that girl

@glittergab

greta vivian-sloane du bois

81 posts

Greta Vivian-Sloane du Bois, 28, has called Coronado home for all their life. As a retired teen model-actress-video jockey-heartthrob and professional partier and influencer, their world is steeped in an obscene number of unanswered texts, cocktail cherry stems tied by a tongue, and an unfinished reflection caught in the bottom of a glittery eyeshadow pan. Often found tanning, pulling lucky sevens at the Hippodrome, and leaving someone else to pick up the bill, they move through life with Fame is a Gun by Addison Rae in their ear.

#about #does this make any sense?#in the words of greta #whatEVER

"No one wants to hear about a kid at all." Meant to be seen and not heard, the heirs of del Bosque, though Andrea was meant to be seen significantly less than any of his half-siblings. It's nights like tonight that lead Andrea to think that if his mother were given the opportunity to scrub him from family portraits, to erase his very existence, she wouldn't hesitate to take the first opportunity that presented itself for her to do so. "Besides, my childhood ended twenty years ago." If he's still lingering on things that happened to him two decades ago, that's his problem, not meant to be shoved upon the unwilling parties that he interacts with on a day-to-day basis.

He doesn't want to be here. The kitchen is too loud, the party too... well, too much of a del Bosque event. All he asks for is some peace, quiet, and privacy, and that's too much to ask for, apparently. He can't stand being trod on by everyone who wants to make themselves feel a little bit bigger tonight. He's forsaken by the sun, the moon, the stars, whatever controls their world. Maybe he was evil in a past life; he certainly doesn't deserve what he's been given in this one.

Of course he has a problem. He has about a million problems. He's heard enough about his problems for a lifetime tonight. Raising a hand to tell her to quit while she's ahead, she seems to not notice. Or ignore him. He's not sure. No point in caring about that, is there. "I'm not doing improve classes." He's a perfectly good liar about the things that matter. He's walked around every day since he was twelve as if Rafael del Bosque were his father, and no one has ever stopped for even a second to doubt the legitimacy of that claim.

Maybe there's a man out there somewhere that can see past del Bosque smoke and mirrors, but even if Andrea did want to look for him, he wouldn't know where to start.

"Besides, why do you care? This is the second night in recent memory that you've insisted on... acting like you care about me. What's your spin? Mother or father sent you to ask me questions until I get annoyed with you? That's already happened, by the way. Both times you've brought up psychics and astrology."

No one wants to hear about a kid at all.

It's a passing thought. The kind of thing you say because you're used to people not listening or you think whoever is listening doesn't matter. Either way, it cuts like a grater, rubbing raw at the live wire that's been electrified in Greta tonight.

She crumples the cloth napkin in her grip, rubbing at Andrea's jacket now instead of a gentle dab.

Whatever whatever whatever.

It kind of pisses her off, the way he seems to think he's the main character in her life, rather than the set dressing. If she's so annoying, if he's so neglected, he ought to do something about it beyond complaining. But he won't. It's not in the script.

It's a good thing, taking control of your own life. Brave. Powerful. Her hand is scrubbing at the jacket. She doesn't have to do what people tell her to. She won't. She has agency. Exercising it is the right thing to do.

She did the right thing tonight.

There's a twinge in her working arm that forces her to still. She casts aside the napkin into a nearby laundry bin and look at Andrea, voice brutally bright. "Aw, you think I care about you? Like we're friends? That's really sweet."

"I do what I want," Saying it aloud grounds her, amplifies the wattage in that heady feeling of control. This isn't one of Patrice's manifestations, it's not an idle daydream, Greta took action and proved it. "You've looked miserable all night, and then that disaster with your jacket. Yikes. So embarrassing. I know you don't have the guts to let me show you a good time, but I figured you could use the break. Again, you're welcome."

"I don't give a shit whether you're sorry or not," The teenager volleys back, as the girl finally decides to get off the bench and face him. "What use are your feelings to me?"

