I'M WILD AGAIN, BEGUILED AGAIN (A SIMPERING, WHIMPERING CHILD AGAIN)
THE WHOLE PROBLEM arises through her own doing.
Bea isn't a huge fan of playing at weddings and never has been, really, something that can easily be chalked up to how damn boring she finds the things, but is probably more to do with the fact that her heart is cold and dead and chock-full of cynicism. But they tend to pay reasonably well, there's always a surplus of good food offered to her, and, quite honestly, anything is better than children's birthday parties, which really means there's more reason for her to do a wedding job than not.
So here she is, doing it, the job, glancing down at the names of the couple she'll be continually mentioning throughout the night and probably trying to look at without feeling the urge to gouge her own eyes out or throw up or both, when something strange happens, which is a flicker of recognition making itself known in her mind at the sight of the bride's name.
Bea purses her lips at the neatly printed names, eyes sitting on the one she apparently knows, which is Jenna Malone. Again, the prick of recognition returns with a vengeance, but she can't for the life of her think why it's there at all.
"Please God don't tell me I've slept with her," she mutters to herself, fiddling with the turntables in front of her. They're pretty much entirely for show, because a wedding isn't exactly somewhere people are interested in hearing her drop any sick Beats. She just slaps on the old classics that she knows they like hearing, intersperses it with an Ed Sheeran song or two, and there it is, an entire night's worth of work done with minimal effort on her part. Bea pushes thoughts of Jenna Malone and having potentially at some point slept with her (she really, really hopes that isn't the case) and lets her eyes glance over to the clock, which informs her that she has only a few minutes more until the party arrives. Moodily telling herself that she might as well enjoy the emptiness of a room that won't be in this state for at least another few hours, Bea lines up one of her own mixes and hits play.
It is very likely that if Jenna Malone had been someone that Bea had slept with, the entire "problem" wouldn't be that much of a problem; sure, Jenna would probably have choked on her own spit once her and Bea first made eye contact, Bea herself would have to cough a few times to cover any snickers that felt the urge to arise any time she had to congratulate the happy couple, and some parts of the night really would've been rather cripplingly awkward, but in general, something that Bea would be able to grow past as a human being.
Luckily -- or rather, unluckily -- Bea has never slept with Jenna Malone. She has, however, slept with Jenna Malone's best friend. Multiple times. Because they used to date.
"Well, fuck," Bea murmurs to herself after glancing at the switchtable to make sure her microphone is turned off. Brett Dallen is still tall, still graceful, and, from the sounds of it, still has a Scottish accent so thick it somehow toes the line between being attractive and a little hilarious. Bea isn't sure if there's a saying somewhere about the maid of honour being more beautiful than the bride, but if there wasn't before, she thinks there probably is now.
And that is where the problem arises.
✶
The difficulty in watching someone, Bea quickly discovers, is avoiding being seen yourself. Right now, she's reasonably sure Brett hasn't yet realised that it's her at the back of the hall throwing on the music, but there's a timer ticking down somewhere; it's only a few minutes before she's going to be obliged to say something vaguely congratulational in the direction of Jenna and her new husband, and it's been a while, but not long enough that Brett would completely forget the sound of her voice.
"Duck!" A bridesmaid is screeching above the music, and Brett turns, smile painted wide across her face as she dances.
"Still with the stupid nickname," Bea mutters to herself, half fond. Call me Duck had been some of the first few words Brett ever said in Bea's direction, and she can still recall them with a somewhat sinfully perfect clarity, the lilt of call me halted, abruptly, by the name itself; Duck -- which, to Bea, sounds ungainly no matter what accent you say it in, dumpy and ungraceful, the complete opposite of what Brett is, in reality.
There's a few moments during which all she can do is watch her dance, a jokey jive with the bridesmaid who'd shouted her name in perfect synchronisation to the quick, heady tap of the final chorus of the song, then Bea pulls her eyes away with some difficulty and clears her throat, reaching with some reluctance for the microphone and flicking it on. If there's one thing her ex-girlfriend is, it's sociable, and she's reasonably sure that the minute she notcies Bea's there there will be a resulting conversation that is entirely awkward and not in the least bit interesting for either of them. Still, she tells herself, a job is a job. At least she's getting paid for her trouble.
