countdown to total emotional devastation
Random Fact:
One of my favourite things about Epitaph One is that one of the main character is Moody Spurgeon. Moody Spurgeon of Anne of Green Gables.
I wrote this last thursday, but didn't post it because it's so incredibly off from the tone of the show right now. But I know it's only getting to get more emotionally painful as the show concludes (this is a Whedon show, after all) so I'm posting it now before the world ends entirely.
Here it is, Dollhouse with a cameo by that other beautifully dressed, high-heeled wearing, assassination-ordering (like she wouldn't?) powerwalking business executive, Veronica Palmer of Better Off Ted.
Title: Backwards, and in Heels
Summary: For Veronica Palmer, shopping is a contact sport. She plays to win. Pre-Series for Dollhouse, no real spoilers for anything.
Adelle DeWitt did not particularly enjoy shopping for her wardrobe. It was a necessity, neither to be avoided nor enjoyed, like cooking a meal or keeping accurate tax records. All tasks that, happily, had been delegated the moment she was appointed head of her first research division and began earning a salary, and working hours, which made the absence of a personal staff an oddity. The addition of a personal shopper had been a solution to her general ambivalence that, up until this moment, had never proved a problem.
Adelle sighed, swivelling away from her bruised and snivelling employee, to consider once more the security footage Topher had gleefully obtained for her. She leaned back in her chair, and wished she had not wasted her latest pot of tea on their latest eager recruit.
A knock announced the arrival of Mr. Dominic, who entered to stand quietly in front of her desk. Settling in with hands clasped behind his back, he made what was for such a controlled man a comically obvious double-take at the young man already in place beside him.
“Bad time?” he asked, eyeing the sniffling man, who chose that moment to wipe his nose on the battered sleeve of his elegant suit jacket, and then blow. Adelle very carefully did not look at Mr. Dominic.
“Not at all. Thank you, Mr. Milais, you may go,” she said, and together they watched the unfortunate Milais rush from the room, the shredded fabric of his trousers flapping as he went. Her door slammed shut, and Adelle DeWitt could not quite restrain a sigh. She set her chin on her hand, and contemplated Topher’s footage.
“Rough engagement?” said Mr. Dominic, “I don’t recognize him.” The unspoken current beneath his words conveyed exactly how happy he was at the possibility of an active unknown to him alone in her office. Adelle shook herself, trying to look away from the events playing out on her wall-screen. The images were oddly enthralling.
“Hmm? No, no. Nothing like that,” she responded, tilting her head for a better angle on the screen. Had she really just seen...no. No one would bring handcuffs to a shoe sale, even in Los Angeles. She straightened and turned back to Mr. Dominic, who was pointedly not watching the video cycling through mere feet from them both.
“He’s not an active. He’s not even cleared for downstairs,” Adelle said. She hesitated, smoothing her skirt with both hands. “He works for me. Personally,” she added.
Mr. Dominic nodded politely, as if that simple fact was explanation enough for the presence of a dishevelled young man missing a pant leg and weeping before her desk. She supposed it was, for a man as consummate a professional as she had so far discovered Mr. Dominic to be. Still, she felt compelled to continue. Perhaps the world would feel more stable were she to share the improbable events of the morning.
“There was an incident. A shopping incident,” she said carefully.
“Shopping,” said Mr. Dominic.
“For shoes,” said Adelle. “There was a sale.”
“Shoe-shopping,” said Mr. Dominic. His tone was decidedly neutral, and yet there was something in his stance. Mr. Dominic had hardly struck her as a funny man in the 7 months they had worked together, and yet Adelle was suddenly certain he was biting back a number of entirely predictable jokes. It was profoundly irritating.
“Yes,” she said tartly, “I’m aware of every possible stereotype you may think has just been fulfilled, so you needn’t pretend not to be amused.”
“Yes ma’am,” said Mr. Dominic, and the matter appeared to be closed. On her wall, a woman leapt in slow motion over a display of pixellated pumps, rolling and coming to her feet with a six-inch stiletto clutched in one hand like a dagger. It was a surprisingly elegant motion.
Adelle raised an inquiring eyebrow at Mr. Dominic, who remained blandly impassive for a moment only, and then broke. He shook his head, smiling down at his unclasped hands, and Adelle felt an odd sensation of triumph. A trace of his smile remained when he looked up at her, and shook his head again. It was as much an admission of defeat as she had ever seen from him.
