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Post by The Exodus on Apr 1, 2012 13:53:38 GMT -6
Irina Kozlovaya-Martin
Irina hoped the blond would go away and leave her to practice. Her performance was only a few hours away. She could almost tough tonight with her fingertips. And now that it was in reach, Irina didn’t want other, grabby hands snatching at her opportunity to shine.
“No. I am not leaving here without my job today. The boss had no right, no right to replace me while on maternity leave. In fact, it’s illegal and I will be taking it up with my attorney if I’m not reinstated. I mean who are you, even? I’ve never seen you perform. I have no idea what you can do. I mean if they’re going to illegally give my position away,” she looked at Patrique, “I want to at least know my replacement will be decent.”
Irina’s insides boiled hot. She could imagine Edgar’s hands on her shoulders, gently tugging her to stay in her shoes and not fly at someone’s face. She hadn’t understood everything the blond said, but a few things were clear: she wasn’t leaving and she doubted Irina’s presence.
She doubted her talent, she doubted her legal status, she doubted whether she could handle the job. It would be just as fair for Irina to ask who this blond girl was. She’d been gone for months and months and who was she to turn up, demand her job back, and belittle Irina for doing a good job?
“Then come to the performance tonight,” Irina said, folding her arms. “Right now, this is private rehearsal.”
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Apr 1, 2012 16:53:04 GMT -6
Ashton Greene
“Then come to the performance tonight. Right now, this is private rehearsal.”
“Yeah,” Ashton bit back. “A rehearsal that was supposed to be mine. Check your damn calendar, Patrique. I was there when you wrote “Rehearsal with Ashton” happy face”.” Ashton watched Patrique’s face as puce realization washed over him. “I watched you write it. Today was supposed to be my first day back because you know better than anyone that I can and will master the set the night of. You’ve seen me at work and yet you and the boss have the audacity to fire me? To replace me with what was supposed to a temporary substitute?” She turned to the interloper. “As for you, I will come tonight; not as an audience member, but as your competition.”
“Please, Ashton. Irina’s new to Paris.” came Patrique’s weak defense.
“Well she’s doing a fine job making enemies.” Ashton said, her candy-coated words moving like molasses. She turned to this Irina. “Break a leg tonight.” And as Ashton plucked up her bag, she smiled at the thought of Irina doing just that as she fell off the stage mid-performance. Revenge, even when a figment of the imagination, was sweet and subtly beautiful.
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Post by The Exodus on Apr 22, 2012 11:26:21 GMT -6
OOC: Sorry for the delay, Marissa! BIC: Irina Kozlovaya-Martin“You’ll damage your vocal chords if you do that,” Edgar had once told her, plucking the cigarette from Irina’s hand. “Didn’t anyone tell you that?”
“Calms nerves,” Irina told him. “When I am nervous, I smoke.”
“Don’t be a baby,” he said, tossing the cigarette on the ground and putting it out with his shoe. “They’re my friends, not a bunch of cannibals.”
Irina shrugged her shoulders and procured another cigarette from the sleeve of her jacket. She pulled out a match from her pocket and looked him levelly in the eyes, as if challenging him to take this one from her. She lit up.
“Irina,” he said softly. “I’m seventeen years older than you.”
“So what?”
