Louis Vuitton

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Louis Vuitton is one of the reasons Paris is known as the fashion capital of the world. The French fashion house crafts beautiful clothes, accessories, and shoes that will appeal to any fashionista.

[Deleted]

OOC: For Natalie and Evelyn! BIC:

Evelyn Aldridge

Shopping. Evelyn neither loved it nor hated it. She'd never been one of those women who wasted their paychecks on haute couture every week. She'd never fawned over clothing and worshipped it as if it were a religion. In the same vein, she wasn't one to shun what some called a "sport" and others called "torture." Once or twice, Jonathan had been subjected to following Evelyn in and out of clothes racks, dying of boredom while thankfully grinning and bearing it. She had understood and had made it as painless as possible, which is why she didn't force him to shop with her very often. Evelyn was reasonable and it was more enjoyable shopping by herself or with a friend, knowing Jonathan wasn't suffering.

So here she was, enjoying an leisurely afternoon browsing Louis Vuitton wear. Could it be called therapeutic? Well, not quite, but it didn't require complex, analytic processes and her shopping decisions would not affect the sustainability of a media empire. No one was calling her, e-mailing her, or knocking on her door asking for her opinion or requesting permission for something or other. She wasn't at her desk scouring through papers while pressing her knuckle against her temple. And she most definitely was not leaning over her desk in solitude, thinking about her liquor cabinet in her home, each bottle organized aesthetically in a stark black case behind a pristine, glass window. That was the worst scenario of all. This was none of that. This was mindless, harmless work, if it could be called "work," so Evelyn was enjoying herself well enough.

Evelyn placed her bag on the bench and picked up a pair of black boots that reached just below her knees. They were frighteningly stiff. Good Lord, she'd never be able to walk comfortably in those. She promptly took them and put them back on the stand. She looked at all the high heels. Curse the high heels. However, she knew they spoke wonders about a woman. They were fashionable and feminine and yet, they could emanate power, depending on the wearer. Evelyn had mastered the art of personifying authority when it was necessary - and was it necessary in her line of work.

Several pairs of shoes later, Evelyn's desire for new shoes had dwindled to almost nothing. Perhaps another day. She left her bench, placing the last pair of uncomfortable shoes back on display, and she made for the section of blouses. Maybe she'd have better luck with the clothes.

[The Exodus]

Natalie Blackwood

As the adage said: a lady never gets mad, she gets even. Maybe that wasn’t the exact phrase. And maybe there were other ones. Revenge: a dish best served cold. Revenge was sweet. The best revenge was living well. Whatever you said about getting even, Natalie intended on doing just that. And she was going to bring the men of her life to their knees. In a mere matter of weeks, Natalie’s only child was celebrating his “coming out party”. In attendance would be the man who had divorced Natalie and who, rumor had it, had traded in for a younger model. It was a move Lucian Michaud would regret the instant he saw Natalie, who could still outshine even the prettiest girls half her age. And the best part would be that Natalie would not take him back. She would instead let him marinate in his remorse. The fact that Natalie had been the first to stray was immaterial. She was the best thing he had ever had, except maybe Damien, and if Lucian was a real man—which Natalie sometimes questioned—he would have fought for her. And then, of course, there was the Anthony problem. Anthony Walden, the man she had intended to leave Lucian for, but who had instead returned to his own wife just when Natalie was free of her useless ex-husband. She’d loved him, traded security for him and he still left. The b*stard needed to be taught just as much as Lucian. He needed to see the woman he could have had, which was why Natalie was orchestrating it so that Damien’s coming out party would have plenty of press coverage. When she had to issue a statement (which, undoubtedly, she would since Lucian never would in a million years speak with a tabloid writer), she would have her picture taken from only her best angles and Anthony would be haunted by her cool blue gaze at every supermarket checkout line he came to.

Such were Natalie’s thoughts as she sashayed down the Rue de Rivioli. But even the steeliest bravado would have crumbled once in Louis Vuitton. The place was chockfull of slip-thin models, who made Natalie acutely aware of the stretch marks that had scarred her stomach for the last twenty four years. And the youthfulness of many of the shoppers had Natalie seeing crows’ feet and laugh lines in every mirror. Never mind that she didn’t understand the Parisian sizing system without a personal shopper on hand to assure her that she wasn’t too big to squeeze into Size X or dress Y. At forty-five, Natalie had lived in her body for nearly half a century. She knew it well, knew its power and its limitations. But since everything else in her life had been called into question in the last several years, why not her dress size? She felt like some adolescent girl, trying to fashion herself so that the boys liked her and the other girls didn’t make fun. Except she’d probably need a facelift to look better than her replacements.

