Weekly Update: On Dates and Dialogue (Patreon)

Hello, all, I hope this update finds you healthy and well as we approach the end of the month.

The end of the chapter continues to run away from me - in that, as I work through the remaining scenes, they've grown in length a little beyond what I'd expected.  My original aim had been for a chapter of around 10-12k word in length, but now 15-18k seems more likely.

Is this a good or bad thing?  I'm not entirely sure.  I suspect I'm being more than a little indulgent, in some of the descriptions of setting or hinting at the world in the background.  It may be that I'm waffling on a bit.

At the same time, I'm not 100% clear what I'd cut (though maybe it'll be more obvious once that chapter's done and I give it the final look-over).  For example, the current scene(s) - the date with Dan at the restaurant and where it's leading - is essential for making sense of the upcoming resolution of the scene in the diner, which is also going to be important for the next chapter.  I could trim both, but feel something would be lost along the way.  I want the protagonist's gradual descent into their new identity to appear... realistic? at least emotionally, if not entirely plausibly physically.

In any case, the actual dialogue between Cindy and Dan held me up a bit, and it's been rewritten several times but seems to be heading in the right direction now.  The chapter currently sits at about 13k words.  I'd hoped to finish and post after this weekend, but I think it's more likely to be the end of the week, now.   

As always, many thanks for your continued support, and patience!

Here's a little sample of the dialogue between the two I've been working on.  Enjoy!

***

“… please?” I finished, having returned to an annoyed ‘boyfriend’ bemoaning the length of time women spend in the toilet. He’d drank most of the champagne and was looking a little flushed. We were in that awkward interlude between starter and main, and his inexplicable resentment had stalled the conversation. So I’d taken Dan’s hand and held it between mine, and smiled, a little pleadingly, and leaned closer. The soft light glimmered enticingly, I hoped, in the gloss of my touched-up lips. “Just listen, okay?”

He visibly drooped. “I’ve been a pain tonight, haven’t I? I’m sorry, I am, it’s just…”

“Dan….”

“It’s been a weird week, you know, a stressful one? First Fatima leaving, then the promotion, and—”

“Dan.”

“And I don’t even know if I’m ready for this step up, it’s a lot of responsibility. And I know I was late tonight, and I’m sorry about that, but there’s a reason, see—”

“Dan.”

“And….”

“Shut the fuck up!”

His eyes betrayed surprise, and he opened his mouth to protest—caught the look I was giving him—finally!—and shut it.  Dropping Cindy’s sweetness to the side, I gave his hand a hard squeeze and a sharp look. “For the love of God, will you just—stop? When a girl wants to talk, let her talk.”

He waited a moment, then nodded.

“Good– just… chill. You’re trying waytoo hard, man. Like, way, way too hard. I’m here with you, okay? You asked me out and I said yes. You don’t need to impress me with fancy steak and drink. And I don’t need you to take charge, okay? I like you, you’re a nice guy, but for chrissake, let a girl get a word in edgewise? Let her order her own food, let her order her own drink.” I gave his hand another squeeze, a gentler one, and pulled away, fingernail trailing an easy path across his palm.

Hiding a sudden grimace behind the flute and sparkle of a final sip of champagne, I resented the need to go so gently with this guy, and the uncomfortable flutter in my belly at the physical contact, the flirtatious tracing of a long fingernail lingering. Dan sat silently for a moment, dark eyes contemplative. Resentment and frustration seemed to war with regret across his features: he drew back his hand, fingers curling into fists, but his face seemed suddenly sad.

“I was going to cancel tonight, you know,” he suddenly said. “It’s why I was late.”

“You probably should have,” I said.

“I’d made other plans,” he said. “Last minute.”

“You were celebrating your promotion.”

He nodded.

“With friends,” I added. “But you’d already booked this play and asked me out last week.” Would a real girl have been offended? Maybe Cindy should’ve been hurt but I got where he was coming from: unexpected promotion, cause to celebrate—why spend the night with a girl you barely know, even if she’s as hot as me?

