ST. JAMES.

Manipulation is the greatest art of them all. MATILDA MOSS ST JAMES, COMMUNICATIONS SECRETARY TO THE SOVEREIGN  /  written by Di, viewer discretion advised.

[matildamvss]

gideonstjames‌:

If it was up to Gideon, he would’ve stayed at home with Matilda and Marceline, maybe invited his parents. It may not have been perfect. They may have hardly exchanged any words or said a little too much, but it would’ve been better than this. He recognises her touch first, but he’s already filled with frustration. He only turns to face her due to the audience, forcing a smile on his lips and kissing her cheek out of habit. “Oh, so we can leave together. What a relief.” There’s a sudden need for a strong drink, and so Gideon finishes off the contents of his glass. “I can take a separate car. I don’t intend to stay for much longer, anyway.”

Her head cocks sharply at his rebuttal, challenge kindling in her eyes. Matilda smooths over the brusque motion with a brief peel of laughter, fingertips uncurling from their perch at the base of his spine and returning neatly to her own side. She’d often pitied the Countess of Albemarle---not because her marriage had failed (it was almost inevitable these days) but because it had done so publicly. Even this, feeling one or two pairs of eyes glued to her throat, was supremely uncomfortable. “It’s your choice.” Did he really think she would beg? She decides to let the draining of his glass go, seemingly, unnoticed, as she says: “I saw you speaking with Zachary Enright of the Guardian---a scathing writer, with scathing opinions of the establishment. Did his critique hold form in the flesh?”

[love]

“This photograph is my proof. There was that afternoon, when things were still good between us, and she embraced me, and we were so happy. It did happen. She did love me. Look for yourself.” This is my proof, Duane Michals, 1974

[matildamvss]

@gideonstjames​

Matilda knew her husband had arrived when the scent of desperation surging through the party mingled with that of cognac and potent---nearly offensive---cologne. They’d agreed to arrive separately, their purposes diametrically opposed: hers to go undetected, a tacit and yet powerful force beneath the current, and his to remain, at all costs, seen and heard. Gaudy. A hand wafts across Gideon’s lower spine to alert him of her presence, a crooked smile finding the shell of his ear, lips leaving a stain in chaste greeting. Her olive eyes lower to the drink in his hand, clinking with ice cubes. 

“I assume I’m driving?”

[matildamvss]

zachenright‌:

          “D’you know what, I might just steal one of these,” he joked, features deadpan as he picked up the empty ashtray to survey it. Intricate floral designs adorned the edge. Made of expensive silver, without a doubt. He flicked his own cigarette into it. The air inside was stuffy, hot and smelling of perfume and alcohol; though he was not one to turn down an invitation like this, the sheer number of people he’d been introduced to was a bit overwhelming.

          Zachary wasn’t here on work duty, of course. Everything was very much off-the-record during the event. Still, there were hands to shake and new faces to greet as the newly appointed Editor-in-Chief; a year had passed since his promotion, yet he was still considered new to the ropes. Did the subtle condescending attitude of the more senior members of the press stem from just precisely that —- their seniority? Or them being white while he was a man of color? (A combination of both, Zach suspected.) When he realized his cheeks were practically sore from all the smiling he was doing, he decided it was time for some fresh air and quiet. And a smoke. He was not alone in this, it seemed. 

Matilda despised cigarettes--- the scent, the yellowed fingertips, the grime that clung to one’s tongue like Chanel No. 5 does to the throat, unless it was her own mouth around one. It was a tedious habit, to be sure, but one she found pleasure in breaking and reforming: like some sort of masochistic surgeon. Yet, with the air outside of the palace perfumed with absinthe and something decidedly virulent, she now found it to be an agreeable distraction. “Charming,” Matilda quipped, olive eyes lowering to glance at the object, “at least we know who’ll be sent to the Queen’s dungeon first.”

She reached into her clutch where she’d stowed a single, likely bummed, cigarette: long and thin and slightly charred, sighing as she realized she hadn’t brought a match. “Zachary Enright, yes?” Her voice is proud, cheeks creasing with a tight grin, “got a light?” 

[matildamvss]

godscvethcqueen‌:

She’d never been very good at all this in the way Ralph was or her sister. Margaret had always been shy, and large parties like this deepened the edge of anxiety always lingering on the peripherals. Besides, wasn’t it important that they remain about it all, shrouded in the mystery and majesty of the Crown? How could events like this do anything but hurt this image. Still, they all thought it was a good idea, and so Margaret soldiered on as usual. 

It was easier with Ralph by her side, he never failed to make her smile, to ease some of the tension in her shoulders. His presence still lingered in these hallowed halls, haunting her in his absence. For a moment, the Queen thought she heard his booming laugh from the other side of the room and glanced up quickly. It wasn’t him, and she gracefully tried to refocus her attention on the partygoer standing next to her with a soft, sad smile. 

“I’ve been told we are to have fireworks over the river, I do hope the weather stays clear.”

There was an unending internal struggle in the palace, one Matilda often found herself uncertain toward, to modernize the Crown, to transform it into something useful and not simply intriguing---and, it certainly seemed that on this night this struggle had been won in favour of modernization. It was thus vital to ensure that the Queen was abreast of every change and one step ahead of every guest, and as someone who worked closely with the Queen, Matilda had taken it upon herself to be the person two steps ahead of Margaret herself.

Red lips pressed into a thin line. Weather was certainly the least of their concerns, and yet there would always be a select few who would blame the Queen for the rain, for bad haircuts and lost change, just as they would blame her for every unfortunate incident in the country. “At nine-thirty, your Majesty,” Matilda informed, “followed by a brief vigil for the Duke of Rothesay.” A complete lack of mention of the Duchess of York and her death was notable---and derided by the press. “I must admit, the night has exceeded my expectations. The streets are packed for miles with civilians seeking only a glimpse at the various celebrities milling these halls.”

[matildamvss]

matilda moss – tag drop !!

[matildamvss]

MATILDA MOSS, Communications Secretary to the Sovereign, arrives at Her Majesty Queen Margaret’s New Years Party wearing a dreamy, dramatic black-and-gold lace gown (right), with her signature red locks swept back into ‘Eva Peron meets Marilyn Monroe’ waves (left). Understated, Mrs. Moss chose to leave her wrists and throat unadorned, opting instead for elegantly simple diamond earrings. Although married to politician Gideon St James, the PR Machine opted to attend solo.

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