It's about the point, and she's missing it. If she's out here, pretending to be some consummate professional, some child starlet who is about to hit it big, she should understand implicitly why her actions over the last three days have put her at odds with that. "There are thirty-nine private rooms on my floor. If I'm a nobody — Why mine? You could've chosen any other occupant to annoy."

Teodósio watches her scowl, watches her arms fold petulantly over her front as she glares daggers at him. He doesn't care. He's a mastiff with a bone, wanting only one thing from her... Until the young diva starts spitting venom.

'I don't know why you think you're so important... You should be thanking me.'

Unexpectedly, a smile curls over his lips, though it doesn't reach his eyes. Oh, he can't wait to hear this one. "Why?... Because you're a Du Bois? Because a fool with a camera wanted to suck up to your parents and decided to put you on TV?... Because you're so high and mighty?" He wonders whether forcing her company on the infirm is Vivian's idea of charity, or whether it's her family that puts such self-aggrandizing thoughts in her head. Not Vivian, Greta, he reminds himself. Almost sounds like they're extended members of his family. "Who's the one who thinks they're so important, now?"

If he was older, maybe just a little wiser, Teodósio would let her off the hook. Realize that her actions had amounted to nothing but a small ruckus in an otherwise boring and uneventful hospital stay. Another kid might have even thanked her for it. But his pride bristles at the thought that anyone might feel sorry for him, especially a Du Bois.

Especially a little girl. A little girl who's looking at his wrist, at his—

Teodósio grabs the bracelet quickly, flipping it so that the text faces against his skin. He doesn't know if he's fast enough, and curses inwardly as he talks to distract her.

"Don't flatter yourself. I've come to find you once. You've barged into my room thrice. If there's someone doing the stalking, it isn't me." Besides, this is a public area... Or what should be a public area, though it's beyond him why a hospital has allowed a film crew access to floors that should be reserved for staff, patients, and visitors alone.

"This is a waste of time." He grabs the drip stand as if to prove it and turns to leave.

Growing up is like drowning. The world opens up, growing so much faster than you can. It swallows you up as you try to keep your head high enough above water to make sense of it all.

At thirteen, Greta is standing at the shoreline, her toes bare in the sand as the waters pull back. She thinks she can see it sometimes, the oncoming tsunami of expectation and irrelevance and a battlefield so much bigger than the Du Bois family dinner table.

There are already talks about where her parents might send her for secondary. She and her sisters are filling out into their own people. Conversations have started to spill out from behind closed doors, ones that are above her head but serious enough to even catch the attention of a teenager busy touching up her pedicure.

Wherever she ends up, whoever she ends up, she's going to be somebody. She may not be clever like Salem or graceful like Nora, sweet like Angie, steel like Kass, or a practiced enough to be a tactician that rivals Tati, but she's got that something. Her agent says so.

Teodósio says high and mighty like a slur, but it's the blueprint. She will be liked. Popular. Loved. Bigger than Monarosa. Certainly bigger than Mr. Nobody himself, Teodósio del Bosque.

He's not what she expected. Not that she's spent much time thinking about him, specifically, before this. But she's seen photos of him a handful of times (ironically in the same kind of teen magazine he finds so repugnant). He isn't, a total bad boy! or, a cutie with secrets behind those eyes!

He's just a boy. Too weak to be the embodiment of "capitalistic malpractice" (or whatever turn of phrase it is her parents use.) Too mean to forgive. He doesn't like her, not even a little bit, so she hates him, this forgettable nobody boy who was her only accessible friend over the past several days.

"You're a waste of time," she bandies back at the stunted line of his back. ------

where: calle 365 when: five years later, 17 y.o.

There's usually a rhythm to nights like these– club, another club, a brief sojourn to the bathroom mixed in to touch up makeup and get a boost if whatever the main course is for the evening has begun to wear off. Back to the VIP booth until they're tripping over themselves to make it to the car and head to–you guessed it–another club.

But tonight is different. Tonight is Greta's birthday, and across the entirety of a playground masquerading as an island, there's really only one place to be. Everyone knows it.

