[paris] feel it still. [tag; charlie]

Charlie was suddenly regretting not keeping business and pleasure separate. It seemed this trip was now going to be a lot more costly than he had intended. In all honesty, it was good that Florence was not-so-gently reminding him to take a present back to Kate, as he was sure that if he had returned home empty-handed from a trip to Paris that his girlfriend would be unimpressed to say the least. Still, surely they could get something less expensive, and less risky, than perfume.

The musician was mildly affronted by Florence’s outburst. He squared up a little, somewhat like a cat that had been backed into a corner, “I do know... some things.” He ended weakly, losing steam halfway through his defence. The more time he spent with the Frenchwoman, the more Charlie was realising perhaps he didn’t know Kate as well as he ought to by now. They’d written letters to one another for over a year, interspersed with physical meetings, and she’d been living with him for several months now. How could he not know her favourite colour, or what her favourite food was, or what perfume she wore? Now that he was thinking about it, it seemed ridiculous not to have paid more attention to the minutiae of their relationship. He resolved to do some subtle research the minute he got home.

“Oh shove off,” he said, half-jokingly, at her little dig. “I don’t know – she smells... kinda sweet mostly. I think she wears something more rich if we’re going out...” Charlie blinked, surprised at himself. Obviously his memory wasn’t totally useless. Or his nose. He got enough comments about the size of it, at least he now knew it was good for something.

The door to the shop opened – they’d been spotted. Shit. Now there was no chance of ushering Florence away or distracting her. Charlie’s dark eyes locked onto the pretty brunette in the entryway and he smiled reflexively, sidetracked only by Florence linking arms with him. He snapped his head to look at her, opening his mouth to ask what the hell she was doing when the penny dropped – she was cockblocking him. His lips sealed in a hard line, the hint of a frown passing over his sharp features.

Charlie let Florence lead them into the shop, silently seething at her but unwilling to try extricating himself from her grasp in case she caused a scene. He glanced, somewhat sheepishly, at the sales assistant, nodding in agreement with Florence’s mention of a present. He turned his head to glare at the blonde, once again, at her next words. His cheeks flushed pink involuntarily and he subconsciously started trying to slip out of her hold – inhaling sharply through his teeth as her nails dug into his arm.

“Yes, dear,” he replied with a light scowl, setting his jaw and avoiding the gaze of the assistant as she wandered off.

“It’s none of your business if she asks me out for a drink.” He replied darkly. But he knew Florence was right, and that she was trying to help – even if a sizeable part of him was wishing she wouldn’t. Charlie chewed on the inside of his cheek for a second before sighing. “Fine.“ He replied, resigning himself to playing along, “Just don’t start picking the most expensive shite.” He adopted what he thought was a somewhat affectionate expression (though in actuality he looked just as miserable as usual) as the saleswoman returned to them.

"Day and night perfume," Florence replied, nodding sagely. "That's a very French thing to do," she commented, looking over at Charlie with a finely groomed eyebrow arched. She held his gaze for perhaps a second too long, almost like she was surveying him before she smiled. "And where do you go out?" The artist asked innocently. She wasn't fishing for tips and tricks because she was most certain that the relationship she and Arkasha had was nothing like his.

"Wow, I'm so lucky," came the deadpan and unusually sarcastic response to Charlie's equally sarcastic yes dear. Only then did she release her grip. Rather than backing away at his angry outburst, Florence blinked at him passively. "Well, excusez-moi for trying to stop you from ruining the best thing that ever happened to you, you abominable lemon head," she hissed at him sharply. "And who do you think you're speaking to?" Florence insisted, repeating his earlier motions as she stood up to her full and impressive height. "Check that attitude, monsieur. You're on my turf now. Don't think I won't leave you for dead down an alleyway where no one will find you. Oh hi."

The Parisienne's tone changed as she smiled, despite not wanting to like the saleswoman. She didn't know her but still. She was flirting outrageously with Charlie and surely that was beyond good customer service? Florence no longer wanted to pretend to be his lover, she also didn't really want to touch him but she'd instigated this whole thing.

"We were thinking maybe two perfumes?" Florence said innocently, not meaning it but hoping to make Charlie shit his pantaloons. "You know, something a little more airy and then something a little deeper for date night. He likes to go dancing, don't you, mon nounours? I think it's because I let him wear his high heels."

