, certainly, was fake.
Unfortunately, Esmé wasn't sure who to ask to confirm that she was forty-three and her birthday was in December. On her mother's gravestone, she remembered, her name had been spelled the same way as the certificate she didn't believe was correct. Perhaps the gravestone was wrong?
She didn't have any record of the exact date her parents were married, only that she was born nine months afterwards. If she could find out the year her parents were married, this would be able to tell her which of the certificates were correct. And if she could find out the correct way of spelling her mother's name--she was slightly ashamed that she was uncertain--then that would surely prove it.
'Thank you for bringing this to my attention,' she said softly. 'But I don't know which one is correct. There are problems with both.'
Mr Poe frowned back at her. 'Well, isn't there a way you can--' cough. '--find out? Can't you phone one of your parents?'
No, she thought to herself, and cursed Mr Poe's naivety. She didn't know any of her real family, and her parents were both long dead. She tried to think of anyone who might have known, but the only person she could think of was Olaf, who was as difficult to ask as her parents were. There was nobody else, she was the only-----
---Unless. Unless her mother's wealthier relatives were still alive.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 4, 2009 14:47:25 GMT -5
“If that were only possible,” Esmé said, “then I would do it. But seeing as both of my parents are dead, I fail to see how…” She trailed off, wary of how irate her voice was beginning to sound.
Mr. Poe looked as though he was getting ready to say something, when he turned away and coughed into his handkerchief. Esmé waited— though somewhat impatiently —until the banker’s fit of coughing had past before saying anything.
“I’m sure it’s all been some sort of misunderstanding,” Esmé continued, though as she examined the pair of birth certificates in front of her, she knew there was more to the situation than a simple misunderstanding.
“I’m terribly sorry to hear about your parents,” Mr. Poe replied. “Though you— you must understand that”— he placed the handkerchief in front of his mouth and coughed into it —“that this will require further investigation. Surely there must be someone you can contact who will be able to provide you with information as to why the dates on your birth certificates are two years apart.”
Esmé had no idea where to even begin her search, seeing as Adelle’s family had disowned her after she’d divorced the wealthy man her parents had chosen for her and instead married Esmé’s father. Remembering the way Maxwell Squalor had reacted to Emma’s existence, Esmé very much doubted that her mother’s family would be interested in meeting the woman who had been the result of a romance between a married housewife and a factory worker.
“What about my job?” Esmé asked finally, her bottom lip trembling on the last word. “Will I still be able to keep my job?”
Mr. Poe met her eyes, and for a moment she was so terrified she couldn’t move. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you,” he said, but even this was not enough to set her mind at ease. “But it might be best if you were to take a leave of absence until this is sorted out. You know how people”— another cough —“are. They talk, and very often that talk will create all sorts of unnecessary excitement.”
Esmé honestly felt ready to cry. Her job, which she held in immensely high regard, was being threatened, and she could hardly stand it. With all that had happened over the course of that week was enough to push her past the brink of her already unbearable stress, and into the depths of incredible despair. She could feel tears welling up in her eyes as she rushed out of Mr. Poe’s office, stumbling as she fought to make her way back to her desk before she could faint and completely embarrass herself.
Colette’s last customer of the day had just left, and the contortionist was the first to see Esmé as she fell to the floor just feet away from her desk. Placing the “CLOSED” sign against her window, Colette fled her cubicle and hurried over to help her friend.
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Post by Jenny on Feb 4, 2009 15:32:34 GMT -5
Before Esmé was able to cause too much of a scene, Colette linked her arms under those of her best friend and helped her to her desk. 'Esmé,' she said, making no effort to hide her concern. Some people around them turned to stare, and some pointedly turned away. It reminded Colette of earlier that morning, when Esmé had been so angry with people for daring to stre so rudely at Fernald. Colette was still so new here that she didn't have the nerve for that, and she tried to ignore the unwelcome glances from around the office. 'Esmé, what is it? Do you want me to call Jerome?'
Colette thought that perhaps she should have tried to sort the situaton out herself, but she didn't know how to help Esmé like Jerome did. And she could tell just by the way Esmé's hands shook as she reached for her bag that this was something that she wasn't going to be able to help her friend out of on her own.