“I’ve sorry, I have to ask,” he said, and she smiled, gracious in victory, as in all things.
“Of course,” Adelle said, and nodded towards the screen. “I can hardly believe what happened myself, but it is, as they say, all caught on tape.” As if her acknowledgment had suddenly brought it into existence, Mr. Dominic finally allowed himself to stare full-on at the video. He frowned, crossing his arms. She felt herself settle into the comfortable rhythm of their engagement briefings.
“Security camera. The store’s?”
“Yes. From Topher, the new technician. He’s quite talented,” she remarked, still a little smug at the coup she’d managed to pull off in maneuvering Topher Brink into her house. “And discreet.”
Mr. Dominic nodded jerkily, looking very much as if he’d tasted something horrendous, and moved closer to the wall. Adelle stood to flank him, letting herself lean slightly against the edge of her desk. The back of his collar was slightly mussed.
“He’s put it on a loop,” she said, watching the video black out and begin again. “He also put the ‘best bits’ in slow motion, for some reason. He is a little strange, isn’t he?”
“He’s a child,” said Mr. Dominic absently, and pointed to the screen suddenly. “Your boy Milais enters...”
“Yes,” said Adelle, suddenly feeling she was going to greatly enjoy watching Mr. Dominic’s reaction, “but watch for the blonde woman on the left. She’s about to make things very interesting...”
3 Hours Earlier, Manolo Blahnik Boutique, Los Angeles
Veronica Palmer didn’t need to shop for herself, but she liked to. There was something extraordinarily satisfying in choosing a target, locking on and then destroying any and all competitors in her way. It’s a satisfaction only a winner could understand, and Veronica Palmer is a winner.
Of course, this guarantees that her satisfaction from winning will never be understood by those sad, sticky little losers whom she can’t help but trample beneath her gloriously-shod winner feet, which is everyone. Because Veronica Palmer wins, and everyone else doesn’t. That’s what winning means.
This felt like a particularly poignant observation, and she paused to appreciate her own insight. Then Veronica double-checked her dove placement, opened the boutique door, and strode inside.
At once she can tell there is little competition here; overawed tourists, blasé debs and dilettantes, Real Housewives of Whoever. Veronica could eat them all like so many krill.
Still, there’s nothing like seeing the face of a rival sunk in crushing despair as Veronica looms over them like a triumphant goddess. Then she is Artemis, fresh from the kill, shoes judged unworthy and maimed customers alike scattered about the floor like the discarded entrails of Acteon, and in her exultant grasp a pair of sumptuous crème Manolo Blahnik pumps.
It’s an exceptionally satisfying image.
Despite the apparently slim pickings, another patron eventually attracted her attention. A young man in a stylishly dark suit was demonstrating excellent taste, shaking his head to particularly showy offerings, opting instead for classy, luxurious pumps in dark colours and several truly intimidating stilettos. She liked them.
One particular pair, mauve and strappy, caught her eye. There was only one pair left in that size, already dangling from the man’s right hand as he continued to browse.
Veronica didn’t approach right away, whetting her appetite instead with the other patrons. It was a simple matter to pick off the stragglers; she intimidated window-shoppers with only a glance, and a well-timed friendly comment on the wisdom of going down a size set a woman in an unfortunately orange vintage scarf and an ostensible starlet against each other.
God bless the Company, thought Veronica, as behind her another teen stumbled, crying, from the store. Veridian’s publishing division had only just created the cankle as the season’s hottest new insecurity, and strike her down if hadn’t already taken root in the girlish psyche of America’s youth. It was so wonderful to have good tools to work with.
A few staff members were huddled in the corner behind their cash, and only a few patrons remained inside, steeping in the simmering tension. It appeared to have dawned on the young man that something odd was going on, what with the loud weeping, but by then it was too late for him. Behind Veronica, two women argued, voices rising, and Veronica heard the sound of ripping cloth. She ignored it, smiling beatifically as she moved smoothly toward her goal, like a sharply-dressed, magnificently blonde shark-person.
He saw her coming, of course; Veronica was hard to miss. The cashier before him took one look, squeaked, and joined her comrades in their defensive huddle. Whatever. Veronica wasn’t interested in the help.
Veronica assessed her rival quickly, letting her eyes rove over his attractively tailored suit. Ted wore a similar tie sometimes, she noted, and helped herself to some of the young man’s personal space, who backed into the counter. The colour worked better with Ted’s eyes. He clutched the shoes to his chest, and cleared his throat.