Everyone, of course, includes a swarm of paparazzi. Balanced precariously on her tiptoes, draped over the balcony railing to peer several stories down, Greta can make them out against the dark pavement by the winking lights of their flashbulbs. From way up on the roof they look like clustered stars, the night sky in reverse with them down there and her up here. But then, three too many drinks and a trip to the bathroom deep, up has felt like down and down like up for awhile, so maybe up really is down.

Is she making sense?

She squints and leans over the railing further. One foot leaves behind a scrappy heel as it pops up into the air so she can gain better leverage. All those photographers waiting for her to come down just so they can be the one to take her photo at midnight, and none of them even realize if they just looked up they could get a snapshot right now.

Hellooooo she means to call out, but it comes out as a garbled slur. Her other foot lifts, knocking over her forgotten drink on the ground in the process, but she ignores it, preoccupied with stretching out an arm. If she could just reach out and wave, maybe they might notice her.

#greta&teo #new record for interior life vs dialogue ratio #happy to time skip if you have more you want to do here or wrap #truly good with either

"I don't need anyone to care about my cosmic fate, because cosmic fates don't exist." Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, turning his back to her so he could take a breath without her eyes boring a hole into his being.

As he's breathing, getting closer and closer to regaining his composure, he's grateful for the time alone. The kitchen is loud, he hadn't realized how loud those places could get, all of the restaurants he's been to with open concept kitchens seem to run harmoniously, so why the fuck is there someone shouting about lemons right now? All that being said, it's nice, not having to put on airs for ten whole minutes; they're too busy yelling about lemons to realize that Andrea del Bosque is mere minutes away from a breakdown on top of a box of crates.

And then she's back to talking about his cosmic fate. "Didn't ask..." he mutters under his breath, closing his eyes, taking one more deep breath before turning around to face her again. "You know how I was raised, you don't need to ask a psychic about it." He's a del Bosque, even if only in name – his entire childhood was practically broadcast for the masses. (Admittedly, not literally, like hers was, but still... that's not his fault, is it.)

"It's a lovely party, my mother's planning paid off in droves." It's a well-rehearsed answer, one he's used a multitude of times tonight. He wouldn't describe any of this as fun – it's more familiar than fun. This isn't his first extremely expensive rodeo, and it certainly won't be his last.

Andrea is awfully practiced at breathing exercises for someone who isn't into woo-woo bullshit.

While he's looking away, finding his inner peace (or whatever his version of that is), she smooths her hands down his jacket, quickly flipping it over to check the lining as well. There's nothing there but a loose thread in the right pocket.

She flips the jacket back over just as he turned back to her.

"I know how you want people to think that you were raised. People lie about their childhoods all their time." She dabs at a splash on the sleeve. "Who wants to hear about an unhappy kid?"

No one. It doesn't sell, unless you're five times that age and writing a retrospective memoir.

There's a tightness in the middle of her chest. She ignores it, pivoting.

"You know, I didn't tell you this when we last hung out." She dampens the napkin a second time, reapplying her efforts, buying more time. "But I think you have a problem." Greta lets that marinate for a beat, sour and abrasive.

"Your problem is you're a shitty liar. If you got into improv you could probably fix that. You're too scripted. I say 'are you having fun' and you look at your lines say 'the party is lovely', which isn't exactly an answer to the question, is it? It's spin."

GRETA: partying topless or the cultural censorship plot

GRETA: bc technically yes to both

RIVER: Censorship? RIVER: Damn you make it sound legit RIVER: Fuck it let’s ball RIVER: But you’re gonna cover me if shit goes sideways RIVER: Can’t leave me out to dry alone if the paps get involved RIVER: Need to maintain a semi-good boy image for a while

GRETA: branding is everything babe x GRETA: oh for sure GRETA: and if ur topless basket weaving and wondering where I'm at don't event sweat it GRETA: i'm 100% omw GRETA: maybe just stand out front so I can be sure to c u.