“I don’t want you to die before me because of those. Not worth it.”Irina had quit smoking that night. That simple, she’d thought. Her husband asked her not to, told her he cared, and that was that. But Edgar was dead now and there were days when Irina wished she could join him. Days like today, when she was about to go out on that big, empty stage and perform for dozens—hundreds?—of strangers. She’d stolen the pack of cigarettes off of Patrique Bamtabois’ desk this morning. He’d already smoked away three of the cigarettes. Irina was helping him to empty it. Already, she’d had two today. The familiar taste eased her frayed nerves. What Edgar didn’t realize then was that the cigarettes hadn’t ruined Irina’s vocal chords. Not yet. They’d lent her a throaty, deep sound she might not have been able to create without it. Never mind everyone in her family smoked. Socially, at the least. And there was no history of lung cancer, as far as Irina could tell. She snuffed out the cigarette she had been dragging on and slung her accordion back over herself. Then, quietly, Irina crept through the stage door. She climbed the back steps that lead onto the stage and joined the rest of the band. She hadn’t forgotten the blond singer was coming tonight. She didn’t want her judgmental eyes to follow her. She just wanted a good show tonight. She wanted to keep her home at Le Baiser Sale, because it ws the only home she had in Paris. Irina smiled at the accompanist and she checked her accordion. The music started up and she faced the microphone. “Say it’s only a paper moon,” she sang. “Sailing over a cardboard sea…” Her voice wasn’t as strong as usual. She hated herself for it. She shut her eyes and kept plowing through the slower part of the arrangement. “But it wouldn’t be make believe if you believed in me.” The song stopped for just a moment before the band—Irina included this time on accordion—picked up the pace. “Without your love.” Her voice was confident, jazzy, sinful and sweet. Her eyes flew open, sparkling. This was more like it. “It’s a honky-tonk parade. Without your love, it’s a melody played in a penny arcade. It’s a Barnum and Bailey world, just as phony as it can be. But it wouldn’t be make believe if you believed in me!” Her fingers darted across the keys, pressing them and pulling the accordion apart and pushing it together, pumping it and playing it along with the rest of the instruments. She wasn’t alone. And she was doing fabulously. Out on the dance floor, couples swayed to the music. At the bar, lonesome somebodies tapped their toes. And somewhere, Ashton Greene could eat her heart out. “No, it wouldn’t be make believe if you believed in me!” OOC: www.youtube.com/watch?v=gapCK5_rMuYwww.youtube.com/watch?v=FLUVUoO0CAIBIC: |
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on May 13, 2012 22:08:42 GMT -6
Ashton Greene
Patrique had let Ashton backstage, where, in the dark retreats of the wings, she could watch the performance without being seen. The blue stage lights danced around Irina like moonlight and Ashton felt her sides grow heavy and hot with envy. Why didn’t her skin look so healthy and glow so beautifully in stage lighting? Why did she look pale and washed out and not elegantly silhouetted like Irina?
But the patrons didn’t come to watch you sing. They came to hear you sing. And Ashton had yet to make a judgment on that.
The seconds seemed suspended in a vacuum as Ashton held her breath and waited for the introductory interlude to begin.
“Say it’s only a paper moon,” she sang. “Sailing over a cardboard sea…”
Ashton smirked evilly behind the velvet leg of the backstage. Irina’s voice was weak, feeble. They’d be calling Ashton back, pleading for her return in no time.
There was a hiatus in the vocals and Ashton clutched the midnight black fabric in anticipation, letting a small chink of light appear and make a ghostly line along the floor. In that time, Irina picked up an accordion. An accordion! Ashton played piano, but a pianist/singer was a dime a dozen. An accordionist/singer was a real treat, a rare sight. Like an albino peacock—a beauty. Especially when bathing in soft blue stage lights. Ashton felt her face grow crimson and hot and her eyes itch.
And then Irina began to sing once more, her voice recovering and falling like crushed velvet on her ears. Ashton wanted to cover them and block her out. But she couldn’t. She was captivated. Irina’s voice broke her heart in the worst way possible. Her voice sent an epidemic of infidelity around the room, all of Ashton’s followers enjoying Irina’s voice behind closed doors, but swearing their hands were clean. Her voice was the sound of Ashton’s career dying, an unnoticed supernova leaving not even a blip in the music universe. It was a sad death, a lonely, painful death.
The song came to an end and the sound of applause was nothing more to Ashton than people dancing on her job’s grave without even bothering to attend the funeral. A funeral that didn’t even come with flowers.
Speaking of flowers, Ashton had in her free hand a bouquet for Miss Irina: Lobelia for malevolence and yellow carnations for disdain. She arranged it herself. Made it more person since that was all she had to Irina. It was all she seemed to deserve.
