Tiffany's & Co.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Not everyone can be a Holly Golightly, but anyone can feel like a glamour-queen when they put on jewels from Tiffany's. Whether that little box is gift for a loved one or a gift for yourself, you be certain you are getting quality (albeit expensive) jewellery. The only buyer's remorse you'll have is not buying another gold piece.

[The Exodus]

OOC: Lucian/Aryeh. BIC:


Lucian Michaud

Lucian had been carrying the engagement ring around in his pocket for far too long. It was starting to get fingerprints on it from his fiddling with it. Lucian, admittedly, would not have noticed if he hadn’t spent the last twenty minutes staring at it in a café, debating whether tonight was the night or whether he was just ready to get the painful process of asking over. He made his way back to the jewelry store he’d purchased the ring from. Tiffany’s & Co looked like a terrifying and sparkly ice palace to Lucian. Like much of the Rue de Rivioli, it was beautiful in a sort of untouchable way. Every time he’d gone in, he’d been treated to fine service, but he couldn’t help but feel as though the diamond-specialists were scrutinizing him and the other customers with the same judgmental eyes they used to pick out flaws from gems. Lucian’s British accent was the equivalent of a crystallographic defect in an otherwise perfect stone. And today, people eyed his t-shirt and blue jeans as though they violated the Kimberly Process.

He smiled apologetically and went to browse for a bit. He didn’t regret the ring he’d chosen. It looked different than all the cushion/square/Lucida/essentially-rectangularly cut diamonds that glittered up from the displays. Ashton’s ring was different. Unique. It would have to be. If Lucian had selected just any ring, Ashton might not say yes. She still might not say “yes” to him with the ring he had now, but at least his chances were better. At least he’d planned this out a bit.

Without thinking, Lucian leaned up against the display case and left an accidental dusting of fingerprints on the glass. And before he could stand up and pass it off as never happening, a saleswoman with severe features and a sleek, mannish hairdo bore down on him.

“Can you not read the sign?” she snapped, gesturing to a sign that said in French: Do Not Touch. “Back away from the display.”

“Mademoiselle, it was an accident, I assure you—“

“I said back away from the display case. If you do not, I will call the authorities and they will escort you downtown.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Aryeh Feldman

Over the the past 57 years, Aryeh had become extremely well acquainted with this particular Tiffany's and everything she had to offer. Every year, he came in for the anniversary of his and Adrienne's marriage to purchase some shiny bauble or another. For the past five years, he's been placing what he purchased on her grave. He would sit there for hours and just talk to her, telling her how much he loved her. And he would leave the Tiffany's gift there until the groundskeepers swept it up at the end of the week. For the past 57 years, he had become a familiar face, a frequent customer. Though Aryeh was never one to believe in apology gifts, Adrienne had been one to gladly except and encourage them. So a dedicated Aryeh would often find his way into Tiffany's affluent and lavish arms in search for a necklace or bracelet almost as bright as his wife's smile; but he could never find one to match. And as Adrienne slid into a slow decline in health, Aryeh brought home bigger and brighter jewels in hopes to elicit some happy emotion. And when those days hit, Aryeh became a gloomy and glum figure in Tiffany's. Sale's personnel were kinder and careful, and after her passing, walked on eggshells when they looked in his direction.

He also came into Tiffany's when Evelynne or Nadine had a milestone. They didn't appreciate his religious offers for rites of passage, so he would gift wrap a small something from Tiffany's ever abundant treasure chest for them.

But today's purchase wasn't for Evelynne or Nadine or even Adrienne. Today, Madeleine would be the lucky receiver of a shiny, glittering little gem. She had been so sad recently and Aryeh was reminded of the times when Nadine would run into his arms and he would hold her until she stopped crying. Aryeh tried that. And the sadness still lingered. His wise words offered no solace, either. So he resorted to buying happiness out of her.

He leaned heavily on his cane as he browsed the selection of earrings.

“I said back away from the display case. If you do not, I will call the authorities and they will escort you downtown."

Aryeh turned to the source of Yvette's loud voice. He chuckled. Too many times had Aryeh been in this man's shoes, carelessly pressing his face to a display case, fogging it with his breath, or Heaven forbid it, touching one.

"Yvette!" he called out, limping over to her. "Will you get me out those emerald earrings? They's look enchanting on my mommellah."