“Um...” he said.
“You’re going to give me those shoes, lackey,” she said, and leaned in to tug at his tie. “And maybe this too,” she said thoughtfully.
“Uh,” said the young man, licking his lips, “um, what?”
“You heard me,” said Veronica, and imagined the light glinting off her teeth, like the gleam off the barrel of a gun. She smiled a little broader at the thought. Veronica did so enjoy guns.
Abruptly, she pulled back, letting go of soon-to-be-Ted’s tie, while its inadequate owner swayed. Veronica snorted. A truly confidant person always stood their ground against gravity. It was clear from his wide-eyed replies that confidence was exactly what he lacked. That was the problem with the whole suit too; nice cut, clean lines, but it wore him. You needed confidence to wear a suit that suave. She was practically rescuing Ted’s tie from this guppy.
He glanced about him for aid or instruction, and Veronica’s opinion of him plummeted further. This was hardly a challenge. Still, she considered, a win was a win. Those shoes were as good as hers.
So she was surprised when the young man managed not to crumple to the ground in terror but instead raised himself up, even his hair bristling in curly defiance.
“I’m sure they have other pairs,” he said, trying to edge away from her.
“Nope,” said Veronica, pinning him against the counter, “not in that size.”
“Size 40 European?” said the man, in the tones of a man desperately hoping against hope that un-American sizing would save him. Fool.
Veronica grinned, leaning in close, and agreed.
“Size 40 European. Manolos size a little small.” Her challenger whimpered, and pulled the shoes a little closer to his chest.
“I’m sorry, but Ms. DeWitt was very specific. Maybe you’d like one of these other pairs,” he suggested, trying to smile and simultaneously indicate the pile of boxes behind his shoulder. He was not a very good multitasker.
Veronica drew back in disgust. She recognized this. This was appeasement! It was disgusting, like a Phil in heat.
Her contempt must have shown on her face, because the little man flinched and shivered, eyes darting about the store. Above their heads, her dove made a desperate bid for freedom and smacked into the store’s skylight.
“Ms. DeWitt, ” stammered the man. “Ms. DeWitt would really look good in these shoes.”
“So would I,” Veronica sneered, as feathers floated slowly down around them, “But you know what the difference is between your Ms. DeWitt and I?” Veronica Palmer tilted her looked into his eyes and smiled. “I’m standing right here.”
For a moment, all was silent. Veronica spared a moment to note the name DeWitt; anyone who could terrify an employee so thoroughly that he withstood more than 5 seconds of Veronica’s level 7 sneer without cracking rather than betray her was Company management material, and deserved remembering.
Then the dove hit the wall and DeWitt’s man lunged for freedom. Veronica grinned, and gave chase. This win would be worth remembering after all.
****
Despite herself, Adelle had moved closer during the video, standing shoulder to shoulder with Mr. Dominic as they watched. It was a strangely fascinating experience, like seeing a cheetah chase down and eviscerate a tiny, struggling warthog. She felt a brief pang of guilt, realizing she’d been imagining Milais’ desperate squealing, and resolved to give him a raise. If he would come back at all. She hadn’t considered that trauma-pay would ever be necessary when employing a personal shopper. Yes, even in Los Angeles.
She glanced sideways at Mr. Dominic who, if not literally rocked back on his heels, had at least raised an eyebrow.
“That was...” he hesitated, and she nodded.
“Quite,” she agreed.
“What do you think she said?” he mused, “To make them them cry like that?”
Adelle didn’t answer. They stood for a time, watching the blonde woman on the screen silently, and figuratively, gut her victims. The video began again. It was like watching a low-rent Grace Kelly walk unscathed through a hurricane, as around her the shop descended into chaos, or rather like seeing the movement of a storm from overhead. The calm, still centre, and destruction swirling around it.
“Well,” said Adelle, when the loop had begun a third time, “this is hardly a productive use of our time. You needed something, Mr. Dominic?”
He straightened almost imperceptibly, and nodded at a folder she had overlooked on her desk.
“I brought you an update on the new security routines. New law enforcement interest, caught a glimpse of Quebec's last hit. If you have time later on I’d appreciate your input,” he said, all professionalism once more. Despite her comment, Adelle found herself prolonging the moment, propping herself with both hands against her desk, taking her weight off her exceptionally high-heels, and considering him.