"And a very good evening to all the guests of Jenna and Oliver tonight," she says, trying for a smile at the resulting whoop from the crowd. Weddings. She hates them. "Jenna, I've been informed by very reliable sources," -- well, she's hoping that whoever wrote the requests on her information sheet is a reliable source -- "that this song holds a special place in your heart. So, may I extend my congratulations," she pauses, trying to recalibrate her tone so that it doesn't sound quite so sharp, then continues; "and best wishes for a wonderful night."
Bea hits play on Frank Sinatra's Fly Me to the Moon and hums along to the first few bars with some appreciation -- she forgot just how well her and Jenna used to get on purely through similar taste in music, on the odd occasions that they did meet -- then, despite herself, eyes the room for Brett. A few seconds later, she hasn't immediately spotted her, and Bea's just telling herself with no little amount of relief that Brett is likely to have headed off to the bathroom and she therefore has some time to prepare herself for the inevitable when a voice behind her and a little to her left, almost uncomfortably familiar and definitely uncomfortably close, says:
"Well, fancy seeing you here."
Bea pitches forward in surprise before she can help it, and just manages to catch herself, feeling a steadying hand coming up to grip her elbow nonetheless.
"Duck," she manages to push out, blinking. "Hi."
"Not surprised to see me, I see?" Duck -- Brett, Brett, she tells herself, Duck is a silly name -- notes, one impeccably shaped eyebrow arching upwards.
"I mean," Bea hesitates, wondering how best to phrase her own multiple realisations that have come to fruition -- that this is Jenna's wedding, that she knows Jenna, that she knows Jenna because she used to date Brett, that Brett is probably here, that Brett is Jenna's maid of honour, etc. etc. -- since she first arrived. "Once I saw whose wedding I was playing, it was pretty easy to anticipate..."
"And you didn't come to say hi?" Brett questions, eyes roaming her face. Bea looks at her, glass of wine perched precariously between two fingers, long legs crossed over one another as she leans slightly against the wall behind them, and swallows.
"Well, you know," she says, trying to keep her tone as even as possible. "We both have things to be doing tonight."
Brett hums as though she's thinking about doing something entirely different tonight, and Bea can already feel herself slowly losing the battle to keep her eyes fixed just on her face.
"So how've you been?" she asks.
This is the question Bea has been dreading. There is nothing that has happened in her life since her and Brett broke up that is worthy of note; she hasn't dated anyone that interesting and isn't seeing anyone currently, hasn't got her big music producing break, hasn't moved into a bigger flat, hasn't had a freak accident or won the lottery. She's picked up a job at the coffeeshop that they always used to go to, but Bea's pretty sure that when it comes to good things to tell your ex when they ask you That Question, if Buzzfeed ever ended up making some weird numbered list with a similar title, the fact that you've had to take up a second job to make ends meet would be pretty low down.
She coughs. "Oh, okay, I guess. I mean -- good, yeah. I've been good." She pauses. "How about you?"
"Aye, I'm not too bad," Duck says, smile flickering across her face as she looks at Bea. "Whole life has been consumed by planning this bloody wedding for the past half of the year..."
"Right," Bea says, reminded with a jolt of why the two of them are even standing here at all. "Jenna seems like the type to want a perfect wedding."
"Aren't we all?" Brett asks with some amusement.
"Debatable," Bea replies, then turns away as she becomes aware of the song coming to an end. She scrolls through the list of songs she's compiled with consideration.
"That one," Brett's voice is suddenly right in her ear, breath warm. Bea swallows and follows the line of her finger to the song she's pointing to before biting her lip in thought.
"I was saving that one," she says.
"For what?' Brett is still too close to her; she feels more than hears the snort of derision. "A slow dance as the night wears on?"
"Yes, actually," Bea replies, feeling her lips curl up despite herself at the mocking tone in her voice, before picking a more upbeat song. "I don't remember you being so cynical, Brett."
"Hmm." Brett still hasn't moved. "And clearly you don't remember my preferred name, either."
"You never minded when I called you Brett," Bea replies before she can stop herself, tone lazy but somehow dangerous, hinging too much on a line that both of them know better than to cross. Brett moves away.
"Ah, but I was young and foolish," she says with a humour that is somewhat graceful in nature; Bea knows better, though, can catch the almost imperceptible edge to the words before Brett can cover them up. "Anyway, I best leave you to it, just thought I'd come say hello." She pauses, then suddenly a smile sweeps across her lips, so fond that Bea feels her heart constrict slightly in her chest. "You haven't changed a bit, you know that?"
"It hasn't been that long," is all she can think to say in response.