The reaction was instantaneous. Like shutters on a shop window, the woman's face dropped. She didn't bother to hide her shock and repulsion until it was too late. Her eyes boggled briefly as she looked Charlie up and down, presumably imagining him in a glittery pair of platform shoes. The woman cleared her throat professionally and opened the glass vials she'd brought. Florence took one, sniffed and wrinkled her nose. "I don't like it," she offered. It wasn't to annoy the saleswoman but simply because she didn't like mint; who wanted mint perfume?

"I think I'll maybe look on my own," she said pleasantly, breezing past Charlie and leaving him to escape his own embarrassment. Florence had always liked things that felt like a laboratory or an apothecary. With delicate fingers, she walked down the rows, tugging on the heavy glass stoppers and sniffing, pausing to collect the ones she liked. Had she been musically gifted, she figured she'd be good at putting things together. She had a creative side that allowed her to imagine odd things and mix them into something special.

Like a mad scientist, no one bothered to stop her as she picked up a beaker and began using a pipette to drip in some colourless liquids. She hadn't looked over at Charlie once but she knew the woman had suddenly lost interest in him. Humming to herself, she pursued the bottles. In her own little world, she ignored the car horns and trundling traffic of downtown Paris outside. She continued to mix and she halted suddenly. Her concoction smelled like violets and rose and sugary sweet, with vanilla and tangerine. Up close, it smelled a little like a rebellious candyfloss. "This is nice. You're welcome," she said distractedly, holding out the beaker for Charlie and trusting he'd take it before she tied her hair back and took another beaker. 

“Is it?” Charlie asked, clearly not very interested in the answer. As far as he was concerned he would be quite happy for Kate to be as far from French in her demeanour as possible, if Florence was the benchmark. He licked his lips to wet them. “For... dinner, or.. drinks... or to the cinema.” The brunette felt like he was being unfairly scrutinised. Did it matter where they went out? Most of their nights were spent in, together. That was the main thing wasn’t it?

“You haven’t even met Kate.” He replied in a low growl. She wasn’t wrong though – Kate was the best thing that had happened to him, he wasn’t going to argue that. As Florence’s tirade continued, Charlie backed up a little, surprised and a tiny bit frightened by the ferocity with which she was admonishing him. He had no time to formulate a defence before the assistant was back. It scared him how good women were at faking things. Florence’s disposition was a total one-eighty from how she’d been a moment ago. Eager not to make a further scene, Charlie simply nodded along with Florence’s comments – right up until she tried to out him as some sort of cross-dresser.

Charlie’s head snapped to look at the blonde beside him, then to the shop assistant, then back to Florence. His mouth hung open as he tried to stutter out some sort of denial, “No—she’s, just joking—“ he stammered, his cheeks flushing furiously. Her work done, Florence sauntered off and left Charlie and the assistant standing awkwardly. “I don’t... dance – or wear heels.” He clarified quickly. They stood facing one another for a moment in silence, until Charlie moved to scratch the back of his neck. The woman just gave him another once over before turning her nose up and retreating with the vial Florence had turned down.

The musician frowned, all but stomping across the shop to come up behind Florence. “Why the fuck did you say that?” He hissed quietly in her ear. “I think you’d already warned her off by pretending to be my wife.” The blonde was unperturbed; she simply held out a glass beaker for him to take. Charlie set his jaw and took it unhappily, lifting it cautiously to his nose. He wanted to dislike it just on principle, but he also wanted to get out of this shop as soon as possible. Despite himself, it did smell good. “Mm.” He grumbled, “Yeah, this is fine. Now hurry up.” He passed it back and shoved his hands in his pockets, shooting a furtive glance at the assistant, who had seemingly barricaded herself behind the counter.

Dinner. Drinks. The cinema? Florence tilted her head to the side curiously as she looked at Charlie underneath the particularly harsh and unforgiving florescent lighting. How he chose to spoil his one true love was really none of her business but the way he conducted romance differed wildly from how Arkadiy did.

Florence was fiercely protective of her marriage, which seemed odd considering she was poking about in Charlie's own relationship. Arkasha brought her flowers "just because". He went with her to see the weird and wonderful art exhibitions that he didn't understand without complaint. He made her breakfast in bed. He went to the questionable restaurants that served food he couldn't pronounce, purely because it made her happy. Florence felt a twinge of guilt before a rush of affection for her husband. Yeah, he was nothing like Charlie Baker and she couldn't be more proud.

The tall blonde bit her lip gently as she finally realised she'd maybe pushed him too far. They weren't really friends, they were barely even acquaintances. But it was too late to stop now.

