[milan] like passing notes in secrecy. [tag; charlie]

Charlie smirked. “Astounded you know what a spaceship is,” he drawled. He assumed purebloods (and halfbloods of full magical origin) were all the same – so wrapped up in the magical world and alienated from the mundane one that they didn’t know how televisions worked, let alone knew what sci-fi was – so he was always mildly surprised to find out otherwise. He smiled to himself as he fondly remembered a teenage Sam being terrified of all the electronics in Charlie’s home when they’d stayed up late to watch Terminator during the holidays. He’d calmed down eventually, but Charlie could still tell his bandmate was somewhat distrusting of technology. “Thursday afternoons, right.” He nodded, allowing himself to smile at her. “What’ve they got you in, a Mini?”

Charlie chewed on his lip and forced himself to recover, for the sake of not making this any more awkward. She was making it hard, though. “So being normal – boring – that’s your thing, is it?” he fixed her with a knowing gaze. There wasn’t much about what they’d done that was boring or routine. She sounded exactly like every other little rich girl that didn’t know any better. The grass was always greener, except when it wasn’t.

Charlie had grown up in a reasonably comfortable home – his parents were working class, but they’d been able to afford holidays – but many of his primary school friends hadn’t been so fortunate. The fact that he now had more money than he knew what to do with, well, that was his best kept secret when he went back to Sheffield. That was the difference between people like him and people like Perdita, though, she’d never really know what it meant to be common. If she ever got short on funds she’d just need to go back to the Bank of Mum and Dad and they’d bail her out. He bit his tongue.

“D’you need formal training to make knickers?” he teased, picking up his coffee and taking a sip. He licked the foam from his top lip as he held her gaze. “Is it?” he asked, rhetorically, about London’s over-saturation of would-be lingerie designers. He hadn't noticed, nor did he think he ever would. After this, he might never buy Kate lingerie again.

He let out a short laugh at her quarter-life crisis comment and shifted in his seat, “Join the club.” As soon as he’d said it he regretted it. He didn’t really mean it – whether he was thinking he didn’t mean it as an insult to Perdita or to Kate, he wasn’t sure. Both, maybe. He brought his hand up to cough quietly, then smoothed it over the back of his neck. “Er, yeah?” He glanced up at her. “Good, I— I would… offer you a couple of tickets but that doesn’t… seem right?” He giggled nervously and smoothed his hands down his thighs, “Fuck, I’m awful at this,” he muttered under his breath. He lifted his head to look at her again, “If you do, though, just… let me know. You can bribe your boss with them or summat if you want,” he shrugged, "or burn them. Whatever makes you feel better." He smirked at her.

There was a brief lull and Charlie found himself not wanting to let this end just yet. The trouble was, he wasn't a conversationalist. "Um," he tapped at the table. "You here for a few days or...?"

"Why? Captain Kirk's a hottie," Perdita replied smoothly with an easy smile. She didn't really like sci-fi. It was too fast paced and she kept falling into plot holes and it made her head hurt. She lacked the strange sort of obsessive fascination the fans had. The idea of dressing up as the characters and then gathering with other people dressed as characters was all a bit…much. In a bid to be more normal, she used to squeeze in an episode between her Latin and etiquette classes.

A Mini? Perdy's eyes widened in surprise. "Yes," she answered Charlie, looking surprised and catching his joke only when it was too late. "Every time I get in it, the instructor keeps telling me "not to blow the bloody doors off"," she stated in her best (and really rather convincing) sarf Landan accent. "It's cute and red," she let Charlie know, just in case he thought they might be getting along a little too well. After all, she was vain and shallow but he already knew that.

With a tilt of her head, she rolled her big blue eyes and tutted darkly. "In a working environment, absolutely," she continued smoothly, absolutely not wanting to acknowledge his comment. While she wouldn't call it inappropriate, it was a little uncomfortable. Perdita, at least, had the decency to flush faintly pink at his words as past images flickered through her mind. "That reminds me," she said suddenly as her slim fingers fished out a small leather journal from her handbag. "I must reupholster the sofa." With that, she made a note. It wasn't just because she and Charlie had done unmentionable things on it, it just needed some re-stitching.

"You do to make the type I like," Perdita answered Charlie in a similar jest. Her gaze wandered around the busy coffee shop. The reason she felt so out of her depth was maybe because she desperately didn't want the last person she slept with to be Charlie Baker. It wasn't anything personal but with that looming over her, escape seemed almost impossible. The patrons of the café were mostly male but older. While she wasn't adverse to that, they were all the wrong side of thirty. She let out a sigh. Typical. She was being clam-jammed by the Continent. Oh, he hadn't noticed the influx of lingerie pop ups? She offered him a smile. "You will."

There was absolutely no way Charlie was having a quarter life crisis. He was handsome, rich, successful and all loved up. What people wouldn't trade for his life. She was sure people wouldn't understand his situation - she still didn't. Going from nothing to having everything in a decade must have been a shock. Did the people in his home town see a change in him? That was the saying, though, wasn't it? Money changes. Poor Charlie. Boo-bloody-hoo.