'I---' Esmé tried to explain what had upset her so much, and then choked on her own sobs. 'I-I'm g-going to lose my j-job!' she cried, and another couple of people turned around from other desks nearby, and Colette turned to glare at them before placing a pale hand on Esmé's trembling shoulders.
'What?' Colette hissed quietly, and when it seemed Esmé wouldn't be able to stop shaking suffiently to unclasp her bag and reach her phone, she took it from her and removed her cell phone, flicking through the contacts to find Jerome's number (the fact that it was actually listed on Esmé's phone as 'Jeromey-rome' would have made the blonde woman smile had she not been so distressed). 'Is that what Mr Poe said?'
Esmé sniffed again, and finally seemed to gain some composure. 'They've found two different birth certificates.' she finally clarified slowly.
'That's not important,' Colette said softly.
'It is when they're totally different,' Esmé responded. 'One of them says I'm forty-three and the other says I'm forty-one. One of them says I'm born in December and the other says I'm born in August.'
'But your birthday is in December.'
'Well, I thought so too!' Esmé cried, and tears came to her eyes again. 'But I'm n-not s-sure anymore. Where did the other one come from?'
Colette shrugged, and pressed the green button on her friend's mobile phone before handing it to her. 'I think you need to go home,' she said honestly.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 4, 2009 20:17:19 GMT -5
Esmé pressed the phone to her ear, desperately waiting for her husband to pick up. Every passing ring caused her heart to race a little faster, and she could feel more tears beginning to form in her eyes just as someone picked up. “Hello,” came the friendly, cheerful voice of Jerome on the other line. “Squalor—”But Esmé didn’t give her husband a chance to finish speaking. “Jerome!” she wailed, and the tears she had managed to hold back burst from her eyes at once. “Esmé! Whatever is the matter?”Although it was very difficult for her to do so while she was crying, Esmé forced herself to explain exactly what had happened in the office of Mr. Poe, and that it was absolutely vital for Jerome to come and get her immediately. “Alright, sweetheart,” Jerome said, as soon as his wife had finished speaking. “I’m on my way. Don’t worry… I promise you that we’ll get this mess all sorted out.”“O— O.K.,” Esmé responded through her latest hiccupped sob. “I— I— I love y-ou, J— Jero-o-ome.” “I love you, too, my darling. I’ll see you soon.”Throughout Esmé’s conversation with her husband, Colette had not once left her best friend’s side, and was there to greet the financial advisor with a reassuring smile as she clicked her phone shut. “He’s coming,” Esmé said, gently swiping one eye and then the other with one long-nailed fingertip. “Will you come outside and sit with me while I wait?” Colette nodded, telling Esmé to wait a moment while she went to retrieve her jacket and inform her supervisor of where she would be. *** Less than two minutes later, they were seated outside on the bench, a much less tearful but incredibly distraught Esmé Squalor resting her head on the shoulder of Colette Widdershins. It seemed almost funny to Colette, as she considered the idea that only four days earlier the two of them had been having a heated argument. Now, here she was, doing her best to comfort Esmé as she shivered and sobbed beside her. “Mul— Mulctuar-y Mon— Money Man— Manage-ment is— is all I— I ha-ave,” Esmé hiccupped. “If I— I lose m-my jo-ob then I— I d-don’t know wh-at I’ll— I’ll do-ooo!” “Hush,” Colette soothed, gently stroking Esmé’s soft, dark hair as the contortionist did her best to calm the other woman down. Colette had done the same with Faust on countless occasions, when the little girl had come to her mother in tears because of something that one of the children at school had said to her, or because her teacher had yelled at her. “Everything’s going to be alright, Esmé. I’ll help you in any way I possibly can.” Esmé heaved a particularly loud sob that made her entire body shudder, and Colette coiled her entire body around her in one very big, very affectionate hug just as Jerome pulled up in a yellow taxi.
