[mp] swish swish [quinn]

saturday 15th september

She had been washing her hands for far longer than the recommended thirty seconds, staring at herself in the large mirror of the Auberge August hotel ladies' bathroom. A cubicle door behind her opened and a very pretty young woman joined her at the sinks. Bérénice finally turned off the tap and patted her hands dry with the provided fluffy white towels (no paper towels in sight).

Brought out of her reverie, she continued with freshening herself up before she had to go back out to the dinner -- and Harlan. They were between courses, with (incredibly boring, sports) speeches punctuating the food. Nice leant forward to see herself properly in the illuminated mirror, then brought her bag up to fish out her lipstick and reapply, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with her finger to tidy up the application -- she might have been drinking a little faster than usual in her nervousness and though the food was nice, it wasn’t very substantial. They had never done this before -- attending an event together. They always just happened to be somewhere at the same time. This felt different, and she wasn’t immune to the many sets of inquisitive eyes on her.

’Weird question, can I borrow that?’

Nice blinked and looked to the woman to her left, then down at where the woman was pointing: her lipstick. She supposed she couldn’t very well say 'no'. "Yes." Bérénice offered it to her, keeping the lid in her other hand as a sort of insurance to make sure she got it back. Though, upon a better look at the younger woman, Bérénice supposed the quality of her gown didn't suggest she couldn’t afford her own makeup. Perhaps she just hadn't brought a bag, and it was quite obvious that between the plunging neckline and high thigh split there was nowhere for her to stash even something as small as a lipstick. Nice felt almost matronly in comparison.

The healer turned back to the mirror, checking her hair was still perfectly tousled in a way that at least seemed effortless, to give her something to do while she waited to get her makeup back.


@Quinn Regan

Quinn was in a surprisingly good mood, considering. She’d anticipated hating the whole evening. She’d lost the championship (again); she’d brought her brother as a date; not one but two of her exes were in attendance. But she looked good; she’d win the championship this year; her brother was more fun than any other man she could have brought; neither of her exes had brought real dates, either. The alcohol probably helped, too.

She hiccuped as she glanced down at herself, making sure she was still covered where it counted before she left the stall. She started and stopped washing her hands all within the time it took the woman next to her to really get into washing hers—was she one of those germaphobes?—and she reached for her purse, only to realize she didn’t have it. She couldn’t remember when she last had it, for that matter. She frowned as she leaned forward, analyzing the faded color on her lips. The alcohol had helped with that, too.

She glanced at the other woman again, her eyes going wide as she looked from her reflection to the lipstick in her hand and back again. It was the perfect color. Or close enough. She hesitated for half a second before she leaned over a little, pointing at the woman’s tube of lipstick. “Weird question.. can I borrow that?” Quinn smiled when she agreed, taking the tube from her and waiting a beat as she gave her a quick glance over.

Her dress gave her the impression of something Quinn could achieve if she took two of her own dresses and sewed them together, that high neckline and all that extra fabric. It worked for her, though and she supposed it was pretty, but— “I love your dress,” she said, smiling before she turned back to the mirror, starting to apply the lipstick with her finger. She continued talking even though that would slow her down. “Wherever did you get it?”

Nice looked down at her gown before glancing back up to the other woman. “Thank you, yours is—” she paused, her eyes lingering (enviously) on that very revealing thigh split, “— very nice too.” She smiled warmly -- a well-practised expression. “The colour is lovely on you.” That much was honest -- it did compliment her skin tone well. The dress itself wasn’t horrible, either, but Bérénice wasn’t about to become one of those women -- mutton dressed as lamb.

“Paris,” she replied belatedly (return compliments came first). She’d tried on something from Bloom Mill’s latest collection but the increased likelihood of someone else attending the British and Irish League Gala wearing the same gown had put her off -- even if it might have been a nice nod to attending with the English National Team Beater (she’d thought entirely too much about what she was going to wear tonight). Bérénice looked at the other woman's dress again and decided not to ask the same question in return.

She reached a tentative hand out to hint for her lipstick back. She'd had intentions of freshening up a little more than just her lipstick but she wasn’t pulling anything else out now just in case sticky fingers wanted to use that too. The other woman took her hand instead. Bérénice looked puzzled for a moment before realising what was happening. “Bérénice,” she offered, as though that had been her intent all along.

“It is, isn’t it?” Quinn looked down and admired herself (and her dress) briefly—not for the first time and certainly not for the last time that night—before looking back up with a warm smile. “Thank you,” she added, remembering her manners after another second and ending the cycle of compliments. She’d just returned from almost a month in Spain and she’d been worried about getting too much color for the dress to really pop but in the end she’d managed to get it all rather perfect (as usual).

