[san diego] repeat until death | cordelia

Kate had taken the wards down at her home in California. After all, nobody was trying to get to just her, and if Layla or anyone else comparably crazy was out of Azkaban and still keeping up on the goings-on in Charlie’s life, they’d know the Bakers had been divorced for just about a year. Longer than they’d been married.

Not longer than they’d been together, though. That saga started when she was fourteen--for her, only in her head, obviously--and was sort of… still going. She’d seen him last month and then decided it might be best to take a long siesta in Rancho after the book release, both to bar herself from further temptation and to give herself space to--grieve?--after it came out. What better place to do that than the first home they’d owned together? The house in Maida Vale was special for different reasons, but this one had its own character and history. A decorated history of being an island away from everything and everyone else, mostly, and it retained that now.

The letter she held between two shaking hands let her know it might’ve been a mistake to be too secure in her own safety, and in her own assertion that it was impossible anyone could be specifically interested in her life. Even so, Kate had written her poetry collection under another name, just for good measure and even more than that, it had been to keep her ex from knowing any damn thing about it. Maybe she would tell him someday, but not right now.

She’d been little more than a meddlesome growth on Charlie’s side to paparazzi for years, and exactly nothing apart from an irritating barrier to others (people they knew personally, even), so it was surprising that Cordelia was willing to go off the beaten path to make Kate’s life worse than it already was. She sounded so spoiled, talking like that, but it would have been nice to have a few months of peace.

There was a sinister undertone to Cordelia’s otherwise-friendly words, and she wondered how on earth she’d found anything out about the book. Maybe through @Edith Holthouse , but Kate wanted to believe that wouldn’t have been on purpose.

After an allotted five minutes of sheer panic, Kate decided to keep the note successfully owled to her (no wards) as evidence, or collateral, if she needed either, and yanked the first piece of paper she could find out of her desk to scribble a reply back.

Cordelia,

Please don’t tell anybody about what you know. Why don’t you come over to my house in Rancho Santa Fe and we can discuss this.

Kate

After her signature, Kate begrudgingly left her address and noticed how much more wobbly that penmanship was than the rest. Under normal circumstances, she would not be inviting Cordelia over to her--their--house, but this was sort of a code red situation and she needed to do some damage control, so it seemed like the lesser of two evils.

Haphazardly putting some nondescript, middle of the road clothes on, Kate apparated to her parents’ house to use their owl, not bothering to tell them she was there because if they knew why they’d have a security field day. She was back at her markedly smaller (and cozier) house in the hills just a minute later, and undoubtedly, Cordelia would be making her very unwelcome appearance soon.

Should she be nice? Vaguely threatening? Show her how important this was to her in hopes of instilling some kind of humanity response, or be totally-stony faced? Reality was, it probably didn’t matter; the only thing Kate was going to successfully communicate was her crippling anxiety and fear unless she developed a split personality in the next five minutes, so she’d probably roll with that.

Cordelia wanted to like Kate Baker. Had tried a number of times.

Failing that, she wanted to at least tolerate Kate Baker. They had so many mutual friends in London, it seemed rude not to.

Failing that, well, she wanted at least to get a story out of Kate Baker.

It wasn't even a scandal or anything -- Kate was just publishing a book of poems. Lovely poems, though the pseudonym Dahlia Anthony felt a bit dull in Cordelia's mouth. Whether you were meant to pronounce the fricative or just a voiceless alveolar plosive, Anthony was simply not a poet's name. Dahlia alone would have worked. Stylized in lower case, like e e cummings, now that was a poet's name. dahlia. Surely Kate didn't want this work to be under Dahlia Anthony forever.

Edith probably hadn't meant to let the news slip, but slip it had in the post-Ministry article glow of success. Cordelia had just filed that tidbit away, distracted as she was by the heady buzz of her work being talked about, then further distracted by the ominous letters filling her post and sending her fleeing first to Michael's place, then across the ocean on an extended Valentine's-and-birthday trip. Twenty-two wasn't a particularly important birthday, the excuse was flimsy, but Craig thought it would be good for her to wait for things to die down, anyway.

She hadn't remembered Kate's authorial debut until the other day, wandering around some bookstalls with Michael and the title had caught her eye. Hadn't the divorcée moved back to California, anyway? That night, in their little rented cottage, Cordelia had fired off a quick note:

Dearest Kate, I'm on holiday in California, reminded me of you! We should get tea if you happen to be free. By the by, picked up your collection. Congratulations! It's marvellous work, you have a gift. Do let me know if you'd ever like to reveal yourself -- I'd be delighted to cover the story of this poetry collection. I believe I do have a knack for sympathetic profiles, unlike some of my colleagues. Delighted for your success, Cordelia

Kate's response had been short as well, but in tight, trembling script. Cordelia had frowned to read it, noting the address at the bottom. It did not include an invitation for Michael, but then again, Cordelia hadn't mentioned her boyfriend in her note. It had been a quick reply, sent back nearly immediately as the owl flies, with no time mentioned for a rendezvous. She assumed that meant to come over now.