Yvette, startled by his voice, jumped. "Yes, of course, Monsieur Feldman," she said and she scurried behind the glass counter.

"I never really liked her. She has a big chip and head on her shoulders-- no wonder she's so tense." He mused to himself, before turning to the young man. "An engagement ring, eh?" he said, gesturing to the little shining band in the black velvet box he held. "Tell me. What's she like?"

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

If Lucian had come to Tiffany’s in his usual clothes, there would be no issue. His suits and stature usually exuded elegance, so that regardless of his behavior, people assumed him to be cultured and in the right. Dressed in jeans and a less-than-Armani jacket, he was suddenly a hoodlum or vagrant. Lucian sighed and pulled his hands off the counter. The woman seemed unimpressed.

"Yvette!" a man’s voice called out. It held vestiges of an accent as foreign in France as Lucian’s own. He looked to see a little old man with a cane hobble their way. "Will you get me out those emerald earrings? They'd look enchanting on my mommellah."

The Yiddish word was one Lucian recognized from childhood, but couldn’t translate. He was reminded of his maternal grandfather, who always thought it was a waste Lucian was so enamored by his French heritage and thus saw it as his patriarchal duty to impound something Jewish in him. But beyond a taste for challah bread, Lucian had never quite gotten in touch with his matrilineal heritage. He smiled at this old gentleman with gratitude, and hoped he wouldn’t turn on him and ask him to recite verses from the Torah and then say, “Miriam, your son is going to grow up to be a schkutz if you aren’t careful” before being reminded that it was “Mary” now and that “schkutz” was not an acceptable term to call your grandson.

The saleslady acquiesced to “Monsieur Feldman” before disappearing into the depths of the store. Lucian watched her practically run away in her clacking high-heels before turning to thank his savior.

"I never really liked her,” Monsieur Feldman said out loud. “She has a big chip and head on her shoulders-- no wonder she's so tense."

Lucian startled, but chuckled anyways. He could have gathered as much, but hearing someone else say things he could only think was comforting. Monsieur Feldman turned to him.

"An engagement ring, eh?" he said, gesturing to the little shining band in the black velvet box he held. "Tell me. What's she like?"

Lucian looked down at the engagement ring and a shy sort of smile crept onto his lips.

“Ashton’s phenomenal,” he said wistfully. “Sweetest, best girl I know. She’s immensely talented and clever and…”

He looked up, not quite apologetically. Monsieur Feldman had asked and it wasn’t a rambling spiel. Lucian had enough tact not to go off into a rant.

“And I love her,” he finished, snapping the box closed. “Are you married, sir?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Aryeh Feldman

“Ashton’s phenomenal,” he said wistfully. “Sweetest, best girl I know. She’s immensely talented and clever and… And I love her."

If the look on the man's face wasn't so filled with happiness and love when talking about this "Ashton" (which was possibly the manliest name a woman could have), he would have said "forget it". He said all the things everyone wanted to hear a man say about a woman. It was hackneyed by now, worn out. It would make one think that every woman was sweet and clever and talented. The man had every right to ramble lovingly. Aryeh certainly did when he talked about Adrienne.

"Are you married, sir?"

Aryeh smiled.

"I am. 63 years this May. She passed away five years ago. This Ashton is really lucky to have a man who thinks so highly of her."

Not everyone was that lucky. Nadine sure wasn't in her first marriage. The man said everything right, but his eyes were empty when he said it. This man before him said very little about his Ashton, but he didn't need to make a speech-- his eyes said it all.

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

Explaining love was the opposite of being in love. When you were in love, you could think a person to be the “sweetest, best girl” you knew, and yet saying it out loud sounded childish. Inadequate. Monsieur Feldman may as well have asked Lucian to explain art. He had some vague notion of the matter, and he knew how it affected him, but he didn’t understand it well enough to say what constituted “art”. He couldn’t explain why it made him feel the way he did or why, sometimes, those feelings were in conflict. He couldn’t explain Ashton succinctly; trying had been folly and made him sound like any other fool who’d fallen in love or in lust. But if Monsieur Feldman was married—or at least, had been in love, since marriage and love were not always synonymous—then surely, he’d understand Lucian’s loss for words.