"It has," Brett says sadly, and Bea realises she's right. Two years is a long time. She's still trying to formulate a response when Brett has shifted over, quickly, to press a kiss to her cheek. Bea has barely caught her breath before she's backed away and is returning to the dancers on the floor.
"Good to see ya, Bea," she says, smile gaining more of its previous velocity as she wiggles her fingers in a half-wave, other hand still clasping the wine glass.
"And you," Bea says, still feeling the imprint of Brett's lips burning into her cheek. And maybe that would've been it, if it hadn't been for all the bathroom nonsense.
✶
The bathroom nonsense, as Bea still terms it to this day, seemed like anything but at the time, and ensued for perfectly acceptable reasons; Bea had gone after leaving a queue of songs playing since she was absolutely bursting, and Brett, as it turns out, was there for a similar reason, although this is how she informs her of it, precisely:
"Oh, hey," Brett says, as though not at all surprised to see Bea entering. "It's you."
It only takes these four words for Bea to understand that Brett is at least just a little pissed, and she feels a smile curve at her lips despite herself. "Feeling alright, Brett?" she asks.
"Duck, goddamnit," Brett retorts, the words a little heavy. Bea watches for a few seconds as she makes a valiant attempt to reapply her mascara, mostly to little effect.
"Right, well," she says abruptly. "Should, you know, probably go to the loo and all that."
"You do that," Brett replies, voice absent as she eyes herself in the mirror carefully. Bea's brow furrows, and she suddenly feels an entirely childish reluctance to go pee whilst Brett is still in the bathroom. She pauses to tamp it down, realises that what she's actually tamping down is the feeling of her bladder practically about to burst, and ducks into the nearest cubicle. When she emerges a brief amount of time later, Brett is still there, no longer at the sink and mirror, but instead leaning against the wall of white tiles with an air of expectance.
"Sorry, did you need to go?" Bea says stupidly, realising at the exact same moment that there is a whole line of empty cubicles beside them.
"No," Brett replies, eyes fixed on Bea in a way that makes her at once comfortable and uncomfortable. She has no idea what to say in reply to that, and instead busies herself with washing her hands and drying them as meticulously as possible, acutely aware of the way Brett's gaze is still on her.
"You haven't played any of your stuff yet."
"What?"
"Your stuff." Brett is still looking at her, eyes burning with a slow fire. "Your music."
"Oh," Bea says, feeling the syllable fall out of her mouth, graceless. "I mean, I tend not to for weddings, and stuff. People aren't too keen on it, like more of the classics or whatever's hot or..." she trails off, desperately trying to find somewhere to focus her gaze apart from Brett's own eyes. She lands on one of the tiles near the end of the bathroom which is chipped in the corner.
"Well, it was why I picked you."
Bea's eyes leave the floor tile suddenly at that, colliding suddenly with Brett's own. "Picked me?"
She raises an eyebrow in that way Bea's always found maddening. "Well, obviously." Bea watches as she takes a clumsy step forward, towards her, and oddly feels no desire to move away.
"How is that obvious?"
"Maid of honour," Brett tells her, just managing the co-ordination to point at herself. "In charge of everything."
"Including entertainment."
"Including that."
"So you chose me."
"Yes. I did."
"And why is that?"
"I already said. Your mixes."
Bea remains silent, knowing there's more. Sure enough, Brett pauses, suddenly looking very sober, though the way she's swaying slightly says otherwise, but goes on to say, with something of a wry, sad smile: "And I missed you, of course."
Bea looks at her -- she's somehow managed to move close enough for her to smell the bourbon on her, only very faint and mixing deliciously with her customary vanilla. It's enough to make her head spin, to push any prospect of a well-articulated response from her, so she doesn't say anything at all.
This apparently doesn't sit well with Brett, who takes another step forward. "Well, say something," she murmurs, inching her hand up to Bea's cheek.
Bea inhales sharply. "This isn't a good idea," she tries weakly, but she knows that all Brett will be seeing is the way her eyes are shifting downards to her lips.
"Mm," Brett acknowledges, using her hand to turn Bea's face to the side slightly and trailing her lips down her cheek. "You're right. Out here in the open, where anyone could catch us..."
"That wasn't --" Bea cuts herself off and stifles a soft moan as she feels Brett's teeth scrape at her jawline, tries desperately to reroute her brain. "That wasn't what I meant and you -- you know it."
"Then what do you mean?"
"I mean that -- I mean that you're drunk."
Brett pulls away at that, eyes shimmering with their customary wry amusement, the look that never fails to set Bea alight. "Not that drunk."
