Ivan Press

[Hilary Durante] It's lunchtime, and Hilary is having a spicy beef kebab served with wedges of lime, beside a salad made of ultrathin slices of watermelon garnished with crushed mint and curls of red onion. It's surprisingly tasty, and quite refreshing with the almost-certainly-flavored martini also close to hand. She is seated on the patio outside her restaurant of choice. No bangles today, just a single thick, chunky bracelet of jade around her wrist to go with the sculpted gold earrings dripping from her earlobes.

Her slacks are off-white. Her blouse is a burnished gold color, draping from a wide neckline across her shoulders. The sleeves are slit, fluttering slightly whenever there's a breeze. Her thick hair is done up in a messy, tendril-hung bun and stuck with two jade and gold-adorned sticks that almost certainly were bought with the bracelet.

She sips her martini. Life's better that way.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] It's lunchtime, and if there is one thing that she has learned, it's that working out, going to meetings, planning meetings, securing a translator, and securing a buildinjg? Is touch. She's been looking through realtors, most of which don't give her the time of day. Some of which quote her a different price than what's listen in the ads- it's usually higher. Like numbers aren't the first thing you learn when learning a new language.

One. Two. Three. Four.
Yellow. Blue. Green. Brown.
Twenty three and three quarters. Fifteen hundred.
Taupe. Mauve. Greige.

She came here because it was close to an appointment she had. Celia would call her when the realtor got there. All would be well. So, when she walks in, the young woman is wearing what could be considered busienss attire in those boring, drab colors that only look good on sofas. She is wearing heels, and is unapologetically tall.

She's swearing pants, too. A pants suit at that. It's not unflattering, but it does what it's supposed to do. She's not there to entice, she's there to work. With those glasses, she gives off the I just got out of lawschool vibe. She pushes up her glasses, and pushes her hair over her shoulder.

Cordelia thinks she catches a look at a familiar face. With that, she heads off towards Hilary's direction. Admittedly, the best thing about Cordelia right now is that she has some damned nice shoes on. And the purse ain't too bad, either. She clears her throat.

"Hi," it's all she manages to think to say.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] (is tough. Remember the impotence of proofreading, Mindy)

[Hilary Durante] Not true: by the time one graduates with their juris doctorate they should be able to dress themselves, especially if they plan on appearing in court where image plays as much of a role as any of the words out of their mouth. So: Cordelia does not, in fact, look like she just finished law school. More's the pity.

Hilary turns to look up at her, her eyes shaded but unhidden by the yellow-tinted sunglasses she's wearing. "Hola, patito," she murmurs, but she has to crane her neck to look at the damn girl. "One should learn to wear flats. Or sit down. Have a seat."

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] The duckling sits, and it's a long way from the ground. Fortunately, she sits in a chair and crosses her legs at the ankle. It makes talking to her infinitely less of a burden, that much is certain. She's been invited to sit, and so she sits. She looks at the food, with its watermelon garnish, and back at Hilary.

"Habla usted español?" because she has has to ask. In her average-looking little blonde head, she writes patito off as a term of endearment. Like dear or sweety.


A moment, and on with her conversation skills. Attempting English today, it seems. Asking simple questions with complicated answers. "How are you?"

[Hilary Durante] Dove, she called Mr. Press. Starved swans, she called his modelesque attachments. Duckling, she calls Cordelia. The woman has a thing for birds, maybe. She can tell that Cordelia isn't a native English speaker -- anyone could -- but she doesn't know and doesn't seem concerned with finding out just how new English is to her. She gives a little nod to the question, no more, and takes another sip of her martini. Her lunch is almost finished, anyway.

Her eyes follow Cordelia into the chair as she sits and as Hilary sips, though.

"Lovely," she says, which is not a complex answer at all but seems a stock one. She's described herself thus before, to the same question. And it tells people almost nothing but what is obvious: that Hilary, herself, is lovely. She seems to live a charmed life. And maybe that's true. "And you?"

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "You were lovely yesterday, and you are lovely today," she responds. Irregular verb conjuration. To be is very rarely a kind infinitive phrase. Lovely is a simple enough answer- a stock answer from the back of the textbok that she can very easily understand. Hilary is, in so many senses of the word, lovely.

"I am good," she says, "Me estoy reuniendo con un agente de bienes raíces de hoy. No estoy esperando a él."

And, by her vaguely flat tone, one can tell how incredibly excited she is about this. She looks at Hilary, and taps her own wrist, where the bangle would be, "es beautiful."