Of course, none of this would be a reality if Natalie couldn’t pull herself together. She marched to the nearest dress rack and tore through the display, hunting for only the best Louis Vuitton had to offer. Price wasn’t important. The best part of all this was that it all came out of Lucian’s alimony payments.

The worst part, though, still was finding something age-appropriate. She pulled something from the rack and held it against her body. The shimmery purple fabric was certainly eye-catching. It had long sleeves and a decent neckline. It would have skimmed Natalie’s calves once on. It seemed almost perfect. Except the fabric was elastic-y and would cling to every curve, so that it looked like Natalie was covered in purple paint, essentially. She looked at a woman nearby, a bit younger than her and sized her up, debating if she could possibly be her mystery competition.

The woman had delicate, exotic features that made Natalie’s molars ache with envy. She was, by Natalie’s standards, waifishly thin. She shut her eyes and tried to imagine her as Anthony’s wife, but failed. She’d met Elaine Walden twice. And she was sweet-faced and rounder than this woman, with reddish-brown hair that would dull to mousiness after a few years. Anthony would have been attracted to this stranger, though. He would have watched her walk by if she passed by their table at a restaurant. But then, with a shrug, he would have said calmly and smiling, “I like something to grab onto. Don’t worry, sweetheart.” in that brash, shameless way of his. Natalie tried harder. She tried to imagine her as Lucian’s rebound. The sharpness in the stranger’s features wouldn’t have done at all. She looked too smart to take up with a shameless and useless flirt like Lucian. The stranger would have turned Lucian down cold, not even accepting a free drink from him. Natalie smiled. If that was true, it was safe to get her second opinion.

“What do you think?” she asked, opening her eyes and holding the dress up for the stranger to see. “Too desperate looking?”

[Deleted]

Evelyn Aldridge

Evelyn ran a hand through her hair as she picked up a pure white blouse with frills on the shoulders. It was a little too much for her taste. So was this next blouse with a dizzying zebra pattern splattered across the front. She was never one for the gaudy accents and extraneous protrusions of fabric on clothes. Simply enough, it wasn't practical. And frankly, it looked rather ridiculous. The function of this Lady Gaga-esque style served one purpose: gaining attention. These In her line of work, Evelyn could do with significantly less exposure, but it was part of the job.

“What do you think?” Hm? Evelyn looked up toward the origin of the nearby voice. It was English. A blonde woman around her own age, likely older, was holding up a dress. Was she talking to Evelyn? Evelyn looked rather blankly at the woman for a moment, unsure whether she was the one being asked. Perhaps it was someone behind her. She certainly didn't know this woman. Evelyn humbly prided herself on her memory for faces. “Too desperate looking?” Well, it seemed the woman was addressing her. Evelyn smiled, the automatic reaction to politely greeting strangers. And she was glad this woman spoke English. Evelyn's French, although passable, was still somewhat rusty.

"Desperate?" She quickly looked the purple number up and down. It was a beautiful color and would compliment this woman's eyes and fair complexion. However, Evelyn wondered what the woman meant by "desperate." The sleeves were long and the neckline was far from plunging. In her mind, "desperate" was displayed by showing excessive amounts of flesh. "No, I wouldn't call it desperate." Evelyn quirked her head and absently tapped the hook of the clothes hanger against her chin in minor thought. "Is it for a special occasion?" The woman had been open and bold enough to ask Evelyn, a perfect stranger, for her opinion. The least Evelyn could do was engage politely.

[The Exodus]

Natalie Blackwood

The woman looked up. She looked like a deer, pausing to test the wind and debating its next move. Her eyes were big with surprise, as if strangers didn’t often strike conversation with her. But the look melted into a conventional smile and the woman studied the dress Natalie held up.

"Desperate?" the woman echoed. "No, I wouldn't call it desperate."

That was a relief. Natalie wasn’t desperate. “Desperate” implied an unbecoming neediness; worse yet, that she craved her ex-husband. She didn’t want to send that message, but rather a message of self-empowerment, of independence. Something that said: I’m your one that got away; go ahead and hate yourself. All the literature on divorce said that it was the woman who suffered most. Hair loss, split nails, financial problems, sense of devaluation. In the case of Blackwood vs. Michaud, Natalie was determined to see the reverse happen. She couldn’t be wounded by life, sniveling her time away.

"Is it for a special occasion?"