#greta&river #wrap here or on yours?

angie tried to go for the bag, but greta's hands were faster than her own. sheepish, she could only watch as they looked inside and found that she had brought her unconventional pet after all. still reaching for the bag, she hoped that she could scoop up her purse and head to the bathroom, make sure she wasn't upset from being jostled around... people weren't usually thoughtful about spiders. angelica saw them for what they were—beautiful, delicate creatures. "she's my emotional support animal," she protested, weakly. "i'm not putting her in a cab. what if someone hurts her? she means too much to me, greta. and she's not bothering anyone. she doesn't even want to come out of the purse!" the tarantula in question was even adorned with a small, golden bow. stick on, not tied.

Emotional support animal. If Greta's eyes rolled back any further, her optic nerve would be on display.

It's such an Angie thing to say. What's almost unbelievable is that she actually means it. But she's sincere, Greta knows, down to the meat of it–that emotions are something to be supported, coddled even.

If the evening's events had been different or Nora was sat at their table or their mother had decided to attend instead of dumping the dinner on their shoulders, Greta could likely be nudged in the direction of empathy. But it's a night of stiff spines, the defensive veneer of orthodontic smiles, and making choices not because you want to, but because you have to.

If Greta carried around a bug in her purse to help her feel better when the reality of life hurt her feelings, maybe Luis Bergé would still be alive. Maybe she would be a normal person, a smoke-rasped voice laughs, one who knew about real relationships.

But her clutch is too small, filled with a phone wiped of evidence and a velvet lipstick necessary to keep up appearances. There's no room.

Still, it's that part of her that has an affinity for Angie, the tender bruised piece that usually lives squashed at the bottom of her rib cage so as not to get in the way of the other pieces necessary for carrying on, that has her handing back Angie's purse despite it all. "Just make sure she stays locked up. No one wants to see all that."

#greta&angie #the bow I'm obsessed #had a whole bunch of hijinks planned and was going to ask you if I could briefly godmod princess but in the interest of timing #wrap here or on yours?#sidebar: ang looks so gorgeous in that gif

Grace, with her mother's legacy intertwined in the annals of cinema history, navigated the lavish celebration with a mix of intrigue and bemusement. Despite the compliments that she looked stunning for her age -- directed at her under the mistaken assumption that she was her mother -- Grace smiled politely. The mix-up secretly both pleased and slightly offended her. She wasn’t her mother, of course, but she had inherited the same posture, the same unmistakable cheekbones. And while her love of film could never rival her passion for dance and ballet, it was an art form she cherished nonetheless.

As she sipped her lavender gin spritz -- more perfume than cocktail, but with just enough bite to keep her present -- Grace let her eyes wander across the room, reflecting on how cinema, in its own unique way, had always captured her imagination. She loved the snap and crackle of the reel -- its rhythm, its texture -- the way it pulled her in with a kind of artistry and spectacle that only cinema could offer.

At the sound of words aimed her way, Grace tilted her head, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth, "Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she replied, voice smooth as silk and twice as practiced. “I’ve been mistaken for my mother three times already, naturally everyone thinks I’m here reliving my glory days.”

She gave a light, airy laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Flattering, if you ignore the implication that I’m pushing ninety.” A beat. A pause. "I'm not."

Grace took another sip and let her gaze fall pointedly to the girl’s glass -- where the mimosa sat limp and listless, the bubbles that should have been there now disappointingly absent.

“The director’s other film,” she said, almost conversationally, “the one with the great flood -- three extras drowned. One lost a leg. Vivienne Westwood caught pneumonia and never acted again. When the cinematographer raised concerns, Kenneth just shrugged and said, ‘They’ll have to take their chances.’”

She let that hang for a moment, like the last note of a requiem when suddenly a sharp crash echoed from across the room -- broken glasses scattering like shattered promises. Heads turned as a heated argument spilled out from a nearby corner, voices rising, too low to catch clearly but heavy with accusation.

Then came the unmistakable smack of a slap, followed by stunned silence.

Grace sipped her drink calmly, eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “Dinner and a show,” she murmured, a slow smile curling her lips. “I wonder what that was about.”