[Hilary Durante] The slightest upward flick of one of Hilary's eyebrows at Cordelia's sarcasm. She looks amused as she takes a bite of minted watermelon, crushing the morsel of fruit with her tongue against the roof of her mouth before she chews and swallows. She glances aside at her bracelet, observing it as though she'd forgotten she was wearing it. Given its size and the fact that it's made of a precious stone, one has to wonder how the hell she could.

"Gracias, Cordelia," she says, offhandedly. "So, do tell... why did you rush off last night?"

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] [Subterfuge! I totally didn't run away because I'm crazy last night!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 (Success x 2 at target 6) [WP]

[Hilary Durante] [Perception + Empathy CUZ I CAN]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "I felt sick," she said. This, of course, is only half true. In truth, Hilary knows that Cordelia ran off, partially because she didn't feel well. And she didn't feel well because something scared the ever-loving crap out of her. Doesn't say what, doesn't say who or why, but the dismissive tone, the lack of information, in Spanish and English, and the way she just glossed over it said it all: Cordie didn't run off because she thought she was going to toss her cookies.

[Ivan Press] [*jumps on the bandwagon!*]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Hilary Durante] True or not, the fact that Hilary can tell Cordelia is full of shit could be chalked up to age and experience: she's older, one could presume she's wiser. However, the way she simply gives a slight shrug in response to Cordelia's explanation indicates that being a wife and stepmother has had no impact on her impulse to be overly interested in the inner workings of a new acquaintance's mind. She sips her martini, and when her waitress passes by, she lifts her nearly empty glass for a moment, smiles, and nods. It's a brief and nonverbal exchange:

Excuse me.
Yes?
Another, please.
Another?
Yes. Thank you.
Por nada.

She finishes the martini and looks at Cordelia again. "Well, that's too bad," she says, with as much investment as she puts into Lovely. "Are you feeling alright now?" A beat. "Look at me. You were meeting someone, weren't you? Do you need to go, or would you like to have a little nosh before you meet your realtor?"

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] There's a lack of context here, but whatever it was that she said? It wasn't true. Was only havlf true, as a matter of fact, but it rounded down to utter falsity. She wasn't sick yesterday, didn't feel sick yesterday except for the brief moment that made her... well... run off. Why she's hiding it, however, is a little more interesting. There's a hint of embarrassment there, coupled with a healthy dose of.. something that was hard to put a finger on. Not shame, but similar. She's not perfect; she knows it.

And it's eating her alive to think about it. That the body is fallible, that she is fallible. That some expectation isn't met= heavy is a head that wears the crown.
to Ivan Press

[Ivan Press] Ivan, as it turns out, is one of the select few who can wear a white seersucker suit and not look either 1) smarmy or 2) penniless. Not that this one's actually white; it's a very, very pale gray, the fabric soft and just a little rumpled around the edges. Not because he just rolled out of bed with his clothes on -- though some days that's a possibility -- but because it's supposed to be.

Under it, he's wearing a t-shirt, of all things, though this one is knit out of silk. It's black. There's a splash of silver lettering spilling off one shoulder, across the chest and down the side. It doesn't seem to spell anything at all. His eyes are impressions behind sunglasses. He pulls out a chair, or pulls up a chair, and invites himself to sit.

"A beer for me," he says to the not-quite-departed waitress. "1554 if you have it." Then, turning back, "Mrs. Durante. Cordelia." He smiles. In the same pleasant tone, "Why are you lying?"

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "I feel fine, and I have time," she says, "I am waiting for my translator to show up."

Obviously, because having to do an entire business deal when both parties don't speak the same language is... inconvenient. Yes, that's a good word for it. Inconvenient. She is following the conversation with Hillary before she gets to the word nosh. Which, of course, is passed over in favor of-

Why are you lying?

She looks at Ivan and eyes widen and her brows raise "-what?"

Blinkblink.

"Uh..." she is a spart girl, but not the quickest of thinkers.

[Hilary Durante] Ivan's interjection -- interruption -- doesn't seem to disturb Hilary any more than Cordelia's lying. For all intents and purposes, though there's no glassiness to her eyes or nervous giggling or sloppy attitude, the woman seems to be floating above the mundane social concerns that would normally cause, well... drama. Her manners are better. What you can't ignore, you at very least don't talk about.

She would say that Ivan doesn't mind his manners very well, but she doesn't say anything at all. She eats a little more of her delicious salad, since she long ago finished her spicy kebab.

"You don't seem like you need a translator," she says mildly, however, and goes back to her watermelon while Cordelia flounders in the face of Mr Press's question.