A shadow fell across the window of light Ashton had made and she receded further into the blackness of the wings as Irina approached, being congratulated by members of the band, Patrique included.
“Miss Kozlovaya-Martin.” Ashton said, getting Irina’s attention. “Good job tonight. Here, these are for you.” She offered her the bouquet. “I felt you were deserving of it.”
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Post by The Exodus on May 15, 2012 1:41:01 GMT -6
Irina Kozlovaya-Martin
The moment after her last note died was filled with tension. The anticipation of that first applause, the fear it wouldn’t come, tugged at Irina’s heartstrings, pulling them so tight with wanting, she thought she might snap. But then the raucous sound of hands colliding rose into the air and the string was released. It sent forth a well of emotion that sent color to Irina’s cheeks and she bowed before rushing offstage to collect herself. They’d want more of her for her next performance. Her first success, a triumph. Irina thanked her bandmates in a stream of Russian, English, and broken, confused French. She scuttled off stage so quickly, Irina very nearly collided with Ashton Greene, the rude blond from before.
“Miss Kozlovaya-Martin,” Ashton said,“Good job tonight. Here, these are for you.” She offered her the bouquet. “I felt you were deserving of it.”[/b]
Irina looked at the flowers—Bright violet and yellow. Irina yelped happily and pressed an over-excited kiss on Ashton’s cheek—forgetting a moment that this was her rival giving her flowers that may very well contain poison ivy.
“Thank you!” Irina said. Then, remembering herself. “I am sorry… They are my first flowers since…”
Since my husband died.
“A very long time. I forget how long time.”
Two years, four and a half months.
“Thank you for coming,” she continued, smiling. “I am glad I know someone in the audience tonight.”
Even if it was the girl who wanted her job, it was someone familiar in a country where nothing was familiar at all.
“I will put these in water before my next song. Yes?”
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on May 31, 2012 14:44:16 GMT -6
Ashton Greene
Ashton wasn’t expecting the excited yelp the Russian woman gave. Ashton expected nothing less than for the woman to throw the bouquet back in her face, trample them on the floor and for body guards to take Ashton away. Maybe that was melodramatic, but it was safe to say Ashton wasn’t expecting the reality of Irina’s reaction. She wasn’t expecting a hug.
“Thank you! I am sorry… They are my first flowers since…” The woman seemed to search and pick apart her brain. “A very long time. I forget how long time.”
Ashton offered a small smile, laced with half-hearted sympathy. No flowers? Weren’t flowers a given thing when involved in the performing arts? Even when Ashton had bit parts and ensemble roles in ballet corps or musical groups, she still got a slew of flowers that would line her mantle place and fill her room with a sweet, sweet aroma.
“Thank you for coming. I am glad I know someone in the audience tonight.”
Ashton couldn’t tell if it was genuine gratitude that drove Irina’s words or the adrenaline rush from performing, but Ashton’s chest ached nonetheless with a confused sympathy. There was no one in the audience for her? Ashton was shocked. Even when she worked at the Rouge, shimmying disgracefully all over the stage and sweaty patrons, teasing them with leather and fishnets, Lucian still came. He watched her performances supportively even when they were “just friends”.
But there was a time, when Ashton first moved to Paris, that she danced alone. Yes, she danced to an audience, yes she danced with other dancers, but she danced for no one important. It had been hell.
That was where Irina was right now.
Ashton wanted to scream. She didn’t want to feel sympathy for this woman who took away her job. But something in her clicked, something asked her how she would want Gregory to act in this situation, something that reminded her of the woman Lucian fell in love with last year. The woman wouldn’t seek revenge, but peace.
“I will put these in water before my next song. Yes?”
Something in Ashton yelled and wanted to snatch the flowers away, but Ashton smiled instead. “Yes. Good idea. Break a leg on your next performance...”
…B*tch…
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