"Of course I know her," Florence said with a cheery smile. "She sounds familiar." Goodness, how many women thought they could save him? Catherine sounded too good for him. She sounded pure and loving and she must have the patience of a saint. "A piece of dog poo, wrapped in newspaper and then set on fire is your love life. Cherish her," she admonished him. Since being married, the artist had suddenly become wordly wise. "Because if you don't --" she trailed off and gave him a pointed look as she swept away, leaving him in his own puddle of shame.

Giggling to herself, Florence began to mix the clear liquids together. Some worked, some didn't. She didn't turn around but she felt the eyes of the assistant boring into the back of her head. Florence sensed a feeling of annoyance because she was better at her job and disappointment at the revelation of Charlie's hidden pastime. The swear word didn't make her flinch but it did make her frown. "Because," Florence began as she hissed back. "You seem incapable of behaving yourself. I don't suppose you know the feeling of being cheated on, do you?"

Florence spun around quickly to face him, her pale blue eyes wide. "It's embarrassing," she told Charlie softly. "It's debilitating. You think everyone is laughing at you and talking about you behind their back because they knew but you didn't and no one decided to tell you." She added a little squirt of orange flower extract into her beaker absently. "You feel stupid because you didn't see it coming. Then you blame yourself, even though it wasn't your fault. If only you'd been a better girlfriend," she sighed heavily. "If only you'd been funnier, prettier, less boring. If only you'd been better in bed, more attentive, cleverer, more exciting."

Here, she paused. Florence pinched the bridge of her nose to stem the oncoming headache. Arkadiy had never been unfaithful to her but others in her past had. She'd been younger and foolish then but that didn't mean the past hadn't scarred her. "No one and I mean no one deserves to be made to feel like that." Her pretty face was stony as she flicked her eyes up to his again. "She loves you. She loves you so much. Though I can't see why because you're a fucking train wreck on fire," she added before she tutted. "But she does. And her feelings are precious and valid. You're the keeper of her heart and if you don't take care of it, she's going to find someone else that will."

Turning her back on Charlie quickly, she added a little drop of vanilla to lift the base of the perfume. Dutifully, she collected the little cards in front of the vials that described the contents and would be added together to make the perfume and the price. "Here," Florence said gently, her cheeks flushed as she felt unable to meet his eye as she handed him the beaker and the cards. "They'll make it up for you at the counter. Maybe get it gift wrapped. I'll see you outside." With that, she gave a nod and watery smile before stepping out into the chilly air and taking a breath so deep it hurt her lungs.

Florence felt very stupid and very, very vulnerable. She shouldn't have said that. She had no right. He was her employer and she'd spilled her guts and awarded him with a glimpse into her personal internal trauma. So, she did what she always did when she was stressed; she ate. Leaving Charlie in the shop, Florence headed down the street a little to the nearest café. She emerged a few minutes later, laden down with mini muffins and macarons. She stuffed three pretty little duck egg blue confections into her mouth as she chewed quickly, followed swiftly by a chocolate mini muffin and a crisp meringue.

Charlie clenched his jaw tight in response. Florence only knew as much about his love life as he chose to tell her, or that she gleamed from the pages of rags like the Prophet or Witch Weekly. It was unfair to judge him based on gossip, but even so he wasn’t about to start sending her personalised updates about his relationships. He breathed in deeply, balling his hands into fists briefly before loosening them with a long exhale. He didn’t want to argue with Florence. He didn’t even want to be here anymore, but he refused to storm off like a toddler not getting his way lest he give her more ammunition to reprimand him with.

“I didn’t even do anything.” He said in a low voice, trying to sound calm but if anything just highlighting how disgruntled he was at having been ‘caught’. “I—” Suddenly any sense of indignation was washed away as she ripped into him coolly. “That’s not—” he began to defend himself, but the blonde just kept going. Charlie felt a sudden well of guilt bubble up from his gut, constricting his chest and making him feel very uncomfortable. Kate didn’t know he’d done anything yet. He wanted it to stay that way. Florence didn’t know either, really. She just knew about past instances or, again, what she’d read in magazines. Still, the way she was explaining all of this – so candidly, so genuinely – made Charlie stop and think.

Florence had been cheated on.

It seemed obvious now. The way she was always getting on his case about it, the way she tried to stop him before he’d even started. The deep personal insult it was to her when he failed to heed her warnings. Charlie was reminding Florence of her own experiences, and trying to save Kate from a similar fate. Well, Charlie didn’t want his girlfriend ending up like Florence, that was for sure. If he really paused to analyse the Frenchwoman, she was a good person; bubbly, kind and caring – not unlike Kate. But there was another layer to her that Kate didn’t have. Yet. A darker, more vindictive side that didn’t rise often but had made itself known several times in Charlie’s presence (not unwarranted). He wondered if there was one of those in Kate too, just waiting to raise its ugly head. He wouldn’t like her any less, he didn’t think, if anything he quite enjoyed it when she joined in with his less-than-politically-correct jokes and comments, but he didn’t want to turn her into a full-scale bitch.