"Ah, no," Perdita said with a chuckle. "Thank you." She added to be polite. "It's not really my scene." As he well knew. She'd heard the songs once or twice but she hadn't purchased the album. Besides, he didn't have to do that. "I don't know," she began breezily as she swirled her coffee around in her cup absently. "I'm assuming your tour is usually sold out. Tickets are a hot commodity. Perhaps I can trade them," she joked. "You can send some to the Ministry, if you like. I'll get them."

Perdita actually laughed, high and clear, looking as though the tension had been broken briefly as Charlie spoke of him being a bit rubbish at small talk. "You have never been more like a Yorkshire man in the entire time I've known you." It wasn't a jibe; it was a compliment. It was said warmly and lightly and was only the teensy bit sarcastic. "It's okay, I've had training." She paused for a second. "I'm kidding," she grinned.

"Here?" She asked distractedly. "Just for the night. I'll go back to the coast for the rest of the week and do a few errands." It was a shame. Villa Tivoli, the Bloom family holiday home, was stunningly romantic. If things hadn't gotten so messy and strained, she possibly would have offered him the use of it for him and his girlfriend. It was beautiful. When London got too much, she came here. Not that it mattered because she was alone in both countries, it was just this one had better scenery. Her father hated Italy, she loved it, so it made sense that she did all of the European bits and bobs.

"And I'm out of limoncello," she commented easily with another smile. "And you're headed back to London?" It made sense. She assumed he had press tours and autograph signings and maybe some new writing. Perdita didn't think things were ever going to be the same. The one thing that kept them together - the physical - had been removed and she felt like she was limping through a crappy excuse of a friendship. It felt like a break up but worse; there was never a relationship to lose in the first place.

Charlie let out a quiet chuckle, avoiding Perdita’s gaze after it had already escaped him. This was dangerous. It would be better if they couldn’t do this, but this was why they’d clicked in the first place – they had a similar sense of humour, similar lack of morals. It had all worked fine until things had blown up fantastically in his face. He liked to think he could appease Perdita and her offer of ‘friendship’, but he knew there was no way he’d be telling Kate he’d bumped into his former lover, let alone setting up a future date for afternoon tea.  “Red makes it go faster, you know,” he teased in his Northern drawl.

He tongued the inside of his cheek; what did she consider work? Given how they’d met, he had always had a sort of suspicion about what it was exactly Perdita did for money (as if she needed more). He’d been surprised the first time he’d entered her home – he’d pictured a pokey apartment, maybe with a flatmate, not a grand townhouse in an affluent neighbourhood. Still, he’d given her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she’d earned it, and he’d been prepared to fork out if that’s what she’d expected – but she’d never asked him for money. Not the first night, nor any night after. He didn’t know if that was because she genuinely wasn’t a hooker, or if (as his ego had told him) it was because sleeping with him negated any need for payment. He had learnt, in between other activities, that she had been born wealthy and whatever it was she did for that club was meant to be her rebelling.

Charlie watched silently and with interest as she pulled out a notebook from her handbag and scribbled in it. He declined to make any sort of comment about the state of her sofa, lest it devolve into an entirely different conversation.

“Fancy,” he responded. He picked up his teaspoon and gave his coffee a stir, mixing in the foam with the rest of the liquid. “At least it’ll save me a trip to Milan,” he joked, still fairly certain he’d never risk physically going into a lingerie shop ever again, regardless of what country it was in.

Charlie nodded, occupying himself with his coffee again and lifting it to his mouth to drink. “Yeah, something like that,” he said, holding her gaze. He refused to believe that Perdita didn’t know how successful he was – but he wasn’t going to fall into her trap and look like an idiot by trying to explain just how popular his band was. If you needed to tell people how famous you were, you weren’t really that famous. “I’d make a note in me diary but I left it in me other bag,” he smirked and licked his lips.

He shot a look at her, half-smiling, “You’re not kidding,” he said, not unkindly. He didn’t doubt for one second that Perdita Bloom had been properly educated. “Where is it you’re from again? Originally, I mean.” He knew it was up North too, but he’d never really paid enough attention to the town. He knew it wasn’t Yorkshire, at the very least.

“Right.” Charlie forced himself to gaze around the café rather than stare at his tablemate, but then she spoke again and his eyes darted straight back to her. Charlie preferred brown eyes, but there was something about Perdita’s that never failed to draw his attention; big and blue, cat-like. “Limoncello,” he repeated dumbly. “Oh, yeah,” he nodded and frowned down at the table for a second, “pack for the rest of the tour. Doing the rest of Europe before heading over to do North America.” He tipped his mug towards him and noted it was empty. He cleared his throat, “Should um, probably get going actually…” he said halfheartedly.