About fifteen minutes later, Cordelia appears with a crack outside the house on the hill. She was dressed simply -- long but light chiffon skirt, tee-shirt and sandals, expecting a warmer summer in Southern California than she was actually getting. Her wand tucked into her crossbody purse, sticking out as it buffeted her notebook and quills inside. There was a doorbell -- she pressed it, twice, just in case she hadn't applied enough pressure the first time.

Kate was too hasty to open the door; she flung it open almost violently the first half of its trajectory in toward the house and then slowed down for the second half, trying to maintain an air of general calm. She sized Cordelia up carefully, and her eye was immediately drawn to her… acquaintance’s bag, stuffed taut with notebooks and quills. She wouldn’t be surprised if they were those stupid, blasted quick quotes quills. Kate remembered how many times she’d had to call the Daily Prophet to get stories written with those things removed.

If she ever managed a famous band again, she wouldn’t be taking up the work of a publicist as well, like she had before. That could be someone else’s responsibility--but of course, with Banshee, there’d been a personal stake and a relevance to her own life that wouldn’t be present with anyone else. Her investment in Banshee’s success had, perhaps, been one of the main sources of tension in her relationship (besides the cheating) and something she would change, given the opportunity to… try again.

“Come on in,” Kate said, too hoarsely to be genuinely welcoming, and closed the door snugly behind them. Subtly, she reached down to flick the lock closed. She wanted to think better of Cordelia than fearing she might’ve brought backup, but right now, she couldn’t take any chances.

“Would you like something to drink?” She still had shoes on, so the shock of the cold floors on bare feet was absent, and that was a good thing, perhaps--minimizing the amount of things that could shock her in a single day. “I have coffee, iced tea, water, juice… alcohol,” Kate’s slender fingers gestured loosely toward the beautiful glass-front cabinet just on the other side of the bar, up against the wall in the dining room. Where it had historically been stocked with whiskey and aged red wines, it housed a lot more tequila, liqueurs and rose these days.

A stiff drink sounded great to her right now, but it would be colossally stupid to indulge, so she’d withhold those urges until after her visitor left, regardless of the outcome. Instead, she retrieved some iced tea from the refrigerator (yes, her home had Muggle appliances and she had no intention of replacing them) and sloshed it into a metal cup, drinking back deeply and pretending it was something else.

Kate seemed frazzled when she opened the door, the wood whipping air into Cordelia's hair. "Hello, Kate," Cordy said brightly. Kate's invitation was less bright, more choked. Huh. Okay, then. Cordelia's hand drifted over her wand -- no, this was just friendly, she was fine, this was fine.

As she entered the house, Kate locked the door behind her with a very soft click. Cordelia frowned briefly, wiping it away before Kate could see. That wasn't very friendly. The last time she had been locked in a room with a Baker... Cordelia pushed her encounter with Charlie out of her mind. It didn't seem good to dwell on the man more than was necessary. And surely some dwelling would be necessary, given the subjects of Kate's poems.

But, while she was comparing -- Charlie hadn't tried to be subtle about locking the door. Kate did, not accounting enough for the observational skills of a DA member turned reporter. Neither of them seemed to consider how stressful a locked door could be to a person, because neither of them had ever been locked in a dungeon overnight to be tortured. A simple, understandable, yet deeply horrific oversight in Cordelia's opinion.

Cordelia considered asking Kate to unlock it. Decided against it, instead noting with care every window she could see and whether there was any Floo powder in sight. She wasn't sure how powerful a witch Kate was, but she hoped this wouldn't come to that. Just because Kate hadn't survived the Battle of Hogwarts didn't mean she was weak. Just less traumatized, Cordelia supposed.

Kate paused for too long before mentioning alcohol, which was a little... maybe not concerning, but certainly didn't set Cordelia at ease. "Whatever you're having would be lovely, thank you," she settled on saying, hoping that Kate was having something a little bit more grown up than juice. Cordelia certainly had juice at home, but that was almost exclusively for mixing or for hangovers.

Kate slung her iced tea back -- Cordelia waited patiently for her hostess to serve her before speaking. "I do hope you know my offer wasn't meant to pressure you," she began, trying to keep her voice gentle. "I'm very sorry to cause any distress."

“Sure,” Kate managed, willing the tremor in her voice to make a disappearance just as quickly as it had appeared, “I’m having iced tea but I’m happy to make you something else, if that’s your preference.” Even for people with malintent, Kate was a polite, attentive, pleasant hostess. Her family had instilled that useless value in her, after all, having grown up in a Mexican family it was sort of a cultural necessity. She couldn’t count the amount of times she’d had to serve rude, misogynistic or overstepping family members with a smile on her face.

This situation was a little unique, though, because it was her career and her livelihood on the line, it wasn’t about a possibility of a spat with another family member within the comforts of her own home. It was really difficult to know how to proceed in this instance with grace and, more importantly, success.

Kate poured the tea when she felt she’d waited an appropriate amount of time for a different answer and carefully slid the cup, sweating, over the countertop to her “guest” across from her. “Have as much as you like, I brew this myself so there’s plenty more.”