[Ivan Press] To Cordelia's stammering, Ivan merely lifts his eyebrows, then shrugs his shoulders as though to say, well. you are.

He leaves her alone, though -- at least long enough to lean his chair back on two legs and snag a menu off the adjoining table. "I agree," he says. "Which is a pity, because I actually went and put a spanish dictionary on my phone just for you. Here's what I learned:

"¿Le damas cuidar a un tres algunos en algún momento?"

And he looks at them expectantly, eyebrows up again. He seems completely serious.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] She looks at him, half of her mouth upturned in one direction, and looking not angry but more irritated. Like, well, like she got called out on lying. She waves her hand a little and shakes her head. Maybe she would explain later, maybe she doesn't.

"Ah! Ha aprendido una frase muy importante," she assures him. He looks expectant, completely serious... and for her part, she can hardly take it seriously and she just shakes her head. She glances at Hilary, and her cheeks turn... well, a little pink. Just a little, though, or maybe it's the lighting. She was lovely yesterday, and she is lovely today. She has to laugh it off, but her cheeks are still flushed.

"I practice," she says, "pero, no quiero contact lenses. Sorry."

[Hilary Durante] "Cordelia," Hilary says, gently chiding as she picks up her fork to spear a bite of seared tomato she didn't eat earlier, "mind your manners. Other than that sentence, poor Mr. Press doesn't know a word of Spanish."

The tomato enters her mouth and is disposed of neatly and quickly. If she notes that Cordelia is blushing, she doesn't bring it up. Manners, and all that.

Ivan's very important sentence got nothing more than a slight roll of her eyes, more indulgent than anything else. "Don't mind him," she goes on, "he's just trying to get a rise out of you. Unfortunately I think he's compensating for true with with meaningless vulgarity. A pity," she tacks on, glancing at him.

Her second (?) martini arrives. It's garnished with a twist of lemon. It is most certainly not a dry gin martini but something most likely quite fruity. "A moment," she tells the waitress, and looks at Cordelia. "What would you like, dear?"

[Hilary Durante] [true WIT]

[Ivan Press] "That's patently untrue," Ivan says, and if it's a protest it's rather careless. "I'm very serious. You clearly find Mrs. Durante attractive, and as for me; well, I'd be quite pleased to be added to the mix." Pause. "I wouldn't mind just watching, either."

His eyes fall on Hilary and hold a moment: bold, perhaps with a hint of challenge, and -- this is important, now -- without so much as a hint of the sort of biblical recognition that would accompany biblical knowledge.

"What do you say, Mrs. Durante?"

[manip+subt: I did not have sexual relations with that woman.]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] [O rly?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] Something she has learned while in Chicago is how to order foor without knowing precisely what she's ordering. The exchange goes something like this:

What will you have?
What would you recommend?
The waitress gives a recommendation, usually two or thre.
Cordelia goes with the first one.

It usually, but not always, disguises the fact that she has no idea what she is going to be eating, or really how to translate balsamic vinigrette into any of the languages she knows. Some people catch on. Others don't really care- so long as the blonde tips, she can order whatever the Hell she wants. She might have been ready to protest or say something, or more accurately- wear her perpetually confused expression, but at about that moment her phone rings. Once, twice, an annoying little you have a text message chirp.

"To go?"

She offers Hilary and Ivan an apologetic smile.

[Hilary Durante] [manipulation + subterfuge: I have no idea what you look like naked.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 4, 7, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] [O RLY I SAID!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Hilary Durante] She looks at him and he looks at her and they're looking at each other for a moment. Like they've barely met, once on separate yachts and once in a nightclub and otherwise not at all, not for a moment. She looks a little distasteful, in fact, but patient: the way one would deal with a friend's child who is acting out of turn.

They are near-perfect strangers. Cordelia utterly ignores everything Ivan just said. She got called out on lying. She got called out on her little blushes every time Hilary looks at her. And she orders her lunch to go and Hilary just nods. "Put it on my check," she tells the waitress, sipping her martini.

"I'll deal with you later," she mutters just before the glass hits her lips, a mockery of ominous tone and warning.

[Hilary Durante] [The mutter was to Ivan btw!]

