Voice mail

Jan. 30th, 2030 09:00 am
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Hello. You've reached the voice messaging service for Paul Anscombe, director. Please leave a message after the signal, I'll try to get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you.
gotaproperjob: (Giggle)
In the morning, there is a box of chocolates, a bouquet of roses, and a red-velvet card with a simple inscription of Happy Velentine's Day, Gwen! in front of her room. Wherever she may be for the day.
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*eyes on [personal profile] hardlyachild at a social event*

[link]
gotaproperjob: (Glare and smoke)
"... it isn't a good idea, Gwen."

"Oh, but why not? He is fun, and even you must admit, he is good looking."

"He's bad news."

"Worse news than, oh, you? Or even my brother, to hear some girls?"

"Much worse."

"Don't be ridiculous, Paul. He's just a bloke." The familiar brown eyes shot him a mischievous look. "Or perhaps you are simply jealous."

"I am not jealous, I just don't want you spending time with Timothy Cale, that's all. Let alone going with him to the dance."

"You make absolutely no sense."

"Just... trust me that I know what I am talking about, please, Gwen."

"I'm sorry. I already told him that I am going to go with him."

"You can always call it off."

"No, I can't. I don't do things like that! Besides, he did have the balls to ask me to the dance."

Paul's jaw locked. "He has balls all right."

Her chin lifted. "And he had the courage to come up and kiss me. Unlike some other people. Mr. Anscombe."

He had no idea what effect she meant to have; what did happen was that his cheeks heated - skin pale as his, he suspected that he was blushing like a schoolgirl. "Gwen..." It was barely not a stammer; at her raised brows, he clamped his mouth shut. And, after a moment, he said, tightly, "good afternoon, Miss Soles. I hope you enjoy your dance partner."

Then he turned to go.

The fifteen-year-old girl blinked, and called after him, "Luke! Wait, come back, I was... Paul!"

But it was a case of... they'd have to mend it another time.

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Lucas Paul Anscombe

April 2011

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