"I am. 63 years this May,” Monsieur Feldman said. For an instant, Lucian was jealous. Without doing the math, he knew how improbable—impossible—having a sixty-third anniversary with Ashton would be. But then Monsieur Feldman continued, “She passed away five years ago.”

Lucian’s jaw fell open, lips parted for a moment. What did one say to that sort of revelation?

“This Ashton is really lucky to have a man who thinks so highly of her."

“Erm, yes… I hope so, at any rate,” Lucian said, clearing his throat. He swallowed hard and then, “I’m very sorry about your wife.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Aryeh Feldman

The man's mouth fell agape and Aryeh wondered if he knew how ridiculous it made him looked. He figured he wouldn't tell him in the middle of Tiffany's. He couldn't see that panning out well.

“Erm, yes… I hope so, at any rate,” Lucian said, clearing his throat. He swallowed hard and then, “I’m very sorry about your wife."

"Why?" Aryeh asked. "You didn't kill her, did you?" Getting weepy about Adrienne had a time and place. This afternoon was not the time, nor was Tiffany's the place.

"I'm just pulling your leg, boychick. Mazel tov to you and Ashton. May your home be filled with love and happiness and your loins abundantly fertile. If she says 'yes' first which I'm sure she will."

[The Exodus]

Lucian Michaud

Talking about the deceased was always awkward. It didn’t matter if you knew the person or not. Platitudes were unhelpful, but pessimistic realism was just as bad. Usually, a murmured expression of sympathy was the only way you could go without the situation going horribly awry. But apparently, even Lucian’s social skills were not honed enough to handle Monsieur Feldman.

"Why?" Monsieur Feldman asked. "You didn't kill her, did you?"

Lucian’s eyes snapped wide open. That wasn’t a response you heard every day. He didn’t know what to say, but he had the good sense not to try.

"I'm just pulling your leg, boychick,” Monsieur Feldman said, using a word Lucian actually knew from childhood. He smiled warily. “Mazel tov to you and Ashton. May your home be filled with love and happiness and your loins abundantly fertile. If she says 'yes' first which I'm sure she will."

Again, there were some things people just didn’t say to strangers. “may your loins be abundantly fertile” was one of those things. Lucian’s stomach roiled. All things considered, though, that was the one thing he and Ashton didn’t have to worry about.

“Thank you,” he said, trying to smile instead of grimace. “I appreciate your well wishes.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Aryeh Feldman

“Thank you,” he said, trying to smile instead of grimace. “I appreciate your well wishes.”

Yvette returned with the earrings for Madeleine. Aryeh took one look at them before deciding. "Good. I like them. Wrap them up, and send them to my house. Certainly you don't expect and Alter Kocker like me to carry those. I have arthritis, you know."

"Yes, of course, Monsieur Feldman." Yvette responded with a pointed glare at the young man, the perpetrator of the heinous crime of touching the display case.

"And Yvette," Aryeh added, "put the cleaning of this man's ring on my tab." He began walking away, but stopped, licked his hand and ran it across the length of a nearby display case, translucent streaks forming. He smirked at Yvette and winked at the young man and touched the prim of his polka-dotted fedora in parting before limping out with his cane.

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

They said “breaking up is hard to do”. Madeleine didn’t know who “they” were, but she wanted to give them the No Sh*t Sherlock Award for this year. Breaking up left you lonesome and shaky and bitterly jealous of everybody who was happy and would have someone to kiss this New Year’s Eve.

Also, it was liberating.

Look, putting it simply: This was the 21st century. Unless your man was off fighting Nazis or terrorists or something, you didn’t wait around like Suzy Homemaker and hope for the best. It was anti-feminist to let the men have all the adventures while you waited like Sleeping Beauty in some tower, with your chastity belt securely fastened until the day your prince returned and turned you into his baby making vessel. Please. Madeleine had a career. She had friends. She had prospects. She also had an engagement ring she needed to return. It wasn’t right to hold on to it, even if she could make a wad of cash pawning it off in some seedy immigrant neighborhood.

Bitterness and snark aside, it had taken Madeleine a year to come to this conclusion. She’d hemmed and hawed and believed in second chances until something in her snapped. She’d been sitting in a dressing room about a week ago, trying on a bridesmaid’s dress and looking at herself in the mirror. And beneath her red-rimmed eyes and mussed hair, she saw something. Something so beautiful and wonderful and incredibly shallow that she knew what she had to do.