"Of course," Perdy replied simply. She was on the same wavelength as Charlie and her thoughts followed suit. It was easy talking to him, to fall into this rapport, to get comfortable. For all of his faults, Charlie was actually pretty funny. And Perdita liked a man who could make her laugh. The conversation was dwindling now, she could feel it. It was probably for the best. And she had warned him to avoid SW1.

It was silly. She should be able to talk about underwear without sexual undertones. Though Perdita would admit that being roped into helping pick out his girlfriend's skivvies had made her feel a bit icky. She really wasn't at the point - mentally or emotionally - to be cool with that. She was never cool. "Milan's gorgeous," she added lightly. "Bit of a long way to go for a pair of pants, you're right."

Oh, he was making fun of her again. Rather than responding, she just offered him a wry smile. Charlie could probably do with a paper organiser; he'd be able to keep track of his conquests that way.

With a genuine smile, she shook her head, the ends of her bob caressing her cheeks lazily. "No, I'm not." Charlie had called it. She had had training, in all sorts of things. Polite conversation, Latin, walking in heels, setting a table, making sure she punched from the hip to give the strike more power. Most of it was nonsense, of course.

"Aughton, West Lancs," the tall brunette replied when asked where she was from. Out of habit, her eyes slid to the spot on his arm where she knew he had a tattoo of a rose. "But we moved to Cheshire when I was very young." She flicked her eyes from his arm and back up to his face as she offered him another brief smile. Unlike Charlie, Perdita didn't really identify with her home. She was a little bit French, a little bit Italian, a little bit of a bitch. She oddly admired his tenacious love of his town. He was a white rose and she was a red rose. How Shakespearean was that?

There was a metaphorical record scratch as he began to shift. The trip down Memory Lane was over. "Right, of course," Perdita added hastily, agreeing with his apparent need to vamoose. Charlie was a genuinely nice man but she wouldn't blame him for blowing her off. Clearing her throat, she ran a pale hand back through her hair, ruffling it a little at the crown before she fastened up her handbag.

Just do it the voice in the back of her head demanded of her, sounding condescending. Like a plaster. Just rip it off. Perdita stood, her heels making a soft sound as she habitually looked around to make sure she had everything. Keys? Yep. Purse? Check. Dignity? Nevermind. Reaching a self-imposed impasse, she chewed on her lower lip. She felt like she needed to say something to fill the silence but she couldn't come up with anything funny or witty.

Charlie would be gone for months so it should be fine. She stepped into his space and, out of habit, she leaned in to kiss his cheek but stopped herself short. They couldn't do this any more, even if it was platonic. With a heavy-laden sigh, she reached out and simply squeezed his shoulder affectionately before letting it drop and taking a step back. "Good luck," she offered lamely, knowing full well that he was the consummate performer and he and the band would dominate the Continent.

"I'll see you," Perdita offered lightly, knowing full well that she wouldn't. With one last smile, she turned and exited, her heels click-clacking against the marble floor of the pavement with increased pace. She lasted a few seconds before she broke into a run, her coat flapping behind her as her desire to get away from everything started to become unbearable.

Perdita offered him a genuine smile and Charlie couldn’t help but return it with one of his own. “Don’t we make quite the pair?” he asked, jokingly, referring to the staggering difference in class between them. He hadn’t even known people still did that whole governess-type thing until his Hogwarts years were almost over, and he certainly hadn’t expected he’d ever fuck someone who knew how to properly set out the silverware for when Princess Di came for tea. His mind wandered to an image of Perdita being forced to walk around with a hardback atop her head, then it wandered a little further to her doing so in some of that lingerie they’d been talking about—

He blinked. “West Lancs?” he laughed. Of course. He could have done without another thread joining them, no matter how tangential. He followed Perdita’s gaze to his forearm, to where his jacket was covering the Yorkshire rose tattoo. He forced another smile, less genuine this time.

Charlie avoided her gaze as they each got to their feet. They didn’t say goodbye, really. One just left the other, sometimes in the dead of night, sometimes right after— well, except the last time. He’d been well and truly ushered out. During, even. He had thought that was their goodbye – a shitty one at that, but it wasn’t like they could hug and wave each other fondly off into the distance.

Before he realised what was happening, Perdita was in his space and slowly lunging at him – and then she wasn’t. He had half made an effort to meet her, and was thankful she’d stopped it for the both of them because he didn’t really know what he’d been about to do. Arms length was better, safer.

He nodded, “Yeah.” He wet his lips and frowned softly, meeting her eyes and sort of wishing he hadn’t. “Yeah, you too,” he replied awkwardly – a response that made no sense. They wouldn’t see one another, or they ought not to. Thankfully Perdy didn’t let him stew in it, she was turning to leave before he could even correct himself. He watched her leave the café and stride down the street for a second before he busied himself with pulling a tip out of his wallet and leaving it on the table. He opened the door a moment later, and purposely took the opposite direction back to his scheduled portkey.


END