She was considering having another glass herself, but she stopped in her tracks, fingers frozen inches from the pitcher, listening to Cordelia speak. If she hadn’t meant to cause any distress, what was with the vaguely threatening letter(complete with creepy fake-nice tone)? Kate didn’t buy it for a second. She had worked in this business too long and had known too many reporters to take that phony line in stride.

“I just, uh,” Kate began, considering whether or not to return the phony-ness in equal measure or to be candid with her. “I know we haven’t really gotten along in the past, what with my… refusing to tell you anything about my marriage ending,” Kate tried to keep her tone even, “So your letter was a bit startling. I wasn’t aware that you even knew anything. You’re not supposed to.” She thought she might tell her that almost no one was supposed to know anything, but thought better of it--that might make the compulsion to publish something about this even worse for her acquaintance.

"Iced tea sounds lovely, thank you," Cordelia said graciously, giving Kate a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She had never had the beverage, though it was on the menu at Frida's back home. Iced tea sounded like an affront to the concept of tea, actually, but Cordelia was trying to be – how did the Californians put it, chill. Easy going. Not a threat. One never wanted their subjects to feel threatened in an interview, even if it wasn't an interview. Cordelia set her bag on a clear surface, making sure the space between Cordelia and her wand and supplies was obvious to the other woman.

Cordelia took a small sip – it was cold, and sweet, and took her generally by surprise. Her eyes widened for a moment before making a decision – "I certainly will - it's delicious." It was the first unguarded, unprepared thing that Cordelia had said so far.

Hopefully it was enough to put Kate a little more at ease – ah, no. Kate's fingers froze, ghosting over the pitcher handle. The other woman was on a hairpin trigger, it seemed. One wrong breath would bowl her over. Cordelia's smile faltered.

Kate mentioned their issues getting on, and Cordelia nodded. There was no point in denying it, though Cordelia felt that the animosity was rather one-sided. They hadn't anything in common beyond their friends, and perhaps Cordelia's roguish insistence on the divorce scoop had been a bit too much. Blame the profession, not her. Anyone in a journalist's circle was likely to be a subject.

Cordelia pressed her lips together. "I should take the blame for our rocky start, then." Cordelia wasn't a liar, nor particularly naturally manipulative (she had been in Hufflepuff, for Merlin's sake) but every true statement here was measured. It was more like -- conflict resolution. Trying to temper tempers between two parties, soften Kate towards her. "I was overeager, overstepped where we were. Apologies."

Wasn't supposed to know, Kate said, and Cordelia actually frowned. "I can promise you I wasn't snooping – I found out quite by happenstance." She wasn't ready to out Edith as her source, but surely her friend would understand if it happened. "I had quite forgotten until I was in the bookshop. I thought you might like some celebration of the launch, hush-hush as it is." She spread her hands as if to say that's all, that's all I meant.

Oh, right--she wasn’t used to offering tea to people who weren’t aware it came iced stateside. In California, it was a beverage of choice; it was very rare for Californian coffee shops or anything of the type to carry hot tea. Maybe in the winters, but her first real introduction to hot tea culture had been in New England, and the English valued their tea even more than New Englanders.

Kate smiled at her; it felt weird to smile, but what else was she supposed to do? “Thanks, I just put it outside with the tea bag in for awhile and then I bring it in the house to chill. We call it sun tea on the west coast.” She added uselessly. Of course Cordelia didn’t care about all that: she was here for a purpose. A purpose that Kate had every intention of thwarting for as long as possible, barring tacky violence.

She had to resist the urge to sneer suspiciously at Cordelia when she mentioned that the blame for their rocky start belonged to her. Kate agreed, it did, but beyond that, she wasn’t sure how genuine an admission it was. Could have been complete authentic vulnerability, for all she knew, but it also could’ve been a tactic to get Kate to let down her guard enough to get a toe in the door, which she wasn’t particularly interested in doing.

Of course, she understood to an end that women had to be a lot more voracious in their work to achieve the same things or as quickly as men, and that journalism was a dog-eat-dog field much the same as music. All that considered, she empathized, but she needed to protect herself and her family (Charlie included) first.

“Usually I haven’t been the face of my own success,” Kate waded in deeper, staying cautious as she made eye contact with Cordelia, “if you know what I mean.” She’d been behind a lot of the success of Banshee’s big tour, of the last album, of everything going exactly as planned--but almost no one outside of the industry had even known her name as a manager, just as Charlie’s wife. It was becoming doubtful she’d ever get away from that, but she couldn’t complain too much because on the other side of the coin she hadn’t made much effort--she’d just written an entire book essentially about him and their relationship.

“I wasn’t expecting…. The book to be this well-received. I’m not ready for it to be out in the open yet.”

Kate pressed her lips together and gripped the edge of the counter, starting to speak again with a more anxious edge, “I know you don’t owe me anything and I don’t expect you to listen to me, but if you have any decency, you’ll wait for awhile. I don’t blame someone in your position with this kind of information for wanting to use it, but please, just. Not right away.”