Natalie bit her lower lip. It was. It was for Damien’s coming out party. But how does one explain that to a stranger? Truthfully, explaining the occasion to her own sisters had been humiliating. Beatrice had asked why Natalie was going to Paris and when she said, “Damien’s coming out party”, she laughed and asked, “No, really? Why Paris?” Amelia had gone very quiet and stared at her drink intensely. Then, after the silence passed, looked up and asked, “How are you holding up?” like Natalie had said “funeral” instead. If that had been her sisters’ reactions, then what would keep a stranger polite?

“Yes,” she admitted at long last. “My son is hosting a party… One of those big to-dos; I’m sure you understand. And I have to make the perfect impression on his guests.”

She laughed a little, rolling her eyes as though she actually thought this was funny. In truth, there were several guests she had to impress: Lucian, whoever Lucian was dating (God help the poor girl!), and Damien’s new boyfriend, Toddy St. James. For all Natalie knew, St. James had already sided with Lucian in the divorce, picked sides and what have you. But if he hadn’t, Natalie wanted to win him over. If she could do that, she could probably win back Damien’s affection and sympathy. It was complicated; a mess.

“What about you?” she asked, indicating the blouse the woman held. “Just browsing, or looking for something specific?”

[Deleted]

00C: BILL/ANDI ! BIC:


Andi Foster


From her position under the street light, Andi could watch the party from across the street. She leaned against the cold bar with her heel propped up, her head resting against the post as she turned her head the side, watching with amused, yet devious eyes. There was really no reason why Andi Foster should crash it, but it just was so tempting and was something to do. She had managed to get a hold of a dress from the Rouge's shop, Myron telling her to pick something out if she found something. It was a random gift and offer, but she wasn't just going to pass that kind of thing up- Andi was a woman after all! She had decided on a flowing drop dead gorgeous purple dress that fit like a glove. Andi had to wear it tonight, and when she had walked home from this evening's rehearsal, she had seen the set up at Louis Vuitton. That was when the idea struck her.

Andi had never owned a Louis Vuitton in her entire life and didn't plan on it. She didn't get what the big ordeal was with girls and purchasing over priced over sized purses. A good rehearsal bag was all this chick needed. But, she was a believer in a hot party. Which was why she found this to be the perfect time to show off her latest dress. Andi was feeling adventurous and she knew just who to call to have accompany her.

Bill was her partner in crime, and they had made that official with their very first day spent together at a vintage shop on the other side of the streets. He was loads of fun and she hadn't felt so wild and crazy in forever. It was a must do again type of activity. Maybe not the whole, almost getting arrested thing, because who knew if they would be that lucky next time, but at least have another adventure with her bud! He had driven her home that day and they had exchanged numbers. Andi wanted to see him again and she could remember perfectly his eyes and the roughness of his hands. She didn't know if that was weird but it was whatever. Tonight, they would be wild ones once again and crash one of the biggest parties. She had called him, explaining the idea and how he would get to show off his new tie, and where he would meet her. Why? Because how cool would it to tell a story like this and remember this forever! If Andi had made a bucket list, she would totally put this down and then by the end of the night, check it off.

She felt anxious and excited. Pushing off from underneath the street lamp, Andi grasped it with her hand and began spinning around it, looking down as her long flowing silk dress lifted up slightly whirling into the night air. She smiled to herself. What would their names be tonight? Would they pose as a pair of friends happening to 'drop by' with their oh so busy agendas, because they were obviously rich and famous, or would they pose as a young rich couple with wads of cash waiting to spend? It was all so endless in the possibility factor.

Andi was excited for the party, but for some reason the excitement of seeing Bill again took over and dominated.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

Bill was pouring over rehearsal notes when he got the call. The assistant stage manager had neglected to put down needed props and changed lighting cues, and instead replaced them with pictures of stick men battling on the field of marginalia. From what Bill could tell, it was a bloody battle, likely never to find its way into any textbook, in fact, the only place it would find itself was in the rubbish bin. Bill silenced his rage with a cigarette, leaning back on his bed to wonder if he had been that terrible an assistant to Ortiz. Unlikely, he thought, apart from stealing his parking spot and being an all-around arse to him, he hadn’t been quite so horrendous.

That was when Bill’s phone rang, an electric guitar solo with bad quality ringing out from beside him. He glanced at the phone and was instantly confused by the name. ‘Bonnie’, it said, and Bill raised his eyebrows, wracking his brain for a Bonnie he had met recently, or even at all. He answered the phone professionally, unsure of to whom he was speaking. But a familiar voice piped up on the other end, cheerful and bubbly. Andi Foster. She was the Bonnie to his Clyde.