Madeleine was about to be the sexiest maid of honor ever and she wanted to go to Lucian and Ashton’s wedding with a date. Or at least with the option of snagging one of Ashton’s cute cousins after a couple drinks. And there was no way she was going to accomplish either of those things if she was still broken up about what might have been. This was reality. Reality said Madeleine should have moved on a long time ago. That she was being a baby for holding on. And she was getting to a point where cleaving to a failed relationship wasn’t Byronic or romantic. It was pathetic. A woman her age should know how to grow up, sever ties, and act like an adult. And a good woman didn’t keep the ring as a memento. A souvenir. No. Responsibility said she return it, reimburse her ex for his financial losses. This was the 21st Century, after all. Feminism had its downsides.

She looked around Tiffany’s at all the zillions of sparkling display cases and the glitterati that frequented highfaluting boutiques along the Rue de Rivioli. And for a moment, she felt like the Rouge trollop she had been in her youth. The town wh*re, too dolled up to look tasteful and still reeking of smoke and sin and sex. She wasn’t quite that woman any more, but right now, she missed her. That Madeleine wouldn’t care who saw her return a purchase. She would have probably propositioned one of the other customers already for a laugh. But grown-up Madeleine didn’t have that devil-may-care attitude anymore. Instead, she was sure everyone saw through her business suit and high heels down to the core of her. The core that wasn’t exactly marriage material anyways. She plastered a smile on her face and held her head as high as she could. It shouldn’t matter. It really shouldn’t matter at all.

She made her way to the customer service line, which trailed for what seemed like miles. And instantly, her nose was accosted by the earthy smell of cigarettes. She saw a pair of broad shoulders and a familiar mop of brown curls. A grin stretched across her lips. Maybe she wasn’t the only one out of place here after all.

“Well, well,” she said, smacking the guy playfully on the shoulder. “If it isn’t my favorite Opera House deserter. How the hell are you, Bill?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

Watches were like hearts—they had a steady tick-tick and were easily broken. But watches, unlike hearts, couldn’t be fixed with Valium. No, no. Watches needed a special hand (no pun intended) to make things work again. And fortunately for watches, that wasn’t a temporary fix.

He handed off his leather-strapped, four year old watch to the man behind the counter and leaned up against the glass casing (despite a sign’s explicit instructions not to), folded his arms and mentally ran through his Christmas shopping list. He had already bought for Damien. His presents were hidden, already wrapped, under his own bed. He had bought for his siblings and parents, both Michaud households. He still had Samantha, Matvey, and Madeleine left, but that would have to wait until his paycheck came in. That thought made him miss his steady job at the opera house.

“Well, well…” came a voice behind him, and he didn’t even need to turn around or feel the playful slap on his shoulder from those long manicured nails to know who it was. Bill smiled. Ironic. I was just thinking about you… “If it isn’t my favorite Opera House deserter. How the hell are you, Bill?”

“Deserter?” Bill asked with a playful grin. “I’d consider it a very long sick day.” And sick it was. Bill may not have been getting his temperature taken every minute, being fed soup by Damien just to vomit it back up or anything, but the opera house had made him lovesick for some girl and he felt like hell. So he took a much needed break to live the artistic life and take medication for his condition. “I’m better now that I get to see you again! Come here!” He opened his arms wide, prepared to encrush her in a greeting hug, for a moment unsure if she was even a hugging-type of person. “I’ve f*cking missed you.”

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

Madeleine had a theory. Attractive men dropped out of the sky for her. Seriously. Whenever she needed one to distract her, there was one. It was actually kind of nice. Now, she was all smiles with Bill, trying not to think of the diamond ring burning a hole in her pocket.

“Deserter?” Bill asked with a playful grin. “I’d consider it a very long sick day.”

Madeleine’s grin faltered. Oh Jesus. He probably had, like, cancer or something and she was being a really rotten b*tch, calling him a deserter. Great. Fantastic. Awesome. Way to go, Mad—

“I’m better now that I get to see you again! Come here!” He opened his arms wide, prepared to encrush her in a greeting hug, for a moment unsure if she was even a hugging-type of person. “I’ve f*cking missed you.”