Greta is set on leaving when distraction arrives in the form of marble cheekbones and neat tailoring. The woman isn't ninety, no, but she is old. Kudos to whoever does her work though. Her age is more whisper than shout, the main giveaways are the edges of the eyes and the faint lines that flicker around her mouth when she smiles like a secret.

And the kind of token anecdote that people over the age of forty-five just love. Why do they always do that? Start every monologue with a verbal figure wag and why I remember when.

Something something drowning, something something pneumonia. Greta is only half listening, preoccupied with trying to figure out why the woman also carries an air of familiarity. She's a producer maybe? Could've worked on that one crime drama Greta did a guest spot on, the one where the car trunk she was stuffed in was too tight and she almost suffocated.

They'll have to take their chances.

There's a quality to the air all of a sudden, there's too little of it, the room feels too crowded. Greta breaks eye contact, looking instead to the little raspberry in her glass sticking to the wall of the flute. She swirls the glass, trying to dislodge the fruit. "Yeah, that happens sometimes." She says blandly, as if remarking on the color of the grass or the wet nature of water. "How's it go? People are always suffering for their art."

Other people's business, as it's often wont to do when you make a living off of inserting yourself in it, saves her. Drama Greta knows, regularly eats up by the spoonful, profits off of. If Luis is going to blow her off she might as well get something out of getting up before eleven.

But people are getting shot nowadays, so as much as a shatter and a slap hold promise, it's probably not savvy to head into chaos alone.

Greta takes in those eyes, that mouth, a second time, and see a different shade of familiarity. A tilt of her head. "Should we be nosy?"

#greta&grace #buckling myself in

seafood had always been one of angie's favorite, perhaps a cop out given their island home. you couldn't drive more than a few hours in any given direction without hitting a wall of endless, bountiful sea. she had already plated herself with a wide array of tasters, as she would call them. she was prone to nervous nausea and didn't want to take in too much, too quick. angie was also about to take her first bite when greta's startled exclamation caught her attention. moving? oh! "no, of course not!" she chirped, setting down her silverware to snag her small purse, peeking inside, she could see that princess had shifted around... but now she was happily burrowed in between her pocket book and cell phone. "my phone must have gone off, that's all. i always forget to put it on silent..." she knew that greta was less approving of her pets... too bad she was a terrible liar.

She's always been too transparent, Angie. It's all in her eyes. Greta abandons her oyster, brine and a dash of lemon juice spilling into the ice bed. Her hands are too preoccupied snatching up the incriminating purse.

"Angelica," she hisses, in a voice reserved for disputes over stolen tops and warring opinions on whether Lavender Rage belonged on Coronado ☆ Culture's list of worst films of the twenty-first centuries. "Be so, so for real right now."

A quick look inside Angie's bag–any lingering and the royal of nightmares might scamper out–and too many eyes glint back.

"Oh gross," Greta groans through a clenched row of cheerful teeth. She flashes them at the stuffy old woman sat opposite them who glanced over in passing interest.

Still holding the purse, pinching it with just the tips of her fingers, she looks anywhere but the mouth of the bag which hangs just ajar. "She needs to go home. Put her in a cab like yesterday."

#greta&angie #tw spiders

He's out of place here, in the kitchens. He feels as if a diamond was just thrown into a pile of shit. Any other night, he might rethink that, might feel worse about that thought, but after everything that's happened tonight, frankly, he deserves better than what he's been given. The wolf whistle makes it worse. He resists the urge to bare his teeth and growl like some sort of animal. He has airs to keep up, a familial reputation resting on his shoulders in front of these commoners.

"I don't know what any of that means," he says through gritted teeth, "and how does your psychic know about me if you didn't bring me up to her?" He doesn't believe her lie. Everyone on the island knows any del Bosque with sense wouldn't be congregating with a du Bois regularly, so why would a du Bois' psychic of all people make the assumption that Greta knew Andrea personally? And don't say it's because she's psychic. Psychics aren't real, and he has liquor down his back, and he knows it's going to dry sticky. He desperately wants a shower.