He could be there in fifteen minutes, twenty at tops if he showered. ‘Gussying up’ was never Bill’s forte, but as shaved his chin and put on nice clothes, he felt almost glad to do it. There was a sense of urgency, anxiety that rushed through him at the thought of seeing Andi again, and as he shaved, he tenderly touched the spot on his cheek she had kissed just a few days ago as they narrowly escaped the thrift store with their freedom. He swore, as he washed the remaining shaving cream of his face, he could still feel the way her soft lips there if he imagined hard enough. He shook himself out of it, disgusted at how like a schoolboy his mind sounded and put on a tie. It was the same green tie that he wore on his final date with Toni, and he thought, as he pulled it on, it would have some residual negative energy dwelling in it. If ties could have connotations, this one would be sadness and reminiscent of his failings as a man. But instead, he saw as he secured it in place, his eye color popping, as Andi said it would, his irises little waves of Poseidon’s fire. As he looked it over in the bathroom mirror, he was reminded not of his terrible night at La Tour D’Argent, but instead of his misadventure with Miss Foster, his Bonnie, a day he would live over and over again, danger of being arrested included.


He drove his red convertible today, not even daring to ask Damien if he could borrow his Astin Martin. His own car, the color of bricks, sleek and buffered so it shone like Betelgeuse, would work just fine for his purposes.

He pulled up to Louis Vuitton, a Mecca for fashionistas and the well-to-do all over, to see Andi, swinging just of the bounds of the makeshift holy ground around a lamp post. He smiled a minute, watching. The way the dress hung off her, flowing away, the moon and lamp lights coalescing to shimmer through the fabric to make it ethereal gossamer, akin to translucent, her body casting an inward shadow. He shook his head to get the image out of his mind with great difficulty and approached her in his car.

“Hey, miss,” he said, siding up to her. “Can I give you a lift to the party?”

[Deleted]

Andi Foster

When the sharp set of wheels drove up slowly to her, Andi stopped swinging around the streetlight to gaze slightly open mouthed. What a hot ride. It was a convertible and a red that stuck out in the blended nightly street life of Paris. She was a total sucker for a bad *ss ride, and apparently a total sucker for that bad *ss of hers sitting in the driver's seat. She blinked slowly, the whole thing happening in slow motion. Andi Foster could feel her insides turning into mush and her legs feeling like rubber. Was this her getting turned on right now? She pretty sure she totally was. When Bill came into view, his eyes looked into hers, the color sparking out in her mind that knew them well. What a babe... Andi hoped that people walking down the streets were watching this. She hoped that people would see her rolling down the street in this ride with that man. Tonight would be another night of breaking the rules, and she was so ready.

“Hey, miss,” The familiar voice sent her into a smirk. “Can I give you a lift to the party?”

Grinning, the situation already creating a character for Andi, she bit her bottom lip devilishly, slowly making her way over to the car. Placing her hands on the door, she leaned into the car, gazing over at him. "I don't know, sir" She purred, and teased. "My mother always warned me not to get in the car with strangers."

With a bright smile, Andi lowered her head onto her hands that were on top of the car and tilted her head to gaze at him. "I'm trying to remember if there was an exception for good lookin' strangers though."

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

Andi made her way over to the car, putting her hands on them. Bill recalled them being soft, holding his hand as she introduced herself. The hands told a story, and Bill wondered how these past few days had been to them. Had they been kind, preserving their softness? Or had they been difficult, making them harsh from work? Bill wondered as he looked at them, then, quickly pulled his attention upwards to her.

"I don't know, sir. My mother always warned me not to get in the car with strangers.” She said, smiling coyly, a smile Bill returned, mischief crinkling at his eyes. He was reminded of being a teenager, persuading his friends to do something their mother wouldn’t approve of: “Mummy ain’t here, now is she, mate?

"I'm trying to remember if there was an exception for good lookin' strangers though."

Bill laughed modestly. “You flatter me, Andi Foster. Why don’t you get in so I can hear what other glorious things come out of that pretty mouth of yours?” He said, putting the car back into drive.

Andi got in, and Bill couldn’t help but help but to notice how, even in an evening gown, she climbed in with a grace not even ballerina Victorine had. It was a unique aura that surrounded her that made even the most cumbersome of movements so swift and elegant. “Did I tell you yet how lovely you look?”