“Perhaps we should look into hiring her,” Adelle ventured to joke, and was pleased to see him flinch theatrically at the suggestion. She had been right. It was slight, but there, a certain complicity with her humour, a willingness to poke fun. Reluctant, perhaps, but there nonetheless. She could work with that.
It was gratifying to know she really was learning to read Mr. Dominic. Adelle DeWitt prided herself on being able to work with people, to find their levers and their gears, to motivate them, whether through cutting humour, gentle threats or a life-time supply of puddings. Mr. Dominic would not prove himself an exception.
She had been staring at him too long. He stared back, beginning to look slightly puzzled, the shadow of amusement fading. She straightened quickly, and circled back to stand behind her chair, resting a hand on its tall leather back.
“Ma’am?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling tightly. “I was just thinking about...” Adelle hesitated, “...shoes. Is that all?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mr. Dominic, dismissed, and to his credit concealed the smirk until he was almost completely turned away from her and heading for the door. Adelle watched him leave, and then sank back into her leather chair, suddenly annoyed with herself. She toyed absently with the folder on her desk briefly, crossing her legs, then huffed and tossed it aside.
The screen caught her eye once more, as the blonde woman leg-swept her opponent to the ground with enviable technique and a minimum of curly-hair-pulling.
Adelle DeWitt frowned, taking up Mr. Dominic’s report once more, and told herself again that it would be an abuse of Rossum resources to imprint the perfect personal shopper with kung fu skills.
This is possibly the most ridiculous thing I've ever posted, though not written.
It occurs in a universe where it is totally acceptable to assault people for shoes and the cops are never called, and also there is a Manolo Blahnik Boutique in L.A. now (are there MB boutiques? Is he so classy he doesn’t even have stores?).
Also, apparently Veronica is now an extremely competitive magician-ninja, and the timeline for Topher’s arrival at the House is totally wonky. Sorry.
I assume this takes place at a point where DeWitt and Dominic have already developed their awesome professional rapport, but are still feeling out those moments of slightly less-professional humour and sympathy.
I imagine the first time they have to torture someone together, their slight awkwardness at sharing jokes will just magically evaporate.
One of my favourite things about Epitaph One is that one of the main character is Moody Spurgeon. Moody Spurgeon of Anne of Green Gables.
I wrote this last thursday, but didn't post it because it's so incredibly off from the tone of the show right now. But I know it's only getting to get more emotionally painful as the show concludes (this is a Whedon show, after all) so I'm posting it now before the world ends entirely.
Here it is, Dollhouse with a cameo by that other beautifully dressed, high-heeled wearing, assassination-ordering (like she wouldn't?) powerwalking business executive, Veronica Palmer of Better Off Ted.
Title: Backwards, and in Heels
Summary: For Veronica Palmer, shopping is a contact sport. She plays to win. Pre-Series for Dollhouse, no real spoilers for anything.
Adelle DeWitt did not particularly enjoy shopping for her wardrobe. It was a necessity, neither to be avoided nor enjoyed, like cooking a meal or keeping accurate tax records. All tasks that, happily, had been delegated the moment she was appointed head of her first research division and began earning a salary, and working hours, which made the absence of a personal staff an oddity. The addition of a personal shopper had been a solution to her general ambivalence that, up until this moment, had never proved a problem.
Adelle sighed, swivelling away from her bruised and snivelling employee, to consider once more the security footage Topher had gleefully obtained for her. She leaned back in her chair, and wished she had not wasted her latest pot of tea on their latest eager recruit.
A knock announced the arrival of Mr. Dominic, who entered to stand quietly in front of her desk. Settling in with hands clasped behind his back, he made what was for such a controlled man a comically obvious double-take at the young man already in place beside him.
“Bad time?” he asked, eyeing the sniffling man, who chose that moment to wipe his nose on the battered sleeve of his elegant suit jacket, and then blow. Adelle very carefully did not look at Mr. Dominic.
“Not at all. Thank you, Mr. Milais, you may go,” she said, and together they watched the unfortunate Milais rush from the room, the shredded fabric of his trousers flapping as he went. Her door slammed shut, and Adelle DeWitt could not quite restrain a sigh. She set her chin on her hand, and contemplated Topher’s footage.