Madeleine tossed her arms around Bill. She breathed him in; he smelled like leather and cigarettes. It was a good smell; familiar. She shut her eyes happily. This was what a man should smell like. And maybe she hugged him a fraction of a second too long. Maybe. It just felt nice to be held by someone who wasn’t grabbing her *ss or asking for her eternal devotion. God, did he smell good…

“Missed you, too,” she said, pulling away. “The opera just isn’t the same without you and Ortiz playing Tom and Jerry backstage or us sneaking off to hide in the light booth. It’s…”

Lonely.

“Weird, y’know?” Bill was her ally. They’d had a blast together and now that he wasn’t around, there was no one to have a blast with. Madeleine tried to ruffle other people’s feathers. No response. Nothing useful, anyways. Nothing funny or sarcastic or awesome. “Are you coming back?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

If Bill could grasp hold of this moment, pull it taut and wrap it around his wrist like a homemade hemp bracelet, he would. And he’d wear it more proudly than any of the bracelets here in the glass cases of Tiffany’s, cherish it forever, never take it off. Here was this woman who had an odd little piece of Bill’s heart to call her own, to do with whatever she wanted. He left the door open for anything, and was glad they had settled on friendship. And he hugged her friend until she pulled away with a smile.

“Missed you, too,” she said, pulling away. “The opera just isn’t the same without you and Ortiz playing Tom and Jerry backstage or us sneaking off to hide in the light booth. It’s… Weird, y’know?”

“Yeah. Do I ever.”

Boy, did he know. Bill had to re-examine his life, take a break from seeing the woman who ruined his life every day. He couldn’t brave seeing her glide across the stage. He couldn’t abide smelling her perfume as he walked past the dressing rooms. He couldn’t bear to hear her voice laughing with other cast members while he died inside. There was a time when all of those things would delight him beyond imagination, when all those things sent a tingle down his spine. But now, they sent a knife through his stomach. Bill needed time off to reclaim whatever dignity he had left, get clean, and feel like the old Bill once more before he stepped foot inside there.

There were times when Bill would stand outside the Garnier doors and wonder how Madeleine was, what the performance looked like, who his temporary replacement was, and eve, sadly, how Ortiz was doing. And then he’d turn to leave, kicking icy stones all the way back to his bike, taking one last longing look before speeding off recklessly home.
“Are you coming back?”

“Am I coming back?” Bill echoed, “Of course I’m coming back! I miss it there. I miss the stability, I miss you most of all. And, hate to say it, but I miss Ortiz, too. My current boss likes me too much. It’s weird.” Bill flashed his nicest sarcastic smile before continuing. “There are just some… some personal things I need to take care of before I make my triumphant return. By February I'll be back. I promise.”

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

“Am I coming back?” Bill echoed, “Of course I’m coming back! I miss it there. I miss the stability, I miss you most of all. And, hate to say it, but I miss Ortiz, too. My current boss likes me too much. It’s weird.”[/b]


Madeleine laughed at Bill’s sarcastic smile. She couldn’t imagine anyone liking Bill too much, but she supposed anyone could, compared to Ortiz. The man didn’t really like anybody, except one of Madeleine’s dancers and that was a mystery to everyone. Still, he seemed to miss Bill as much as a guy like that could. The whole first week Bill was gone, Ortiz would tell her to save her attitude for MaCarthy and there would be a tense moment before Ortiz sighed and stalked off. Madeleine didn’t tell Bill, though. Instead, she focused on his statement: I miss you most of all. It spread a tingly happiness through her chest. It reassured her about being here to return this ring.


See? Some guys come back for me. Or don’t even leave the city.


She smiled at him.



“There are just some… some personal things I need to take care of before I make my triumphant return. By February I'll be back. I promise.”




“Good!” Madeleine leaned into his shoulder, teasingly. “The place is such a bore without you!”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

“Good!” Madeleine said, slumping into him. Bill would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the warm weight of her against her, feeling her ribs against his own. He tried not to think about it, tried to force the thoughts out of his mind. And he was successful for spurts at a time. “The place is such a bore without you!”

Bill laughed. “I could say the same about my life without the opera house in it… But I had to take a break.” And now Bill needed a break from life. He’d be taking it soon. Bill was going to England to recover then back here to heal some more, to rehabilitate before he needed it. He was staying ahead of the curve, keeping things in check before he was too far gone.

“So what brings you to Tiffany’s today? Last minute Christmas shopping? Because, I’m there, too. Join the club, love. You’re in good company.”