[Deleted]

Andi Foster

Andi wasn't afraid to tell him how handsome he looked. She had thought so from the first moment she had asked him to help her with her bracelet, that it turned out she didn't even pay for. Tonight he looked like a class act of a gentleman. One of those classic looks that all women share a common liking for. Especially a girl like her, who appreciated the old black and white movies. Andi knew not to hold an unreachable standard that somewhere out there would be her Cary Grant look alike, but out there was someone who treasured the traits. Something about a man in a suit could make a girl feel weak in the knees, and Andi Foster was grateful she was leaning against the convertible, because that's exactly how she felt. This was so random and adventurous and she couldn't have asked for a better Clyde.

“You flatter me, Andi Foster." He laughed, and she hummed a laugh too. She liked when he used her full name. No one else did that. "Why don’t you get in so I can hear what other glorious things come out of that pretty mouth of yours?”

Lighting up, Andi took that offer to another level. It sounded so nerdy, but she had always wanted to hop into a convertible ever since she had seen those old John Hughes movies. It seemed like anytime someone was making a getaway or about to skip school and explore the world, they always did that slide that made them seemed like a rebel. Here was her moment to be in a John Hughes movie. Energetically charged, Andi Foster grabbed a hold of some of her dress so she could move her feet. With a sliding ease, she held onto the car and jumped up sliding in to be beside Bill. Enthusiastically she looked around at the hot detail on the inside, running her hand on the leather. It was the type of car that someone could just drive away from the world in and get totally lost without even caring.

“Did I tell you yet how lovely you look?”

Shocked, not even noticing that he was even looking at her, Andi blinked looking at him with a flattered surprise that caught her off guard. She never looked for compliments and never purposely went out of her way to be all dazzled looking. She knew she wasn't the most attractive woman in the world and she knew she wasn't the ugliest. Andi received compliments, but the shock had come from how honest and profound it sounded. She had never been called, 'lovely' before. Usually American women were called hot, sexy, a nice pair of legs, or 'do-able'. Sure, maybe that was exaggerating it, because there were people out there that gave compliments that weren't degrading and she had received them. Maybe it was the fact that when Bill said it, it meant something.

"Thank you." She said with a delighted smirk. "You look handsome."

Turning over so her body faced him, she leaned up and took his tie into her hand, looking at it in a mocking way as if seeing it for the first time. "And this tie!" She exclaimed, "It just make your eyes..." Andi looked into his eyes and she swore she could get lose in them. She was quiet for a moment. Alright, so she so just got lost in them. She was pretty sure her mouth was hanging open too.

Blinking and taking in some air, she plopped back down to her seat to face forward and shrugged, "Well you've got to tell me who your stylist is."

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

"Thank you." Andi said, smirking. "You look handsome." It was a nice compliment, but Bill didn’t need the talk, what he preferred was action. It was what attracted him to the arts, what attracted him Paris, it was what attracted him to Andi. And action, Bill noticed as Andi grabbed hold of his tie, pulling him in, was what he seemed to be getting tonight.

"And this tie!" She exclaimed, "It just make your eyes...” Her face was parallel with his, so close that Bill didn’t bother imagining the possible adjectives she could have been searching for. Instead, he imagined their faces touching, sharing breaths in the midnight sun... he pushed overly romantic thought from his head, his hands gripping the steering wheel, using it as an anchor into reality. Where had his brain been the past few nights? He had let it elope with his heart, and he needed to break that knot they had tied and put them back in their places.


"Well you've got to tell me who your stylist is.” Andi said, landing back in her seat. He was enjoying this battle of the wits, this flirtatious dance. It was different and interesting, kept Bill on his toes.

Bill laughed. “Oh, I consult with this adorable woman I met one time. She’s great, very informative about fashion,” he said, putting his foot on the gas, the car engine revving as he pulled out of his spot by the curve.

“So what’s our story, Miss Foster?” he asked, his voice low as they approached the opulent store, people-- only the wealthy and ostentatious—flowed in.

[Deleted]

Andi Foster

The wave of heat Andi felt from how close she had just gotten to him took a sec to fade away. It hit her chest and seemed to wrap around all the way behind her neck where it felt like a heated sensation. She didn't mind being close to people and really wasn't protective of her spacing as long as the other wasn't. Something about drawing in close to Bill, grabbing a hold of tie and claiming him in a teasing way, made her body respond in a way like she had done it aggressively or maybe that was wishful thinking. Why not enjoy it though? This chick was in Paris!