“Rough engagement?” said Mr. Dominic, “I don’t recognize him.” The unspoken current beneath his words conveyed exactly how happy he was at the possibility of an active unknown to him alone in her office. Adelle shook herself, trying to look away from the events playing out on her wall-screen. The images were oddly enthralling.
“Hmm? No, no. Nothing like that,” she responded, tilting her head for a better angle on the screen. Had she really just seen...no. No one would bring handcuffs to a shoe sale, even in Los Angeles. She straightened and turned back to Mr. Dominic, who was pointedly not watching the video cycling through mere feet from them both.
“He’s not an active. He’s not even cleared for downstairs,” Adelle said. She hesitated, smoothing her skirt with both hands. “He works for me. Personally,” she added.
Mr. Dominic nodded politely, as if that simple fact was explanation enough for the presence of a dishevelled young man missing a pant leg and weeping before her desk. She supposed it was, for a man as consummate a professional as she had so far discovered Mr. Dominic to be. Still, she felt compelled to continue. Perhaps the world would feel more stable were she to share the improbable events of the morning.
“There was an incident. A shopping incident,” she said carefully.
“Shopping,” said Mr. Dominic.
“For shoes,” said Adelle. “There was a sale.”
“Shoe-shopping,” said Mr. Dominic. His tone was decidedly neutral, and yet there was something in his stance. Mr. Dominic had hardly struck her as a funny man in the 7 months they had worked together, and yet Adelle was suddenly certain he was biting back a number of entirely predictable jokes. It was profoundly irritating.
“Yes,” she said tartly, “I’m aware of every possible stereotype you may think has just been fulfilled, so you needn’t pretend not to be amused.”
“Yes ma’am,” said Mr. Dominic, and the matter appeared to be closed. On her wall, a woman leapt in slow motion over a display of pixellated pumps, rolling and coming to her feet with a six-inch stiletto clutched in one hand like a dagger. It was a surprisingly elegant motion.
Adelle raised an inquiring eyebrow at Mr. Dominic, who remained blandly impassive for a moment only, and then broke. He shook his head, smiling down at his unclasped hands, and Adelle felt an odd sensation of triumph. A trace of his smile remained when he looked up at her, and shook his head again. It was as much an admission of defeat as she had ever seen from him.
“I’ve sorry, I have to ask,” he said, and she smiled, gracious in victory, as in all things.
“Of course,” Adelle said, and nodded towards the screen. “I can hardly believe what happened myself, but it is, as they say, all caught on tape.” As if her acknowledgment had suddenly brought it into existence, Mr. Dominic finally allowed himself to stare full-on at the video. He frowned, crossing his arms. She felt herself settle into the comfortable rhythm of their engagement briefings.
“Security camera. The store’s?”
“Yes. From Topher, the new technician. He’s quite talented,” she remarked, still a little smug at the coup she’d managed to pull off in maneuvering Topher Brink into her house. “And discreet.”
Mr. Dominic nodded jerkily, looking very much as if he’d tasted something horrendous, and moved closer to the wall. Adelle stood to flank him, letting herself lean slightly against the edge of her desk. The back of his collar was slightly mussed.
“He’s put it on a loop,” she said, watching the video black out and begin again. “He also put the ‘best bits’ in slow motion, for some reason. He is a little strange, isn’t he?”
“He’s a child,” said Mr. Dominic absently, and pointed to the screen suddenly. “Your boy Milais enters...”
“Yes,” said Adelle, suddenly feeling she was going to greatly enjoy watching Mr. Dominic’s reaction, “but watch for the blonde woman on the left. She’s about to make things very interesting...”
3 Hours Earlier, Manolo Blahnik Boutique, Los Angeles
Veronica Palmer didn’t need to shop for herself, but she liked to. There was something extraordinarily satisfying in choosing a target, locking on and then destroying any and all competitors in her way. It’s a satisfaction only a winner could understand, and Veronica Palmer is a winner.
Of course, this guarantees that her satisfaction from winning will never be understood by those sad, sticky little losers whom she can’t help but trample beneath her gloriously-shod winner feet, which is everyone. Because Veronica Palmer wins, and everyone else doesn’t. That’s what winning means.
This felt like a particularly poignant observation, and she paused to appreciate her own insight. Then Veronica double-checked her dove placement, opened the boutique door, and strode inside.
At once she can tell there is little competition here; overawed tourists, blasé debs and dilettantes, Real Housewives of Whoever. Veronica could eat them all like so many krill.