The song that's playing is unfamiliar to his ears. Like with his phone, he prefers music that was made generations prior, all strings, no lyrics. He's at peace when he's watching the sinfónica, more so than he is most anywhere else. This music is almost grating to his ears (or, perhaps, it's the stickiness from the alcohol, and the interactions he's had with his family all night, and the fact that he hasn't had even a second of pece and quiet since his arrival). Andrea sheds his jacket in an attempt to lessen the amount of liquor that will dry, sticky and odorous, to his back, and hands it over. "It's black, I don't know what that... that-" he gestures to the bottle, "what that'll do for it."

"Oh my god, thank you, Greta. You're such a doll, caring about my cosmic fate, helping me smell less like an alcoholic– is what you could say."

Still, she takes the jacket, draping it over the work bench and dampening one of the napkins with the water and using it to dabbing at the slightly darker stain while also surreptitiously feeling for any notable lumps in the coat lining and inner pockets.

"The fourth house is about home, family. How were you raised, your feelings of belonging." She leans back, taking in the jacket, eyes flitting to his shirt. Black on black. A blank slate that's already been colored all the way in. Bo-ring.

She feels an odd mixture wired and acutely focused. It could be partially credited to draining a flute the moment they sat down for dinner but an unsettled vibration deep in her bones tells her it's more than that, that if she would just sit still long enough to self-reflect, she would be able to name it. Her foot starts tapping along with the radio.

"Are you having fun?"

#great&andrea #alas alack I knew this and forgot #ty for the reminder <3

"Villa Solana is one of the many jewels in this grand nation's coronet, isn't it?" The family fortress may perch high above so many of the districts, but this is the one that holds a special place in her heart. She was born and raised in one of the head-lined estates of La Zagaleta, spent countless years floating in and out of the studios of her family's atelier, enjoyed performances at Teatro Isolda and studied the paintings that hung on Marisella walls before she knew who she really was. "How is the night treating you so far, Ms. du Bois?"

Andrea does have his mother's eyes, just not whatever is behind them; in one slant of chandelier light, abject nothingness.

Intellectually, Greta knows that Luciana is a mother. She's so divorced from the schema Georgia conjures up, but in Luciana's own way, she still looks like one. That demure smile, soft waves of hair. You could buy her in a box, a cold plastic mold that doles out vague motherly phrases when you pull the string on her back. Villa Solana is one of the many jewels in this grand nation's coronet, isn't it? How is the night treating you so far?

"Oh, it's just awesome." Why the hell are you talking to me. "I've been texting my mom all night, letting her know exactly what she's missing out on. I mean, wow. I've seen a lot of parties, but this one? Dancing, drinks, dinner, even a show? Little Miss Pantsuit sure has a lot of ideas. You almost didn't need multiple courses, there's already so much to chew on."

two minutes later

GRETA: i'm not drunk enough for this

GRETA: it's the pregame

GRETA: afterparty is themed "throwback"

GRETA: we're whittling sun tributes by the light of fish oil lamps. it's the new hot thing

GRETA: you do it topless in waders and palm hats etc etc

GRETA: prepare for an awesome time x

RIVER: Throw back to what? RIVER: When has there ever been a good time to go back RIVER: I swear you’re making shit up to fuck with me He thinks about it. RIVER: Does Tati know about this?

GRETA: partying topless or the cultural censorship plot

GRETA: bc technically yes to both

Night can't get worse. Andrea keeps repeating that to himself in his mind as he continues about the party, making small talks with friends of Rafael's. There's a voice, a dangerous voice, in the back of his head, whispering to him: do any of these people know your real father? Would they be able to tell you stories about him? Did he smile often? Laugh easily? Or was he as stoic and flat-faced as any del Bosque ought to be? Was? Is? Where is he? Who am I?

Night can't get worse. He's sitting at his table between courses, having just finished a conversation with a table mate – why his mother would've thought to seat him with Chester Marlbank of all people is beyond Andrea, unless she wanted to torture him. She probably wanted to torture him.