“Oh, I consult with this adorable woman I met one time. She’s great, very informative about fashion." He played along with her, Andi smirking, always hanging on every comeback he said to her. They were like a ping pong game when they were together and there was no stopping this game once it started.

The hot ride screeched against the pavement of the streets, the engine sounding off it's goods and Andi put up her hands over her head with flat palms. She let out a revved up squeal. One day, the closer they got, she would totally have to talk him into letting her test this baby out.

“So what’s our story, Miss Foster?” Bill asked her, his voice dropping down as they pulled up to where the party was. Andi scooted at the edge of her seat, peering out into the crowd of the rich and famous. Her nerves began working up in excitement, feeling a wicked side come out. The stories they could make were endless. There was no doubt about that both of them looked the part now it was all about playing a part. Andi Foster was around theatrics all day, but now she got to play in the fun and not be behind the scenes. Sometimes a classic prank was needed to spice it up. Spicing it up only meant that they should find an excuse to play spicy. Andi grinned, wondering how much heat she could really feel tonight innocently.

Strumming her fingers along the dashboard, Andi sucked in some air, her bare shoulders rising up as she thought for a moment. Swiveling over to him, she grabbed his shoulder. Smirking, Andi Foster batted her eyelashes at him, taking on her new sense of character. "My name is Kate." She stated with her best British accent, not doing too terrible since she had taken a dialects elective class at the University of Michigan. Andi knew a thing or two about being vocally universal.

Retreating back to face the front, she poked up her nose dramatically, "I am a fashion editor, and-" Looking over at him, a little bit of Andi and not Kate poked through with a funny dimpled grin, "You are my lover."

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

Energy seemed to flow off of Andi like water off a duck. "My name is Kate," she stated, and Bill was surprised at her British accent. It was good, and his eyebrows rose to show how impressed he was. It sounded practically Yorkshire, so much that it put Bill’s own, natural accent to shame.

“Nice to meet you, Kate,” Bill said with a smile, reaching out his hand, much like he did when they first met in that shady thrift shop.

"I am a fashion editor, and-" Andi/Kate said, and Bill nodded, unsure what exactly a fashion editor was. Nevertheless, he was sure she would make a good one. "You are my lover."

Bill laughed, his nose burning from his snicker. “Well, that certainly sounds like a challenge.” Bill said. She could take the reins on this one. He had, after all, been the one to get them out of the police fiasco. She could call the shots on this one, and Bill could follow.

“Who should I be, as your lover? What is my name, Kate?” Bill asked. He wondered if maybe he should do an accent. He was no actor, no vocal chameleon, but he could give it a go.

[Deleted]

Andi Foster

Posing as Bill's lover was more of a treat than a mission and Andi knew it. She felt like a little girl again playing dress up, only she was a woman now and instead of putting on a crown, she tried an attractive man on for size. He laughed a wicked tune, and she grinned running a hand through her hair that burst up into the air against the wind. It was going to be a wild night.

“Well, that certainly sounds like a challenge.” He commented on her character, Kate. “Who should I be, as your lover? What is my name, Kate?”

Andi, now Kate, glared over at him studying him hard for a moment. It would be fun to reverse roles with him, wouldn't it? The fact that he was giving her all the creative pull on this one thrilled her. "You are-" She sang out in a purr, tapping her finger against her chin. "You are Theodore." She said in her British way, and then for an added challenge and reverse roles, she smirked. "And you're American."

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

“You are…” Andi said, tapping her finger on her chin, scrutinizing Bill. "You are Theodore."

Bill smiled, satisfied with the name. He knew a Theodore once, back in school. Theodore was a cool kid, one that even Bill idolized. Theodore was in and out of detention, taught Bill how to smoke at fifteen, got arrested just before graduation. When Bill thought about it, he was glad Theodore paid little attention to a teenage him. Bill could have turned up in jail or worse had he stayed orbiting around him like a forgotten moon. He could play a Theodore, a very different Theodore than the one he knew.

"And you're American.”

Bill’s smile faded. He was rubbish at accents. English and Irish were all he could do, it was all he truly knew, the only nuances in syllables he understood so intimately. Maybe, if he was being so bold, he could mimic Santiago Ortiz’s Spanish accent. But American? That was difficult, almost ugly (except when Andi spoke, surprisingly). But he could try, he could gamble with his dignity. Maybe this was payback for his days spent with the real Theodore.

“American… American…” Bill cleared his throat, pondering. “Is this American?” Bill asked, pretty sure he only sounded louder and no bit more American. “Or do I just sound… moronic?”