"Drunk enough, Duck," Bea says, taking the opportunity to step away from her, only to feel her back collide with the wall.
Duck just looks at her, and Bea can hear the drip of the leaky tap at the end of the room and the sounds of both of their breathing, soft, slow, not in sync -- Brett's just before hers -- and it's familiar, reminds her of lying in bed on Sunday morning with nothing to do and nowhere to be, before either of them quite felt the urge to move, Brett's nose pressed into her shoulder.
Then, abruptly, Brett says: "You're right."
"What?" Bea says dumbly.
"You're right," she repeats, but she's moving closer to her again, and Bea is watching her eyes getting darker. "I am drunk."
"I know that," Bea replies, keeping her tone steady, trying to be the voice of reason.
"Hasn't stopped you before," Brett reminds her throatily.
Bea's eyes narrow. "That's not the same thing, Duck. We're -- we're not dating any more."
"But you want to be?" Duck asks.
"Want to be what?" she hedges.
"Dating. Me."
"Duck --"
"God," Brett exhales, equal parts amused and exasperated, "have you always been this difficult?"
Between Brett and the drip of the tap and the harsh gleaming white of the tiles, Bea can't even start to think, to sort out what she's feeling, why she's feeling it, consider anything past the way her ex-girlfriend -- her beautiful ex-girlfriend -- has her cornered in a bathroom and looks like she'd like to absolutely wreck her and the way she'd probably let her do it.
"Brett," she says, evening out her breathing as best she can. "This really isn't a conversation to be having unless we're both sober."
"I forgot," she murmurs, as though Bea hasn't said anything at all. "Stubborn as a bloody mule."
"I need to go back outside," Bea says, and then she's ducking out of the bathroom before Brett can say anything else and push her over the edge that she's already clinging desperately to.
And maybe that would've been it, if the bathroom nonsense hadn't completely messed with her brain, taken the drawers she's always arranged everything into with painstaking care and emptied them all out into the floor right in front of her, and Bea hits play on song after song and watches Brett dance to them and feels like screaming or running away or listening to the same song for five hours like she did when they first broke up, which was her fault of course, it always is, but maybe it was Brett's fault too, for not fighting for her and saying all the words she's said tonight earlier, when it would've maybe made a difference. So that isn't it, not at all, because all this can only lead to more nonsense.
✶
The 'more nonsense', for lack of a better phrase, like the bathroom nonsense, seemed like anything but at the time, and happens mostly because Bea spots Brett going outside by herself and realises that she has so many questions to put to her that if she doesn't now she won't ever do it and will probably end up going home alone and crying herself to sleep, so whilst it's possible that this will happen whether she asks Brett her So Many Questions or not, Bea figures she might as well know what she's crying about, so she queues around half a dozen slow songs and inches out the back door that Brett left through.
Brett is standing at the edge of the pavement, one hand wrapped around the opposite arm, as though to ward off the cold, and the other grasping a cigarette that gleams red in the dark. Bea pauses in the doorway for a few seconds, feels the slow, lethargic thud of the music in the hall behind her and takes the time just to watch her.
She doesn't know how long it is before Brett says, after the latest drag of her cigarette: "I'll be in in a mo, Jenna. Just got a bit woozy is all. Go dance with the love of your life, stop worrying about me."
"I like to think I'm not that close to being married yet," Bea says in response. Brett doesn't turn around, only lets out a small huff of laughter and brings the cigarette back to her lips. Bea inches forward, eyeing her carefully.
"Thought you'd stopped those."
"Old habits die hard."
"How many a day?"
Brett gives her a sidelong look. "None, usually. Only when I'm stressed."
"You're stressed?"
"Just a little."
"Not enjoying the night?"
"Isn't exactly going how I'd planned it."
"How did you plan it?"
"Don't embarrass me, Beatrice," Brett says, smile caught halfway between sad and bitter. "Clearly what I did plan hasn't gone very well."
"Since when do I go by Beatrice?"
"Since when do I go by Brett?"
Duck doesn't feel right any more, Bea wants to say in response. Instead, she settles for: "Touché."
"I never got that," Brett says.
"What?"
"Why you didn't like calling me Duck."
"Duck sounds childish," Bea says.
"Maybe I want to be childish."
"Not when we were having sex, you didn't."
Bea watches as Brett lets out a little snort of laughter, feels oddly proud of the action as she watches her near the end of the cigarette.