The other woman said she got her dress in Paris and Quinn raised her eyebrows appreciatively, as if she was impressed; really, the lack of offering a designer’s name just screamed off the rack but seeing as she let her borrow her lipstick, she let her have this one.

A hand was offered and Quinn took it, shaking it lightly—she wasn’t trying to intimidate this woman, or anything—and offering her name in return: “Quinn.” But she—Bérénice—already knew that, didn’t she? Quinn turned back to the mirror for one last touch up before she handed back the lipstick with another thanks. “You’re a lifesaver, really.” She wasn’t—Quinn would have managed—but she was still riding the compliment from a minute ago.

She leaned forward again to touch up around her lips with her pinky finger. “Saved me from having to go back out to find my bag, anyway.” She straightened up and smiled quickly before she started washing her hands again, getting the lipstick off her fingers. “Can’t stand some of these speeches—“ the alcohol and the fact that Bérénice hadn’t left was making her talkative— “Old has-beens going on and on about their glory days.” She probably should have checked the stalls to see there weren’t any aforementioned old has-beens using the facilities but that was the last thing on her mind; she was more focused on the fact that new glory days were happening now and no one was asking her to make a speech about it.

She dried her hands and grabbed a tissue to blot her lips, glancing at the other woman in the mirror. “Is this your first gala?” Quinn thought she knew everyone in the league and most everyone in the European leagues; she also kept an eye out on.. she wouldn’t call it competition but she tended to pay attention to any gorgeous women in the room (including herself) and she couldn’t remember seeing her before.

Quinn sounded rather more like a boys name, didn’t it? And with those eyebrows…

Bérénice smiled, a little smarmily, and took her lipstick back -- should she wipe the top of it now or would she remember to do it later? She glanced at the fluffy white towels and decided she would have to remember, she wasn’t about to smear it all over the cotton.

The Frenchwoman offered another prim smile as Quinn began complaining about the night's proceedings, and leant forward into the mirror to do one final check of her makeup. In fairness, Nice was inclined to agree; she glanced at the gilded clock on the wall behind her new acquaintance and decided she could probably miss a little more of whatever speech was going on now -- maybe give herself a few more minutes without a drink right in front of her—

Bérénice blinked, she’d zoned out a little bit and it took her a moment to work out what Quinn had just asked her. Was that meant to be a slight? Some sort of competition as to how many times she’d been invited? Nice’s gaze fell momentarily to Quinn’s plunging neckline and she wondered if that had something to do with it. “Yes,” she answered, tacking on “and you?” to indulge the other woman.

Was it a confusing question? Or was this woman just an idiot? Or maybe she was just stunned by Quinn’s celebrity; she wouldn’t have been the first. She was certainly staring at her enough. (Who could blame her? Quinn had certainly put in effort to prepare herself for the evening.)

Bérénice finally answered her and Quinn smiled as politely as she could, doing her best to look interested, though her expression quickly turned to an almost pained one the next second after that follow up question: and you? It was Quinn’s turn to be speechless; she opened and closed her mouth a couple times, trying to wrap her head around what she was hearing.

“No, I’m--” Quinn Regan, league winning seeker, captain of the Falcons, member of the Irish National Team… She narrowed her eyes a little, thinking through her options. If Bérénice hadn’t already recognized her, none of that was going to impress her. She inhaled quickly--and normally, she thought--and smiled again. “It’s my third one.” It was her sixth or seventh, really, but she’d lost count, could really only keep the years straight based on the dress she’d worn to the festivities.

“I’m here with my brother.” That much was true, at least, and it wasn’t embarrassing. And it was necessary to lead into her next question, anyway. “And you?” She needed to figure out who to take issue with, who would bother to bring someone that clearly had no interest in the sport.

Bérénice wasn’t sure how her question had stumped the other witch -- wasn’t this her opportunity to boast about how many Quidditch galas she’d been to? The Healer glanced back at her reflection in the mirror and drabbed carefully at the corner of her mouth with her fingertip, fluffed out her hair a little— “Your third?” Nice repeated, turning back to Quinn. “How nice,” she smiled, the corners of her lips tightening.

Quinn revealed that she was accompanying her brother and the Frenchwoman barely masked her surprise -- still, she managed, somehow; “Lovely,” she said with another fake smile and a gentle tilt of her head. And her? Bérénice hesitated for a moment--her eyes didn’t leave the other woman’s face but her expression flickered--should she namedrop Harlan? Would it bother him if it got back to him? But then, he had brought her here -- he couldn’t have it both ways.

“Harlan Bellamy,” Nice said, careful not to smirk or smile or do anything that looked too much like coming with him was some sort of prize (wasn’t it?). The Frenchwoman wasn't as invested in Quidditch as most of the people here tonight, but she would have to live in a cave to not know that Harlan was a well-known player -- and not just for his antics off the pitch. Still, Quinn might be even less versed in the sport than Nice; “He plays for the Griffins,” and England, but this woman clearly wasn’t English so she wasn’t sure that part would impress her as much.