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] Hey, look, a purse, a fork, and a plate! She's been called out on lying, which she didn't quite field so well. And the fact that she can barely look at Mrs. Durante without realizing how incredibly lovely this woman is. Whether she blushes out of desire or anxiety or possibly even jealousy isn't quite important. However, her mind wanders, briefly, from the fork to the plate, for Ivan and Mrs. Durante and-

Well, she doesn't notice a damned thing. Normally perceptive, the Spanish girl was playing with professionals here, and she looks at Ivan and, as she's getting up, he gets the following:

"You are terrible-" accenting is more appropriate for Spanish than English, thank god for homophones "-and you are fun."

She approves.

"Mrs. Durante, it was nice seeing you," she says, "hasta luego."

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] (gotta run away, sorry, thanks for the play! *mwah!*)

[Ivan Press] Ivan grins suddenly at that, a white flash of a smile that follows Cordelia as she stands. He tips his chair back rather than his head, holding his hand out as she passes. It's a sort of loose clasp of hands he offers her, half handshake and half high-five. "See you later, Cordelia."

Then she's gone, and Ivan's setting the front legs of his chair gently down, turning his attention back to his remaining companion. "Staying awhile, Mrs. Durante?"

[Hilary Durante] Her lunch is done, more or less: all that's left on the plate are a few garnishes, a few bites of those thin thin watermelon slices, a mint leaf, a barren skewer. Her empty martini glass was taken; this place doesn't let the whole world see how many you've already had. She sips her new one, watching Ivan now that Cordelia's excused herself with the lunch she got for, it seems, being a Silver Fang and being present.

"No," she says simply. Whatever chiding she'd done while Cordelia was around is over now. She doesn't tell him to keep it quiet, not to say things like that, what it someone --

Hilary sips her martini. Which is tasty and delightful and cold on her throat.

[Ivan Press] The truth, which they both know, is that it would be far more telling if Mr. Ivan Press suddenly stopped pursuing Mrs. Hilary Durante in that carelessly heavyhanded way of his. It would be far more unusual if someone of her beauty and breeding and, frankly, status sat across from someone of his incorrigibly womanizing ways and failed to arouse his by-now-reflexive flirtation.

So he flirts, and it's bald and aggressive. And she fends him off, and it's patient and disdainful. And all the well they both know, and very fucking well, that they're good liars. Well. Hilary is good. Ivan is world-class. And he's arrogant enough to trust in his ability utterly; and she -- well.

She just doesn't seem to care very much about anything.

Her meal is all but finished. His appears to be that single bottle of beer. So she sips her martini and he pulls off his beer, and there's a small silence between them while he watches people pass outside the low wooden railing of the patio. After a time Ivan looks back at Hilary.

"So what is Chicago for you, Mrs. Durante? Summer vacation?"

[Hilary Durante] In art it's negative space that defines the object, creates a shape out of seeming thin air. The emptiness where something should be, yet isn't, is more drawing to the eye than the colorful fluttering in the corner. If Ivan truly did spook at the sight of Hilary in public, people would wonder why. If he didn't flirt with her -- harmlessly but constantly -- they would not be able to chalk it up to the existence of a mate she never really talks about and hasn't ever been seen with. If she refused to look at him. Stiffened when he came near. It would be even more telling than if they were suddenly more sweet to each other, if they were, well...

nice.

They sit at her table, recently vacated by Cordelia. They're next to that railing, with its little flowerboxes hanging over the side, draped with purple and fuschia and light blue flowers. And no, Hilary doesn't seem to mind, and she doesn't seem to care,

but she cared enough, apparently, to make sure she didn't behave with him as though what happened a couple of days ago actually took place. Or that it mattered. Or that she remembers it.

"No, I live on the North Shore," she says, as though this is a silly question.

[Ivan Press] "My mistake," Ivan replies, and he's certainly not above allowing a smirk to shade his face. "Most spouses live together is all."

He takes another swig off his beer, then sets it down. "Well, it's been lovely," he says, "but I was actually on my way uptown when I saw you and Cordelia here. Can't stay long, though. Don't suppose I could offer you a ride someplace?"

[Hilary Durante] "When Dión is in Chicago," Hilary says slowly, "we of course all live together as a family." Of course.

She sips her martini then sets the glass down, almost empty now. The breeze shifts her hair behind her head, and she looks quite odd but certainly striking with those strangely-tinted sunglasses of hers that do not hide her eyes but merely diffuse the sunlight and -- if he could see it from her perspective -- turn her world to varying shades of gold.

"What's uptown?"

[Ivan Press] A moment ago it was genuinely impossible to tell whether he truly had an appointment to make and had to leave, or whether he was saying so for the sole purpose of offering her a ride. Of getting her alone. Of fabricating a convenient excuse that no one else would question, nor even think to question.