Still, there’s nothing like seeing the face of a rival sunk in crushing despair as Veronica looms over them like a triumphant goddess. Then she is Artemis, fresh from the kill, shoes judged unworthy and maimed customers alike scattered about the floor like the discarded entrails of Acteon, and in her exultant grasp a pair of sumptuous crème Manolo Blahnik pumps.
It’s an exceptionally satisfying image.
Despite the apparently slim pickings, another patron eventually attracted her attention. A young man in a stylishly dark suit was demonstrating excellent taste, shaking his head to particularly showy offerings, opting instead for classy, luxurious pumps in dark colours and several truly intimidating stilettos. She liked them.
One particular pair, mauve and strappy, caught her eye. There was only one pair left in that size, already dangling from the man’s right hand as he continued to browse.
Veronica didn’t approach right away, whetting her appetite instead with the other patrons. It was a simple matter to pick off the stragglers; she intimidated window-shoppers with only a glance, and a well-timed friendly comment on the wisdom of going down a size set a woman in an unfortunately orange vintage scarf and an ostensible starlet against each other.
God bless the Company, thought Veronica, as behind her another teen stumbled, crying, from the store. Veridian’s publishing division had only just created the cankle as the season’s hottest new insecurity, and strike her down if hadn’t already taken root in the girlish psyche of America’s youth. It was so wonderful to have good tools to work with.
A few staff members were huddled in the corner behind their cash, and only a few patrons remained inside, steeping in the simmering tension. It appeared to have dawned on the young man that something odd was going on, what with the loud weeping, but by then it was too late for him. Behind Veronica, two women argued, voices rising, and Veronica heard the sound of ripping cloth. She ignored it, smiling beatifically as she moved smoothly toward her goal, like a sharply-dressed, magnificently blonde shark-person.
He saw her coming, of course; Veronica was hard to miss. The cashier before him took one look, squeaked, and joined her comrades in their defensive huddle. Whatever. Veronica wasn’t interested in the help.
Veronica assessed her rival quickly, letting her eyes rove over his attractively tailored suit. Ted wore a similar tie sometimes, she noted, and helped herself to some of the young man’s personal space, who backed into the counter. The colour worked better with Ted’s eyes. He clutched the shoes to his chest, and cleared his throat.
“Um...” he said.
“You’re going to give me those shoes, lackey,” she said, and leaned in to tug at his tie. “And maybe this too,” she said thoughtfully.
“Uh,” said the young man, licking his lips, “um, what?”
“You heard me,” said Veronica, and imagined the light glinting off her teeth, like the gleam off the barrel of a gun. She smiled a little broader at the thought. Veronica did so enjoy guns.
Abruptly, she pulled back, letting go of soon-to-be-Ted’s tie, while its inadequate owner swayed. Veronica snorted. A truly confidant person always stood their ground against gravity. It was clear from his wide-eyed replies that confidence was exactly what he lacked. That was the problem with the whole suit too; nice cut, clean lines, but it wore him. You needed confidence to wear a suit that suave. She was practically rescuing Ted’s tie from this guppy.
He glanced about him for aid or instruction, and Veronica’s opinion of him plummeted further. This was hardly a challenge. Still, she considered, a win was a win. Those shoes were as good as hers.
So she was surprised when the young man managed not to crumple to the ground in terror but instead raised himself up, even his hair bristling in curly defiance.
“I’m sure they have other pairs,” he said, trying to edge away from her.
“Nope,” said Veronica, pinning him against the counter, “not in that size.”
“Size 40 European?” said the man, in the tones of a man desperately hoping against hope that un-American sizing would save him. Fool.
Veronica grinned, leaning in close, and agreed.
“Size 40 European. Manolos size a little small.” Her challenger whimpered, and pulled the shoes a little closer to his chest.
“I’m sorry, but Ms. DeWitt was very specific. Maybe you’d like one of these other pairs,” he suggested, trying to smile and simultaneously indicate the pile of boxes behind his shoulder. He was not a very good multitasker.
Veronica drew back in disgust. She recognized this. This was appeasement! It was disgusting, like a Phil in heat.
Her contempt must have shown on her face, because the little man flinched and shivered, eyes darting about the store. Above their heads, her dove made a desperate bid for freedom and smacked into the store’s skylight.
“Ms. DeWitt, ” stammered the man. “Ms. DeWitt would really look good in these shoes.”