Night can't get worse. Until he's soaking wet with some drink spilled down his back. He quickly rises to his feet, biting back every curse he's ever learned; this is still polite society, and a del Bosque can't be seen cursing out guests, no matter the cause. He does his best to sound reassuring as he tells Ornsby that it's fine, that the suit is black, that no one will notice.

And then Greta du Bois is pulling him by the elbow, and the night's gotten worse. Andrea tries not to sigh heavily, but he follows, not wanting to peel the soaking wet jacket from his shoulders in front of the crowd. "I told you. I don't text, and I don't believe in psychics, and why are you asking your psychic about me?"

She pulls him through a set of silver swing doors. A few heads turn but most remain fixated on slicing identical cubes of cheese and tender peach flesh. A man caramelizing butter on the stove whistles with a glint in his eye that flashes recognition. Greta's molars grind together as she winks and waves. She ends up pinning a passing dishwasher with a smile. "Could you do me a tiny flavor? Do you have any club soda or whatever?"

One overpriced bottle of sparkling water in hand later, she parks Andrea next to an empty peach crate just off the main kitchen and starts fishing around underneath a work bench for a stack of cloth napkins. "I didn't ask her anything." Lie. "The planets tell her what to tell me. You were born under a super unlucky star by the way. Your fourth house is totally fucked." Probably true.

A radio by the prep station is playing a top-40 ear worm, rhythmic with the twang of a metallic guitar and percussive drum and güira. Greta pops up humming along, a bundle of napkins tucked under her arm. She positions the lip of the water bottle against the edge of the bench and in a single well-practiced downward pull, pops off the cap.

She holds out a hand. "Here, gimme me your jacket."

#greta&andrea #.......would he have his journal in his jacket #asking for a friend

who: @gracecapell where: antipodean roasters, cinématique society brunch when: late june

Luis Bergé signed and dated his own death certificate when he left Greta standing alone in between the brioche and blinis. The day lily table arrangements were fragrant, but more than anything, the room stunk of avoidance.

To someone who hadn't been trying to pin him down, his absence would be coincidental. Excusable. Technically, Greta wasn't on the guest list, there was no paper trail to suggest that she would be here and he should be elsewhere— which, duh, was the point.

She had never been in the kinds of prestige films (because they were films, not silly little "movies") that conferred Cinématique membership. But she was a friend of a friend of a casting director who had a coveted star pin affixed to his lapel, and he had grandfathered in her attendance.

In the end though, laughing at unfunny jokes and pretending to care about celebrating the 75th anniversary of Blaspheme, a film so old it predated color, just to get her foot in the room had been a useless effort. Somehow Luis had known she would be here, just like he had known that she had called him eight times, left him one voicemail, and five messages with his secretary.

Her mimosa went down with ease and a mutter, bubbles having long gone flat. "What a fat waste of time."

#greta&grace #grace planned the event? is just in attendance? mystery option three? whatever tickles you!#and ofc #you know to slide in my dms if anything needs fixed >:)

who: @unlegitimate when: between the beef and cheese

It's a shame because it's a very nice suit, but Greta doesn't let guilt the better of her, not when there's likely a row of near identical suits laundered, pressed, and hung two exacting inches apart in the neuroses factory where Andrea was made.

Timing is everything. It's the theme of the evening, publicly and privately, and rising from her seat under the guise of swinging by Nora's table just when spines are starting to slouch is no exception. She's on her way back when she passes Desmond Ormsby hovering near Andrea's table. The man is red in the face, his hand gripping his rocks glass like a lifeline. She nudges his elbow and just like that, his drink cascades onto Andrea's suit.

Ormsby blusters an apology, Celestine Nethersole is busy despairing about the splashback on her hem, and Greta cups one hand on Andrea's elbow, intent on drawing him away to the kitchen where if he's very lucky, fizzy water and napkins will help lift the stain.