Just in case someone recognizes her here. Just in case someone sees.

Now, when she presses, there's a quick flicker in his eyes, and she knows. There's no appointment uptown. There's no place for him to be. It was a lie, a mask, a shroud, an excuse. And let's be honest. Ivan is such a brilliant liar that the lapse could only be deliberate; a sort of proposition far subtler than the ones he's be flippantly issuing since he sat down.

"My watchmaker," he says, and lifts his left wrist. A lovely, lovely piece there, a classic, understated Breitling to go with his faintly retro look today. "It's been running slow."

[Hilary Durante] When Ivan shows her his watch, Hilary leans over a little to look at it. Not to see if it's running slow, as he says, but simply to critique it with her eye, to look it over. "That's qutie nice," she observes, as she leans back and picks up her martini to finish it. "I've been thinking of getting a new watch for my husband to give him when he gets back from Paris." No telling when that may be, though she seems honest enough in this.

Her glass sets down on the pristine white tablecloth. "Do you think your man might be able to recommend a good piece, or have some to show me? I was going to go shopping on Saturday, but..." as she trails, her hand moves, her jade bracelet moving along her wrist and forearm.

"I am occasionally accused of impatience," Hilary finishes blithely.

[Ivan Press] There's a quick slash of a grin. "I prefer the term 'a step ahead'," he says. "At any rate, I think Friedrich would be happy to make recommendations."

On that note, Ivan turns in his seat, flagging down a server with a distinct check please gesture. Earlier Hilary put Cordelia's drink on her check; when it comes, however, it's Ivan's centurion card that slides into the pocket on the leather billfold.

"Still, you'll want a quality piece for your darling beloved. Custom orders can take a few days. I wouldn't rule Saturday out."

His signature is a slashing scrawl. He replaces his card in his wallet and times himself to rise when she does, smoothly, picking his sunglasses off the table and sliding them onto his face. "I'm parked this way," he says.

[Hilary Durante] [QUITE. GAH. *kan spel*]

[Hilary Durante] The corner of her mouth tugs out in a wry near-smirk. Impatient. A step ahead. Oh, funny. Leaning back, she watches as Ivan summons the waitress. Not a bat of an eyelash. Not even much sincerity in that, "Oh, you mustn't."

Cordelia's lunch-to-go is on that check, too. And three martinis, and Hilary's lunch. Oh, and his 1554. He insists, or he ignores her, and Hilary has no further protest to give. She is turned in her chair slightly now, her arm over the back, and her hand is toying with one of her rings the way it did

never. He's never seen her do that before. Of course.

No rise is given to calling Dion, her absent husband and mate, her darling beloved. She doesn't laugh. She doesn't roll her eyes. She doesn't even smirk. "Well, I'm sure I can fit picking it up into my schedule this weekend. We are still going sailing, aren't we? I've already informed Tomás we won't be taking Cielo out because I couldn't refuse an invitation from a member of the tribe."

She tips her head as the waitress takes the billfold, comes back a minute or two later with the slips for Ivan to sign. "Oh, I brought my car," when he tells her where he's parked. She has her purse at hand as she rises, some lovely thing of white leather. "Should I follow you, or do you want to give me his address?"

[Ivan Press] Ivan does not, in fact, insist. He simply ignores, responding instead to her query regarding the weekend: "That was the plan."

Then they're ready to go, and though Ivan's sunglasses aren't mirrored, the day is bright enough that Hilary's image is reflected in the lenses. A bundle of contradictions, Mrs. Durante. Such a lovely woman, with something of old world beauty in the smooth cheekbones and oval face; such warm brown eyes; such a cool blithe manner.

And then there's this business of pretense. Their pretense of who they are, and how they know one another. Here in public they match each other stride for stride. By unspoken consensus they're covering their tracks. They've planted a figurative alibi in Cordelia's mind. They may very well fabricate a genuine alibi and stop by this watchmaker of Ivan's. And on Saturday Hilary's step-son will know very well where she is; though not, perhaps, what she's up to.

They're careful about these things. They know that sometimes the negative space is far more noticeable, and so they fill it with passive deterrents, decoys, deceptions. They're both quite good at it.

Yet the moment they're in private, they'll suddenly prove themselves nothing alike. He doesn't know who she is; he barely even comprehends her. He knows where his pretense begins and ends. He doesn't know where hers begins, and he's only seen it end once. He isn't even sure she knows where the pretense ends, or if there's anything at all beneath it.


At any rate. She has a car; so does he. He thinks for a moment, and then he says, "Why don't you just follow me."