“So would I,” Veronica sneered, as feathers floated slowly down around them, “But you know what the difference is between your Ms. DeWitt and I?” Veronica Palmer tilted her looked into his eyes and smiled. “I’m standing right here.”
For a moment, all was silent. Veronica spared a moment to note the name DeWitt; anyone who could terrify an employee so thoroughly that he withstood more than 5 seconds of Veronica’s level 7 sneer without cracking rather than betray her was Company management material, and deserved remembering.
Then the dove hit the wall and DeWitt’s man lunged for freedom. Veronica grinned, and gave chase. This win would be worth remembering after all.
****
Despite herself, Adelle had moved closer during the video, standing shoulder to shoulder with Mr. Dominic as they watched. It was a strangely fascinating experience, like seeing a cheetah chase down and eviscerate a tiny, struggling warthog. She felt a brief pang of guilt, realizing she’d been imagining Milais’ desperate squealing, and resolved to give him a raise. If he would come back at all. She hadn’t considered that trauma-pay would ever be necessary when employing a personal shopper. Yes, even in Los Angeles.
She glanced sideways at Mr. Dominic who, if not literally rocked back on his heels, had at least raised an eyebrow.
“That was...” he hesitated, and she nodded.
“Quite,” she agreed.
“What do you think she said?” he mused, “To make them them cry like that?”
Adelle didn’t answer. They stood for a time, watching the blonde woman on the screen silently, and figuratively, gut her victims. The video began again. It was like watching a low-rent Grace Kelly walk unscathed through a hurricane, as around her the shop descended into chaos, or rather like seeing the movement of a storm from overhead. The calm, still centre, and destruction swirling around it.
“Well,” said Adelle, when the loop had begun a third time, “this is hardly a productive use of our time. You needed something, Mr. Dominic?”
He straightened almost imperceptibly, and nodded at a folder she had overlooked on her desk.
“I brought you an update on the new security routines. New law enforcement interest, caught a glimpse of Quebec's last hit. If you have time later on I’d appreciate your input,” he said, all professionalism once more. Despite her comment, Adelle found herself prolonging the moment, propping herself with both hands against her desk, taking her weight off her exceptionally high-heels, and considering him.
“Perhaps we should look into hiring her,” Adelle ventured to joke, and was pleased to see him flinch theatrically at the suggestion. She had been right. It was slight, but there, a certain complicity with her humour, a willingness to poke fun. Reluctant, perhaps, but there nonetheless. She could work with that.
It was gratifying to know she really was learning to read Mr. Dominic. Adelle DeWitt prided herself on being able to work with people, to find their levers and their gears, to motivate them, whether through cutting humour, gentle threats or a life-time supply of puddings. Mr. Dominic would not prove himself an exception.
She had been staring at him too long. He stared back, beginning to look slightly puzzled, the shadow of amusement fading. She straightened quickly, and circled back to stand behind her chair, resting a hand on its tall leather back.
“Ma’am?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling tightly. “I was just thinking about...” Adelle hesitated, “...shoes. Is that all?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mr. Dominic, dismissed, and to his credit concealed the smirk until he was almost completely turned away from her and heading for the door. Adelle watched him leave, and then sank back into her leather chair, suddenly annoyed with herself. She toyed absently with the folder on her desk briefly, crossing her legs, then huffed and tossed it aside.
The screen caught her eye once more, as the blonde woman leg-swept her opponent to the ground with enviable technique and a minimum of curly-hair-pulling.
Adelle DeWitt frowned, taking up Mr. Dominic’s report once more, and told herself again that it would be an abuse of Rossum resources to imprint the perfect personal shopper with kung fu skills.
This is possibly the most ridiculous thing I've ever posted, though not written.
It occurs in a universe where it is totally acceptable to assault people for shoes and the cops are never called, and also there is a Manolo Blahnik Boutique in L.A. now (are there MB boutiques? Is he so classy he doesn’t even have stores?).
Also, apparently Veronica is now an extremely competitive magician-ninja, and the timeline for Topher’s arrival at the House is totally wonky. Sorry.
I assume this takes place at a point where DeWitt and Dominic have already developed their awesome professional rapport, but are still feeling out those moments of slightly less-professional humour and sympathy.
I imagine the first time they have to torture someone together, their slight awkwardness at sharing jokes will just magically evaporate.