"Jenna would like it if you played one of your mixes," she says, changing the subject.
"She would, would she?"
"Yeah."
"Would you like it?"
"Doesn't matter what I would like."
"Does to me."
"Didn't an hour and a half ago."
"You were drunk."
"Tipsy. Still am."
"I don't believe that."
"Aye, but I wish I were."
"Do you really?"
"No."
"Did you mean what you said?"
"I thought I asked you not to embarrass me?"
"If you find it embarrassing, why'd you say it?"
"I don't find what I said embarrassing. I find the fact that I thought you'd share the sentiments embarrassing."
"Maybe I do."
"What?"
Bea takes a deep breath, watches the cigarette fall from Brett's fingers and takes an unconscious step forward to snuff it out with her foot. "Why did you say that?"
She knows Brett is looking at her carefully but can't bring herself to meet her gaze. "Which part?"
"All of it. Was it because you were drunk?"
"Tipsy," Brett corrects for the second time.
"Does it matter?"
"'Course it does. If I'd been really drunk, I'd still be really drunk."
"Did you say it because you were tipsy, then?"
"No." Brett's fingers are suddenly under her chin, pushing it upwards. Bea tries, desperately, but there's nowhere much for her own eyes to look except into hers. "I said it because it was true."
"Why now?"
Brett moves her hand away, but Bea keeps her eyes locked on hers. "Few things," she murmurs softly, barely audible over the music from inside. Bea recognises it vaguely as Wham!'s Careless Whisper.
"Like what?"
Brett exhales heavily. "Y'know, I didn't hire you for this."
"Didn't you?"
"Obviously. Even I'm not dramatic enough to want to set this up two years after we broke up just to try and get you back."
"So you didn't want to before now?"
Brett laughs. "Oh, sweetheart, I wanted to. I didn't just miss you today after I'd drunk too much wine. I've missed you..." she trails off, swallows. "A long time. I have."
Bea is silent for several moments. Then, she says: "I haven't really dated anyone. Since, you know."
Brett cocks her head to the side slightly, considering. "Me neither. I mean -- there was this one girl --"
"Of course there was." Bea shakes her head with a snicker.
"She didn't really mean anything," Brett says softly. Bea watches as their breath curls upwards, turned white on contact with the cold.
"Brett --" Bea says, the word careful, not automatic like it always used to be. "I -- you -- we have -- do you --"
"Yes," Brett whispers, and then she closes the distance between them, flimsy as it is, and Bea breathes in; vanilla, bourbon, cigarette smoke, feels the smudgy press of Brett's lipsticked mouth against hers and the sharpness of her tongue and the way her hands burn with cold against her cheeks.
Bea pulls away after a second, resting her hands gently on Brett's collarbone. "You don't even know what I was going to say," she murmurs. "You just wanted to do it how it is in the movies."
"Guilty," Brett replies, arching an eyebrow with a smile. "You going to hold it against me?"
"Maybe," Bea says, pressing her nose to Brett's cheek. "Haven't decided yet."
"Okay," she says. A beat, and then: "After all this wedding nonsense..."
"Mm?"
"Come home with me?"
"My, my, Brett," Bea says with a sly smile. "Presumptuous, are we?"
"Maybe a little," she replies. "But I've taken a few risks tonight, so what's one more?"
She lets out a laugh. "Risks?"
"Certainly. The flower arrangements, for one. Really went out on a limb there."
Bea laughs again, then kisses her, briefly. "Alright."
"Alright?"
"Yeah."
Bea kisses her again, and again, savouring the familiar feel of it, the ease with which they fall back into a rhythm that they haven't quite forgotten. A few moments pass, then Brett starts laughing into her mouth, and Bea pulls away with a frown of confusion.
"What?" she asks. "Did I do something?"
"Nah," Brett replies, still chuckling, smile curving her lips. "Forgot to tell you something, though. Very important, feel you should know it before we go any further."
"What?"
She lets out another snort of laughter, then moves her mouth so it's pressed against Bea's ear.
"I caught the bouquet."
_________________________________________________________
a/n: yes, a levels have kind of sucked my soul out and left me for dead on the dusty roadside BUT i have attempted a resurrection in order to post this shitty piece that was mostly written in various taxis around cairo. as always, i am undeserving of your love, but will take what is given to me with utter gratitude.
title taken from rodgers and hart's "bewitched, bothered and bewildered", i promise one day i will stop naming my short stories after jazz songs but today is not that day
so much love,
mariam xx