Charlie just gawked blankly at Florence for a moment, unsure how to respond to all of that in a way that didn’t incite another telling off or, worse, tears. Before he had the chance to open his mouth Florence had turned away from him, shielding herself.

Meekly, the blonde handed him her finished concoction. He took it silently with barely a nod, no longer in the mood to argue. Though it hadn’t been him who had hurt Florence, Charlie felt unmistakably guilty. He’d obviously brought those feelings back to the surface. She left him standing alone in the shop and he stared after her for a moment before making his way to the counter. The assistant seemed to be under the impression that Charlie and his ‘wife’ had had an argument, but whether it was politeness in not wanting to intrude or that she was still put off by the idea of him in heels, she said nothing. In awkward silence Charlie paid and waited for his gift-wrapped bottle of bespoke perfume. Perfume that he already didn’t want Kate to wear simply because it would remind him of this pig’s ear of an afternoon.

When Charlie finally escaped the perfumery he found Florence a few shops along the street, standing outside a café, arms full of sweet treats and half-empty wrappers that she’d already mowed through. He chose not to comment, for a change, and simply plucked a precariously perched macaron from the packet and bit into it. “Thanks, for helping.” He said sincerely. “I’m sure Kate will appreciate it.”

He sighed and stood opposite her, looking back the way they’d came and then further up the road. It didn’t seem right to suggest parting ways under this little cloud, but he didn’t know what else to do with a teary Frenchwoman. “You think you can.. show me some of those places on the list? So I know where I'm going when I bring Kate."

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

Florence repeated the words, over and over again, like some sort of mantra as she clenched her eyes shut. She should never have been so honest. She felt sick. She divulged too much too soon. Working with the band had been great. They didn't always see eye to eye but that what she was there for, to help them. It had been a blast. She'd done artwork and album covers but she had to quit; there was no way in Hell she'd be able to look Charlie Baker in the eye ever again.

Her stomach turned and her blood ran cold. How was she going to tell Arkadiy that she'd just lost her job? They were both banking on it. For food and rent but more importantly, holidays. With a groan, she closed her eyes and banged her forehead very hard on the bakery window, causing the poor waitress to drop her tray in alarm.

Suddenly, hot tears of anguish spilled over and made tracks down her cheeks. Florence wasn't too upset over what had transpired five years ago. Looking back, Luca had been a bit of a tit. The fact that his name was Luca should have rung some alarm bells. She was crying because she felt embarrassed and stupid and immature. She was crying because, though they'd never met, she felt she has a kinship with Catherine. She was mad because she wished someone would have told her what she was telling Charlie now. She wished someone had the balls to tell  her the truth. It looked like history repeating itself and she was having an out of body experience.

Florence flushed pink as Charlie reappeared and gave him a sniff of sadness as a reply. She shrugged gently as she looked past his shoulder. "'s'fine," she mumbled, still chewing her meringue. It was like the wind had been knocked out of her sails. She looked younger than her twenty five years. She looked small and childlike, her bright eyes huge in her pale, drawn face. What made it worse was that Florence was not a pretty crier. She wasn't a one glistening tear on the cheek kinda girl. She was snotty and blotchy and puffy.

At the mention of Catherine, Florence nodded. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Charlie to launch it into the nearest bin. The tall blonde waited for a beat of silence. She was half expecting Charlie to terminate her contract. She wouldn't blame him and it'd take the stress out of having to tell him herself and she squinted at him as he spoke.

"You don't have to stay," Florence told him gently as she sniffled and wiped her nose. She could practically feel the words get me out of here radiating off Charlie in waves. "It's fine." And it was. There was no need in prolonging the inevitable. She was so exhausted, she didn't even slap him when he stole a macaron.

She had him all wrong. For all of his philandering, Charlie wasn't really that bad. Taking a tissue with the bakery's logo printed on it, she blew her nose loudly. It must be pretty traumatic for him too, standing there next to him. Florence took a deep, fortifying breath as she tossed her head back and squared her shoulders. "I'll drop you at Pont des Arts," she told Charlie meekly as she nodded back across the road and she began to walk.

The bridge was a bit tacky. It was touristy and a bit of a mess but the love locks were wonderful. Catherine might like it, a chance to solidify their love in a real and tangible way. The cynical part of Florence knew that it was bullshit and pointless but the romantic side of her loved to watch people. She liked to sit on the benches for hours and see the couples; young couples with their first love, old couples celebrating their love, single people mourning over lost love and those wishing to find it. Day after day people came to the bridge to toss their keys into the Seine. Repetitive, similar. It didn't make it any less magical.

Even the contemptuous Charlie Baker would be able to see the wonder in the millions of rusted locks on the panels of the bridge. Florence walked across it, the wooden slats groaning under her weight as she sat on a bench, midway across and stared out onto the murky water. "I think she'd like it here," she mused quietly. "You should make a lock."

Charlie wanted to end this ‘meeting’ as soon as possible. He was barely qualified to comfort Kate when she cried – which wasn’t often, but she missed her family every now and then, or got overly emotional about movies – he had no idea how to make Florence feel better. His remedies usually involved snuggling, kissing, or having sex – none of which were appropriate, nor in the least bit tempting with her looking all damp and snotty.

He’d been looking anywhere but at the Frenchwoman, giving her some sort of privacy to collect herself without being so rude as to turn his back to her, so when she spoke he snapped his head back suddenly. “What?” He blinked, “Oh.” Just say yes, and fucking leave. He swallowed, “It’s alright. I’m not… in a rush.” He cursed himself, now he had no way out.

Charlie flinched slightly as Florence blew her nose, not having expected such a loud noise to escape her – though admittedly, she wasn’t exactly a quiet person. She barely shut up. “Alright.” He chose not to argue with her destination of choice. It sounded like once they got there they could part ways – though he hoped amicably and not by either her pushing him into the Seine, or jumping in the river herself to drown her sorrows.

They walked in silence, Charlie awkwardly carrying the bag from the perfumery – clutching it by the body rather than the handle so it didn’t swing around. As they reached the bridge Charlie couldn’t help but be mesmerised by the hundreds of locks clasped on every available space. “Fucking hell.” He murmured quietly. “How does it not collapse?” He asked, rhetorically. He didn’t expect Florence to have an answer; she was an artist not an engineer.

Charlie chose not to sit beside Florence, lest someone think they’d come here together and he’d upset her somehow – ruining their lock ceremony or some shit. “Yeah, I. She probably would.” He agreed. The brunette wet his lips and looked at his watch. “Er, I forgot—I actually, it’s the time difference – I have to go.” He said all in a sort of mumbled hurry. The time here was actually an hour ahead, so being ‘late’ for something would be quite an excuse, but he hoped Florence wouldn’t question him. “Thanks for the… list and the perfume, and the artwork.” He ran his fingers through his hair and scratched at the back of his head. “I’ll make sure Kate sends the payment through when I get home.”

He took a step backwards hesitantly, hoping that this wouldn’t set off more tears. Really, she’d be glad to see the back of him, surely.  He felt like he needed to apologise for something, but stubbornly refused to do so. Giving her a final, weak smile, he paused halfway through turning away to bid her farewell properly, or as properly as he could manage right now; “See you soon.”

The Seine was a particularly murky shade of green that afternoon but it wasn't any less picturesque as she sat there. The sunlight glinted off the locks and she absently wondered how many break ups or divorces had taken place before they were locked. That was the problem with Florence; when she was up, she was so high and when she was down, she was broken.

The artist look very little notice of Charlie's awkwardness and his reluctance to sit down. If she was going to be honest, she was thankful for the distance. Florence chewed on a rather crumpled looking macaron as her eyes focused on one of the tourist cruises. She was detached as she saw the people pull out their cameras and snap photos. She gave a shrug as he asked how it didn't collapse. She didn't know. It was on the tip of her tongue to say French hard work but she didn't have the energy to rebuff the stereotype.

"D'accord," she replied as she sighed deeply, wishing she was at home with her husband and not here. The artwork? Florence finally looked over at him and she blinked. Oh, right. The actual reason she dragged him to France in the first place. She frowned at him and flapped her hand dismissively. "It's fine," she told Charlie when he said about the payment for the album cover. Deep down, she didn't think he liked them all that much anyway.

He said he'd see her soon and she sketched a smile in response. She doubted it. Florence was fairly confident that she'd spooked the living daylights out of him. In spite of herself, she offered him a flimsy wave. Her big blue eyes watched him lope down the bridge as she stuffed another macaron into her mouth and watched the people attach locks before she gathered her belongings and walked in the other direction.