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Post by Jenny on Feb 5, 2009 6:59:25 GMT -5
The speed at which Jerome managed to pay the taxu driver, leap out and rush over to his wife's side was shocking for someone who certainly wasn't the sort of person that could be classed as fit. Colette loosened her arms from around Esmé just as her husband knelt in front of her, and took her hands into his. The concern in his eyes was overwhelming, and she supposed this was a bit of an overreaction about a situation that would probably be resolved quickly. But, Colette thought, everyone had learnt that it was wise to take notice of Esmé's moods just in case, no matter what brought on her tears.
'Darling,' he said, and reached up to wipe a few tears away from her eyes. Colette felt guilty for not being able to calm Esmé down in the seconds before Jerome arrived, but usually it was only Jerome that could calm her anyway. 'Darling, please stop crying. I promise we'll sort this all out.'
Esmé sniffed again. 'B-But what if I l-lose my job?' she said ina quiet voice. Her job at Mulctuary Money Management had been one of the few features of Esmé's life over the years that had remained entirely constant, and hadn't been too negatively affected by her personal life. Jerome knew better than anyone that even if sometimes Esmé complained about having to get up early and go to work, she almost relied on having her job to have something to concetrate on. Without that fixation Jerome simply wasn't sure how she'd get along.
But she wasn't going to lose her job. Because he was going to make sure of it. Jerome very rarely felt so strongly about something as he did that he would do all he possibly could to make sure that his wife--who never did anything but devote as much energy and time as she could to work at the bank--was going to keep her job, regardless of some strange birth certificate.
'What s-should we d-do?' she stuttered out, and wiped her remaining tears on the back of her hand. Jerome's large hand running steadily up and down her arm was obviously helping tremendously to comfort her. It at least made her feel temporarily secure.
Jerome didn't exactly have a solid answer to her question. He knew that her parents were no longer alive, and he'd never been faced with a situation like this before. He didn't know exactly how he was going to go about resolving it.
'Somebody related to one of your parents has got to be alive,' Jerome reasoned. 'And if not, I'm sure there must be some sort of register that shows when you were born.'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 5, 2009 13:58:50 GMT -5
Esmé shrugged her shoulders uncertainly, and Jerome turned to Colette, whose own concern was reflected in the eyes of the billionaire.
“I’m taking Esmé home to rest,” he told the contortionist, and then looked down at Esmé, who was sitting crouched on the ground in his arms, her shoulders trembling with every shuddering breath she took.
“Esmé. Darling, perhaps it would be a good idea if we postponed our weekend at the hotel. Emma can still go, but it might be best if you take it easy over the next few days.”
Esmé’s failure to respond would have given any other person the impression that she didn’t care, but Jerome and Colette both knew that wasn’t the case at all. It was perfectly understandable that when Esmé got into one of her moods, that it took a while before she found her voice again. When she was upset, she tended to withdraw into herself and remain quiet until a significant amount of time had passed. She didn’t do it to be rude, and she didn’t do it for attention. She did it merely because that was the way she was, and the way she had been for the last fourteen years.
Jerome gave Colette a warm, appreciative smile, and without even bothering to take a look around to see who might be watching, he did something he had never done in public before. He stood halfway, and scooped his wife up into his strong arms. She was trembling all over, and as he kissed her on the forehead he could feel beads of cold sweat sticking to his lips.
Jerome said nothing as they walked across the parking lot to Esmé’s car, his only concern at the moment being to get her home as quickly as possible and into a hot bath. Her panic attacks always frightened him, but somehow he always managed to stay calm and do all he could in order to see her through them.
Once they were safely inside the car, Jerome glanced over his shoulder at the backseat, to see if perhaps there was a blanket or something he could cover his wife with to stop her shivers. He spotted Emma’s pinstripe blazer, and although it was a little small it would undoubtedly serve as a sufficient blanket. He snatched up the blazer and tucked it tightly around his wife’s shoulders, kissing her cheek as he did so.
“We’ll be home soon, my love,” he promised. “Until then, just try and relax.”
Jerome fished Esmé’s keys out of her purse, and then started up the car. He had to admit that the last time he had been this scared in a car was when Esmé had been in labor with Emma, and the only person who had been even remotely calm was Carmelita. Jerome strongly felt that both he and his wife could have benefitted from their adoptive daughter’s presence now, as Carmelita had a consoling air about her.