Amid it all, she manages to get in lowly, "See, if you had texted me I could've warned you that my psychic said this would be a tough day for you."

#greta&andrea #spilling the drink is a bit presumptuous #so if ur not feeling this just say the word! I'll go back to the drawing board #no worries

It's been too long since they've been out together, properly. Maybe that's what's feeding this squirrelly, rancorous feeling that's sneaking up under their skin, fraying the edges of their friendship. They've been shackled to VIP booths where you can't flaunt that you've been set apart because the point it anonymity, rationing sunset colored drinks meant for the beach inside with AC instead of sea breeze. There's only so many times two people can play strip poker before it loses it's thrill.

"Is that what we're calling six months of psychological terrorism? Romance? It's been a minute since I did a romcom. Didn't realize there was genre crossover."

She tells herself she just wants things to go back to the way they were before: easy, meaningless, fun. But if that were entirely true, her hand wouldn't be glued to her phone and she wouldn't have a cigarette in her mouth.

What she really wants is to tell him the truth and for him to be on her side in it. If they weren't nipping at each other, he could reassure her that it doesn't matter, this thing that she's doing, because none of it ever does. Absolve her with the unholy water of carelessness.

Protecting her own feelings doesn't matter though, not when her hands are already full coddling Nora's. She stands, drops the cigarette to the floor and snubs it under her heel. Well, she tried. She'll be an honest woman when she tells her mother so.

Greta doesn't bother looking over her shoulder as she heads for the door. The walk-in is cold, but there's still too much hot air that needs let out. "She's a cheap shot and you're a cheaper date. Come find me when you're done getting off on being a dick and want to actually have fun."

“You just don’t understand what it means to be in a real relationship.” Bullshit. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. Every word from either of them, pure bullshit. But this—this entire thing they got going on—is a landmine-riddled amusement park. One wrong move, like declaring ‘I choose Nora’ with genuine conviction, could literally cost him a limb. The reasons would be numerous. His retort gets half-hollered at Greta’s retreating back, not that it matters. He even feels a twinge of guilt—and is oddly proud of that guilt—because he knows he’ll take her up on her offer if the evening goes south. Still, he can’t resist not having the last word: “Here’s to hoping you don’t end up in the tabloids tonight!” THE END.

#greta&river #shaking my head even as I tee up more mess

who: @websweavings where: dinner, first course

All is well in the trumped up court of Del Bosque. Bahía oysters nestled in beds of diamond ice on gold-edged plates come to rest noiselessly on spotless white linen. The susurration of polite dining chatter rises and falls like shared breath. They are all fine people preparing for a fine meal.

Greta reaches for her oyster, exposes the bare line of her neck as she tips her head back, and is just about to slip the first course into her mouth when out of the corner of her eye–

"Did your purse just move?"

#greta&angie #hark! a short post #it's a big day for angie.......but it's also a big day for princess #lmk if you'd prefer something different!

[Georgia]: You know WHY I didn't want to come

[Georgia]: Oh no... I can only imagine what Theo's poor mum must be feeling. Be nice to her, that girl's had insecurities ever since she's come out of the cradle 👶

[Georgia]: I hope she's been behaving, but I keep waiting for the second shoe to drop...

(a few minutes later)

[Georgia]: I don't even know whether I should message her, or whether that would make things worse.

[Greta]: do whatever u want

[Greta]: she'll have her swimsuit in a twist either way

~ 1 hour later

[Greta]: oysters good, foam barf. like swallowing someone's spit. ❤️

~ 10 minutes later

[Greta]: mushrooms!! we love!! i give it four out of five missing gigis

~ 10 minutes later

[Greta]: trout good but theo's nose splint fell into hers which is bad obvi

~ 20 minutes later

[Greta]: guy at our table has never had beef before apparently

[Greta]: he looks familiar. did that tax thing you hated mayb?

[Greta]: "it's so tender!" chews chews chews "really, so tender!"

[Greta]: anyway, review is it's so tender

[Greta]: cheese and dessert incoming

that girl @glittergab - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag