Outside the lecture hall, Frances glared down at the students pictured in the glossy pamphlet in her hand. They grinned back, thrilled to be reaching their full potential.
Disability Advisory Services— the pamphlet read in a tacky rounded text that Lucy would have had aesthetic opinions on— We’re here to help!
What complete and utter bullshit.
She stuffed the pamphlet into her tote, not caring if it was crumpled or stained by the other detritus lost to the bottom of her bag. A recent written exam was still in her hand, riddled with red ink, most prominently at the top of the page in a crowded scrawl: I have concerns. Please see me. —K.R.
The paper was relegated to her bag as well, though tossing it in the bin was tempting. She fished out her phone and fell into step, quickly firing off a text: Studying before dinner Thursday. Meet at mine. x
Over to Chrome where she furiously tapped in a url, then a name with a venomous jab of her thumbs. She glanced up as she stalked along the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding a puddle and coming to a stop on the corner as the streetlight switched red.
She ducked her head, focus turning back to her phone. A text preview dipped down from the top of the screen eliciting an arched eyebrow, but she swiped it away in favor of scrolling down the screen to a freeform text field. Without hesitating, her fingers flew, stopping only to resolve red underlines that felt particularly personal at present.
Professor Ridel has no sense of personal boundaries and inserts himself in his students’ lives. He enjoys feeling intellectually superior and exacerbates minor mistakes in order to feed his ego. Positive reviews can only be from class favorites. I find it concerning that–
“Watch out!”
Distracted, Frances felt more than saw the rush of air from a bike zipping by, followed by cold, wet dawning horror as it splashed her with a torrent of water.
She was left blinking through sodden fringe at the bicyclist’s retreating back, his earnest “Sorry!” ringing in her ears.
__
Hell wasn’t fire and brimstone, it was cheap vinyl seating, motivational posters and increasingly inane Likert scale questions.
8. Do you choose to read magazines or short articles rather than longer books and novels?
Frances glanced around the relatively empty waiting area and tugged her powder blue ball-cap lower over her brow before scratching a circle around strongly agree.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap—
9. Do you avoid work projects or courses that require extensive reading?
She reread the sentence once, twice, before circling strongly agree once more.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap—
10. Do you read slowly?
Tap-tap-tap—
“Christ, would you please.” Her gaze snapped to the left in a glare, leveled at full force behind the shades of oversized black sunglasses.
The jiggling knee of the man sat several seats away slowed to a tap…tap…tap before finally granting her blessed silence. He stared at her, or rather at her hat. “I didn’t realize people here even knew the Tar Heels existed.”
Frances blinked, struggling to make sense of what had been said, let alone what the man was referring to. The slow molasses drawl of his voice blurred vowels and consonants. “What in God’s name are you even talking about? I’m wearing trainers.”
The door to their right opened and a portly woman with owlish glasses stuck her head out. She brought her clipboard within an inch of her nose, then squinted at the few students that dotted the room. “Ms. Fitzroy? Fran—”
“Yes!” Frances jumped to her feet and strode over before the woman could read out her date of birth and address as well. Hell, she might as well shout one of Frances’s credit card numbers while she was at it. “Present, thank you.”
“You can come on through,” the woman said with an overly familiar pat to France’s arm. “Did you finish your survey? Professor Ridel included a few notes with his referral but we do like to get a baseline first...”
__
Brooks’ was decidedly stickier when viewed through sober eyes. She would have to fix that.
The pub was subdued; they were caught in that awkward time between lunch and dinner. There was some game on– the wrong kind of football –and the only person watching was a man with curling brown hair posted at the bar. Frances settled herself several chairs down and after a brief argument with the barman about what constituted “good” gin, felt prepared to pull out a printout of an email she had received earlier that day.
The ink at the top of the page blurred slightly, dampened by the water ring behind by her gin and tonic, but it was still legible. Different blanks on the form had already been pre-filled, her name, her email, the name of the diagnostician. She frowned, looked away, then forced herself to look back. Out of the corner of her eye, she peered at one particular blank, just above Describe the accommodations you believe are needed:
Diagnosed disability: Dyslexia
Frances tossed back her drink and signaled for a second.
“I know. This isn’t our season.”
The interruption came from the man who had been watching the tv. He grimaced, eyeing her empty glass then nodding at the screen, where men in powder blue uniforms knocked their heads together at full force in pursuit of a ball. She identified with the feeling.
She flipped the paper to keep him from peeking at it. “I don’t know you.” She was seventy– no, sixty-percent certain. The rounded sound of his voice tickled with familiarity.
His expression shifted from something uncomplicated to something almost...droll. It was in his eyes and the way they were watching her. “Would you like to?”
🐦 for how our muses met (Frances introducing Basti to Lucy 😈 meme expert mode)
[the same evening as this] @lucyofedinburgh
Barefoot with drinks in hand, Frances unwittingly led Sebastian across white carpet toward his future.
She tugged him along by his wrist, the touch so familiar it meant very little. The crowd parted as they wove their way over to the window, a red sea of partygoers parting under the influence of the divine force of beauty and ego.
She ducked out onto the balcony, cut in half by the window frame. When her head lifted it was followed by a shock of red.
“–cut down the guest list if we’re going to start becoming a dispensary,” she was saying, attention focused over her shoulder on Lucy even as she wrapped a proprietary hand around Sebastian’s bicep and pulled him forward, forming a triangle of conversation.
“Lucy, Sebastian Herzog. Sebastian, Lucy Needham. Lucy lives here, or rather, in my closet.” Blue eyes gave a pointed look at the cardigan that was most definitely hers. What was more annoying was that it fit Lucy better, the first few buttons sitting undone to reveal a bit of cleavage in a way that was more suggestive than whorish.
“Sebastian and I are in Politics of Business together, theoretically because he’s studying political science, but we both know it’s more that he can’t help pining after me.” His responding eye roll was matched by Frances’s wicked smile, distorted through her wine glass as she paused to take a sip. It was too easy. “I figured it was about time the two of you met.”
She tucked several strands of loose fringe behind her ear, Cartier bracelet slipping down her forearm at the gesture. A screw was missing. “Now, Sebastian and I have sort of a running bet. I say that I know about a strawberry shortcake so sinful it would persuade him to stop being celibate. He says he’s more of a savory man. I thought we might invite him to join us on Thursday to come to a verdict?”
She arched a threaded eyebrow at Lucy, silently layering one conversation on top of another, speaking with subtext and pointed looks. Yes, was the resounding answer, followed by something further that Frances fully intended to translate, only her attention slipped over Lucy’s shoulder to a woman inspecting a series of photos resting on their fireplace mantel.
Blonde, with a thousand yard stare and sporting other people’s clothes.
Frances pushed her drink into Lucy’s hand and brushed a quick kiss to her cheek, then Sebastian’s. “I have to go say hello to someone. Play nice, the both of you.”
Lips met air as cheeks pressed together twice in greeting, followed by a more familiar kiss that actually landed on Sebastian’s stubbled cheek. Frances passed off the drink she already had in hand for him.
“Diplomatic immunity won’t protect you from recourse when you track in mud. Go take off your fucking shoes, our carpets are white.”
He responded with a comment she was was sure she would recognize as rude if she had paid attention during her foreign language credit her first year, but he ultimately indulged her.
While he went back downstairs to add his shoes to the growing pile, Frances turned to wider room to look for Lucy. The flat was populated with various degrees of inebriation. A goth looking girl was holding court at the kitchen island, flipping over tarot cards and gesticulating whilst surrounded by several invested Griscombs and a variety of liquor bottles. The window to the balcony was thrown open, allowing the stench of pot to waft in. Frances rolled her eyes. Art students. They would start there.
Her gaze settled on the far wall and the boy who stood in front of it, studying the six foot canvas hung there. She didn’t recognize him, but at a party with an open door policy that wasn’t surprising. She approached, noting the symbol and latin phrasing stretched across his back. It struck her as being associated with some university club, though she couldn’t place which one.
In profile he was a mop of disorderly hair with the face of a Victorian orphan en Vogue. He looked like a poster insert from Shout that girls would pin to their wall.
Frances tilted her head toward the painting hung on the wall, blonde blowout spilling over her shoulder. “Nice, isn’t it? My flatmate did it.”
She reached out and tapped the gallery placard affixed to the wall with her index finger.
Lucy Needham
The Neediest Bitch I Know
Oil on canvas
“She took some artistic liberties. I’m not nearly so freckled.”
🧦 for a dorm room headcanon [I'm a sucker for these]
[sometime after this and this]
"There.” Frances handed back Archie’s phone without looking. Now with a hand free (the other held a wineglass nicked from Fenton’s, the food was variable but the drinks were always excellent) she was able to type in the accesscode for the flat. “You’ve entered the modern era and can read Judith’s texts undetected. Mind your head.”
They stepped into the entryway, Frances kicking off her heels and heading straight up the stairs without waiting to see if Archie followed.
She drifted over to the freezer in the kitchen. Opening it sent goose pimples across her shoulders, exposed in a slinky black dress. “A photo of us together should satisfy her for the month at the very least. Send her the one where we’re seated, you can’t see the length of my hem but you can see my necklace.” She pulled a container of gelato from the fridge and nudged the door shut with her foot. “‘An Almack’s girl is always in pearls’,” she sing-songed on her way to the living room. “Grab spoons, will you?” He knew where to find them.
They settled on the couch, shoulder to shoulder and alternating scoops of gelato, Frances adding in sips of wine here and there. The comfortable silence that blanketed the flat could only be the consequence of obligation fulfilled. Pretense slowly fell away with each bite; Frances’s feet ended up on the coffee table, Archie’s bowtie came undone.
Frances set her empty wine glass aside and picked up her phone instead, scrolling idly, nose wrinkling or eyebrows lifting from post to post. Photos from the White’s formal were slowly rolling in. Every now and then her phone would twitch over to like an image.
She switched over to her own photo album, scrolling through snapshots of the night. Posed photos to send to Judith and her mother, less family friendly ones taken with the other girls in the bathroom, a few candids. Mid-swipe Frances stopped and went back several pictures.
It was a candid taken during just before dinner. Archie was gesticulating, hair slightly disheveled and cheeks a touch pink from too much brandy before eating. She was watching him with a smile on her lips, chin lifted, clearly pleased at having provoked a response.
All the, hrm, good girls are being taken.
She tilted the screen so Archie could see. Blue eyes smoked out at the edges studied him, gauging his response as she asked: “Should I post this one?”
She stuck her silver spoon in her mouth to free up both thumbs and refocused her attention on the screen after a beat, moving back over to instagram, selecting the photo and then running through various tags. Hair by Salon 64, dress Alex Perry Pagett Midi, lipstick Charlotte Tilbury Kiss & Tell, and so on until she had fully taken herself apart piece by piece.
A quick caption, can neither confirm nor deny the occasion, and with a final tap the photo was catapulted out into the world.
She watched notifications pop up one by one, waiting for a username that mattered.
@grscmb1 and 2 other people like your photo
She pulled the screen down. The refresh wheel spun.
@vfletch and 20 other people liked your photo
Click, and the phone was locked. Frances tossed it to the other end of the couch. Her toes slipped from the edge of the coffee table and landed firmly on the floor. “Lucy isn’t here you know. You could stay over.” She leaned over, all casualness, and scooped up the last bit of gelato. “It’s been awhile.”
💀 for our hungover muses trying to revive themselves on a Sunday morning xx
“Hypothetically,” a blond mess of hair rasped from underneath a well-loved duvet, “if I were to vomit, would you prefer it end up on your ‘artisanal’ secondhand rug or in the clogs you call mules?”
The resulting kick under the covers from the ginger rat’s nest was a sufficient answer.
“If you really loved me, you would have just killed me.”
Consciousness was the first step, sending out signs of life was the second. Frances reached out to Lucy’s nightstand, fumbling for her phone. She identified it by touch alone– it was caseless with a small nick on the back –and eyes still closed, brought it within an inch of her face, swiping upward.
The clock indicated that morning had nearly slipped into afternoon. Breakfast first then.
She sent a pointed string of emojis to a text from Margaret that had arrived earlier in the morning asking if she wanted to study, then opened the Uber Eats app, already navigating over to her order history through bleary eyes the moment the home screen loaded. The order from last Sunday was already at the top of the page, waiting for her to tap ‘reorder’. She obliged without double checking. It was always the same: a McMuffin each, two hash browns (one for Lucy and one for Frances that was really also for Lucy), a black coffee Frances would pretend to drink, the toffee latte they would actually share.
Provisions acquired, she slipped from the bed, pausing once upright to give the room a chance to stop spinning. The path to the bathroom was impeded by abandoned heels, a black silk slip, a lacy dress, and a fallen canvas, still wet with gesso.
After a brief staring contest with the toilet (she won), she moved to the sink, immediately cringing at her reflection. She was more Frannie than Frances at the moment, with knotty hair piled into a poor excuse for a bun, undereye circles made darker by flakes of day-old mascara and–
She reached up, brow furrowed, and rubbed at a smear of red on her cheekbone. It looked distinctly like the shade Lucy had worn last night, Kiss & Tell.
Her phone chimed, signaling her delivery was on its way. She hastily brushed her teeth and went out into hall to slip on a pair of slippers and large black sunglasses. The intercom buzzed. She stumbled toward the front door and was greeted by the sound of a camera shutter. The resulting ding! of her phone in her hand had her swiping at the accompanying Uber Eats notification instinctively.
The delivery driver gave a wave she didn’t return before ducking back into his car. Frances was too busy staring at a photo of herself, framed in her doorway, hungover and bug-eyed in Prada whilst sporting an oversized Wimbledon tee, a hickey peeking out from the stretched out collar. Charming.
She collected the McDonald’s bag and drink tray the heinous photo had confirmed were delivered and headed back to Lucy’s bedroom. She was awake and propped up in bed, the tinny sound of disparate audio clips suggesting she was scrolling through Instagram or TikTok. Frances was too distracted to discern which, fixated on the pink smudge of YSL 43 at the corner of Lucy’s mouth.
Frances fished a napkin from the paper bag and approached the bed. “Clean yourself up, Needham, you drooled in your sleep.”
The lipstick was unwittingly wiped away and Frances exchanged Lucy’s crumpled napkin for a latte and hashbrown. There was an uneasiness in her stomach.
“How much do you remember about last night?”
Lucy gave a questioning hum, then a more satisfied one at the first sip of caffeine.
Relief, then an odd sense of disappointment. “I thought maybe–” Fitzroys were well-practiced in capitalizing on opportunity and Frances had the distinct sense that one was passing her by, but the pounding in her head made it difficult to figure out why. “Maybe you had thoughts on Janet’s generous interpretation of smart casual. I don’t know why Tony brought invited her, he could do better.”
She slid in next to Lucy, settling back against the pillows and the comfort of the status quo. This was a Sunday identical to the dozens of Sundays before and the many to come after. There would be binging whatever reality show they had started earlier in the week about people too dysfunctional to adequately express themselves, Frances would unwrap her breakfast sandwich and little else, and social media timelines would paint a picture of the night before too filtered and curated to reveal the blonde head cropped just out of frame, preparing to smudge her carefully applied YSL 43.