The last thing Jerome saw was the figure of a very concerned-looking Colette Widdershins in the side-view mirror, waving to him and Esmé as they pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
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Post by Jenny on Feb 6, 2009 17:07:47 GMT -5
The accident that they'd had drving home from work in a panic only yesterday was still weighing havily on Jerome's mind. His forehead crinkled slightly as he fought to keep his concentration purely and simply on the road without turning at all to look at his wife. It was hard not to look at her when she was so obviously trembling and upset, but he reminded himself that making sure they both got home safely was far more important than trying to talk his wife down.
He would have stayed silent for the entire drive, but it seemed Esmé had finally found her words. 'I don't want to postpone our weekend,' she said, a little hoarsely from her tears. He forced himself not to turn towards her, but he could picture her in his mind all the same--her blue eyes even more striking from her tears and her bottom lip trembling. 'I don't want Emma going on her own. That's why I'm going.'
Jerome nodded, but didn't for a moment agree with her. He knew that asking Emma to put off staying at the Hotel Denoument with her newfound friend for a week or so was an extremely bad idea, and yet he could see (or imagine, at least) how upset his wife was, and how unfitting it was that she should be going to the Hotel Denoument in her condition.
He was stuck.
'But I'm just worried about you, darling,' he said, pleased to see that they were nearly home. 'I'm sure Emma would be absolutely fine on her own. Nothing's going to happen to her while she's there. And I really don't think that you trying to go in your condition is wise.'
'I'm not worried about anything happening to her,' Esmé replied, still shivering inside Emma's blazer. 'Or not as such. I'm worried about what they might tell her.'
Jerome, of course, understood immediately. It was quite a reasonable argument considering that Emma was going to spend the weekend with Kit Snicket and the three Baudelaire children (who were no longer children, though that was how he imagined them), and these were people that hadn't seen Esmé since her days as a narcissistic arsonist. He didn't like the idea of not being there to defend his wife if anyone did say anything to Emma about her mother's past, and he supposed Esmé felt the same.
'I understand,' he said, still staring at the windscreen determinedly even as they pulled into the parking lot of 667. 'And in that case, we need to sort out what's happened at work before the weekend. I don't want you to be worrying all weekend, my love. You'll have enough worrying to do.'
'But h-h-how?' his wife's words began to slip back into shaky sobs. 'I h-h-haven't got any w-w-way to prove it, Jerome. M-My parents c-can't tell me, a-a-and who else is there?'
Jerome finally managed to park, and immediately darted out to open his wife's door and gather her into his arms, hugging her tightly.
'There must be someone,' he said, sounding surer than he felt. 'We're going to go inside, and run you a bath. And then, we're going to go out and see if you're on the births and deaths register, and if not, we're going to look and see if any of your parents' relatives are alive.'
Just as Esmé was beginning to feel even more desperate--her husband was usually comforting, but he didn't seem to know what he was talking about at all--she remembered something. She was thinking back about her parents, and she remembered one day during her childhood that she had been told the story of her mother's first marriage. Of course, she hadn't been very very old, and she'd forgotten some of the details now that she thought back on it, but she remembered that her mother had been married to a man who was far wealthier than her own father, and that he'd been a jealous, possessive and violent man. Esmé had enough experience by now to know exactly what a jealous, possessive and violent man was like, though at the time she hadn't fully understood it. But she remembered one day, after being told the story of how her mother had finally decided to leave her first husband for Joseph, that she and her mother had run into a man that her mother hadn't liked, and that Esmé hadn't liked much either.
Esmé had been five. When you're five, you often aren't as observant as people who are a lot older than you are. And this might've been why, on a day out window-shopping with her mother, she hadn't really noticed when her tiny hand had slipped from Adelle's and she'd become lost in the crowd.
She supposed she'd been too preoccupied looking in the window of the sweet shop to notice that she was all alone. And when she did notice, she immediately imagined that her mother was nearby. She must've turned around in circles at least twice before determining that her mother wasn't anywhere.