“Who does your brother play for?”

Of course it was Harlan Bellamy, the last captain Quinn had lost to. They were friendly enough, but she had decided for the both of them that it was going to be more of a professional courtesy now. (Quinn wasn’t that good at losing.)

But Bérénice didn’t need to know any of that, did she? Quinn blinked, smiled as dumbly as she could. The Griffins, honestly. “Captain, too, isn’t he?” She might have been giving her one more chance to recognize Quinn’s own captaincy, one last chance, but she also wanted it to be known that she knew a thing or two. She didn’t mention the English National team, didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

She paused; did her quidditch player brother play for ‘no one as good as the Griffins’ or for the Harpies, the notoriously all-female team? She didn’t think it would matter either way, considering they’d been talking for five minutes and Quinn still hadn’t been recognized. “Harpies,” she said after a second had passed, not elaborating.

“You’re much prettier than his date last year.” Harlan’s, she meant. It was all a lie, of course; she had no idea who his previous date had been or what she had looked like, much less if he was even in attendance. “Much more age appropriate, too.” She hoped that would hit a nerve, but she kept smiling as sweetly as possible.

Turned out Quinn did know a little bit about Quidditch -- or about Harlan, at least. Bérénice kept her (now slightly narrowed) eyes on the other woman, gave her another polite smile. “Yes, he is.” Did she know because she was into the sport, or the sportsmen? “He won the league last season,” she added, just in case Quinn thought she needed to keep telling her things she already knew.

Her brother played for the Harpies. The French witch’s brow furrowed briefly -- something about that wasn’t quite right, but she just about kept up with the Western Europe league and Harlan’s team’s wins and losses, she hadn’t the time (or inclination) to dedicate herself to learning about the full British league (yet -- perhaps if Harlan ever gave her reason to, she would).

But Quinn didn’t linger on that. Nice paused mid-way through tucking her hair behind her ear and lowered her hand to her clutch, holding it in front of her, almost defensively. She knew exactly what Quinn was doing--trying to do--but she didn’t know who Harlan had brought last year. Probably Honey, who Bérénice didn’t think was that much younger, but she did think she was prettier than the redhead, so perhaps it had been. She knew Quinn didn’t mean it anyway--the pretty comment, at least--but that wasn’t the point, was it?

The brunette forced a smile through a tensed jaw. “Well, his sister was busy,” she said pointedly. 

Harlan won the league last season, she said, so at least she knew something. “Did he?” It nearly killed Quinn to ask it, but she mustered through somehow. Bérénice must not have been present at the match because otherwise they wouldn’t be having this conversation; there was no way she could have seen Quinn play and not know who she was the next second (or three months later). “They lost to the Harpies--” her brother-- “the season before that.” It had been another crushing blow to the Falcons, naturally, but in this exact moment, it made Quinn feel the tiniest bit better.

She didn’t get quite the reaction she was hoping for when she mentioned last year’s date and it was such a pity. Still, Quinn thought the other woman would at least be thinking about what she’d said the rest of the night anyway, even if she wasn’t letting on now. Quinn would, anyway.

“Right,” she said sweetly, wondering if Harlan Bellamy even had a sister. “Of course.” (She reminded herself that Sam was there with his sister and it wasn’t as weird as Bérénice was trying to make it out to be.) She could only assume that any brother of Bérénice must not like her enough to ever take her anywhere.

Quinn rolled her shoulders and tucked her hair behind one ear. “We should be getting back.” She offered another smile, could feel how strained her cheeks were. “Wouldn’t want Harlan to think you’ve fallen in.” She took another look at Bérénice’s dress, smiling one last time. “So chic, really.” She’d be sure not to look for one just like it whenever she was in Paris next.

She dropped her smile as soon as her back was turned, leaving the ladies’ room with every intent to go find some photographers or press or anyone to re-inflate her ego.

[[out]]

“He did,” Nice confirmed. Surely if this woman was interested in Harlan--or Quidditch in general--she would know he won the league just a couple of months prior. Especially if she knew they’d lost to her brother’s team the year before -- or maybe Quinn only followed her brother’s team. Bérénice offered another small (fake) smile; “I’m sure they’ll bounce back, one day.” Hopefully not anytime soon.

We should be getting back. With her head turned away from the other woman, Nice rolled her eyes -- thank Merlin. She turned back to face Quinn: “We should,” she smiled, again--her attempts at making the expression look sincere becoming less and less convincing--before letting out a very brief fake laugh at the Irish woman’s follow up comment.

“It was lovely to meet you,” she lied.

Nice followed Quinn out of the bathroom, shot one last dirty look at the other woman’s back, and set off to find Harlan.


[ end ]