And then she started to get scared. She knew her father was going to come back for them any minute after taking a trip to the bank--he never looked very happy after coming back from the bank--but how would he find her if she was lost in all these people? Esmé was only tiny compared to some of the children at school that were her age, and she felt even smaller looking at peple's legs rushing past her.
Just as tears began to well in her eyes, and just as she had sunk to the floor in despair, a pair of shiny black shoes stopped in front of her. She looked up to see a man maybe a little younger than her father and a little older than her mother looking down at her. Before she started to feel intimidated, he crouched down and held out a hand kindly.
'Hello,' he said, as she nervously latched her fingers onto his hand in a sort-of childlike shake. He was a handsome man who was perhaps greying too early for his age, and he was dressed in a grey business suit. 'I suppose you're lost, are you, sweetheart?'
It was the first time anyone had ever called Esmé 'sweetheart'. She had looked up and nodded.
'I was shopping with my mother,' she said quietly, trying not to be too nervous. Esmé wasn't a very skittish child, but she didn't know the man in front of her, and it was only natural she was a little shy. 'And now I don't know where she is.'
The man nodded. He had brown eyes that should have been warm, but were somehow cold behind their colour, and they unnerved her a little. 'Lucky for you,' he said. 'I think I might know where your mother is.'
Esmé's little eyebrows shot up at that. 'Really?' she asked. 'But how do you know where she is?'
She hadn't meant to sound rude, and luckily the man didn't seem to have taken it that way. He shrugged innocently, and took the little girl by the hand.
'I think I noticed her over at the bank,' he said. 'It's just you two look very alike, little one. And besides that, she looks very, very worried.'
Esmé, being five, hadn't wondered how the man had known that she and Adelle were related. She hadn't wondered why he bothered to fetch her and take her back to her mother. And she hadn't understood that she had any reason for concern.
'My name's Esmé,' she stated boldly, looking up at the tall man.
He looked down and smiled. 'And my name's James,' he replied. He didn't add a surname, and she felt she was going to be at a loss at what to call him. She didn't call adults by their first name, just because she was polite. Maybe this was going to have to be an exception. 'It's lovely to meet you, sweetheart.'
Before Esmé could say anything else, her parents came steadily into view. They hadn't been far away, as it turned out, but at the first sign of losing Esmé Adelle had run immediately to find her husband. Her eyes were red from tears, and Joseph was quite obviously frantic, searching the busy Saturday crowd for his little girl. Because Jospeh was so preoccupied looking around, Adelle was the first to spot Esmé coming towards them. Just as Esmé thought of running away from the man she was with and giving her mother a hug to male her happy again, Adelle suddenly seemed to have other things on her mind. She raggedly gasped, and instantly clutched on to her husband's arm. Jospeh's slightly mis-matched, goofy face contorted into a picture of concern when he looked at his wife, and then of anger when he turned towards Esmé. Of course, being five, Esmé didn't understand what was wrong with them. Was her father angry with her for getting lost? It hadn't been her fault, really, it had been her mother who'd---
--Adelle rushed forwards and took her daughter's other hand. Esmé immediately released her grip on James' hand, and the next thing she knew she was behind her mother's long skirt. She peeked out, and James's knuckles were white from gripping her mother's wrist.
'Lucky somebody found her though, isn't it?' he said, 'It could have been anyone, couldn't it? Lucky I brought her back.'
'Let go---' Adelle had said shakily, and Esmé's little fist had tangled in the fabric of her skirt in fear.
'If the broken legs didn't teach you, maybe that--'
Before he could say anything else, Esmé's father had intervened, and none too politely removed James' hand from his wife's wrist.
'Mother--' Esmé began, but Adelle scooped her daughter up into her thin arms and carried her away to sit on a bench out of view.
'Don't talk to strangers,' Adelle told her simply, and dried the tears dripping down her pale cheeks with her sleeve.
'It's just I was lost, he isn't a stranger if I know who he is, his name's James and he--'
'If you ever see him again,' Adelle said, drawing a line under the experience. 'You are never, ever, ever to speak to him.'
Esmé was suddenly very aware that she was still in the parking lot with her head resting on her husband's chest. Over the years she had put the pieces together.
'James Fitzgerald,' she muttered slowly. 'We need to find James Fitzgerald.'
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