“Yeah.” His lips curled in a sardonic smile. “Some friends.”

“What happened?”

“They bailed,” he said. “We were a couple of pints in, and Hasan got a call from his fiancée, so off he went; and Derek followed soon after, of course.”

“And were you going to let me know the date was off after the second or third pint?”

He had the good grace to look at least a little ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“I had a feeling those guys were going to bail.” He shrugged. “And well, you’d said yes and—”

“You wanted to get laid.” I interrupted. “You’d gotten a promotion and you thought, hey, I deserve to celebrate, I worked hard for this thing, right, I deserve a reward, and hey, that Cindy girl, she looks pretty easy and frankly, I’m doing her a favour, a fine catch like me, right?”

He gaped open-mouth at me for a moment, then frowned. “I never said you look easy.”

“That’s hardly a denial.” I tossed the last of the filo pastries at him. “For Chrissake, relax; I’m not angry.”

He looked up, hopefully. “You’re not?”

“Look at this place,” I said, with a sweeping gesture taking in the restaurant and our table. “And this food’s amazing. What’s not to like? Sitting here with you, champagne, fucking shitake mushrooms, steak? It sure as hell beats sitting alone at home, you know?” I smiled. “Even if the company so far has been a bit of a dick.”

“Hey!”

“Just—stop trying so hard. Here, let me clear the air a bit. Let me make it easy for you: you are not fucking me tonight.” Maybe the bubbly had gone to my head a bit—it came out a touch louder than I’d intended. “Yeah? I want to be absolutely clear on that point. You’ve got zero chance of getting into my panties tonight, got it?”

He blushed, but before he could respond the waiter arrived. “Chateaubriand,” she announced, with the good grace to not comment on a conversation she’d clearly overheard. Instead, she slid the steak in between us, a fine fillet of real meat, red and juicy and sliced for serving. She dotted small bowls of sides around the table. It all looked amazing; it smelled amazing; putting up with Dan’s crap was totally worth it for a meal like this. Sure, Julia had dragged me out for some excellent nights out, but she always insisted on controlling what I ate: steak for her, salad for me.

The wine followed, and we sat in silence as she withdrew the cork bottle and poured out a sample.

“Sir?” she asked, passing the taster to Dan.

With all the finesse of a man out of his depths, he gulped it down and shrugged. She poured out two glasses and left—flashing me a wry smile and quick wink as she passed.

He speared a slice of beef for himself and grabbed some potatoes and greens and silently attacked his meal. Shrugging, I followed suit, and was about to take my first bite when Dan put down his cutlery with a loud clatter, leaning closer, and blurted, “I thought girls like guys who take charge!”

“Sure,” I answered, for poised at the edge of my lips, succulent meat impaled on its tines. “Some do.” I waved the meat at him. “Some people like their steak rare, some blue, some”—I gave an exaggerated shudder—“well done.” Taking the fork into my mouth, I wrapped my shiny lips around the steak and crunched down and moaned around the release of flavours. “Oh, dear God that’s good,” I said, eyes fluttering with pleasure.

I swallowed and speared a potato shiny with butter, spotted with chives. I waved the fork at him again. “And sometime, they don’t even want steak. They want a potato.”

His eyes danced from the steak to the potato, to my eyes, and the hint of a smile curved his lips. “You’ve lost me,” he admitted. “Your metaphor sucks.”

“Sometimes, a girl knows exactly what she wants,” I said, reaching for the wine. “And sometimes, she doesn’t have a fucking clue and wants you to decide. But either way, she knows what she doesn’t want.

“Your job,” I added, raising my glass in mock cheer, “is to figure out what mood she’s in.”

Dan took another bite. “Why not just tell me?”

I gave a little laugh. “Where’s the fun in that?” I answered and took a drink of the wine. It was good and paired better with the steak than I would’ve expected.

“Doesn’t seem fair to me.”

“Maybe.” My fingers drummed out a staccato beat on the table as I worked through my response. “Is it fair I get paid less at work?” I swept my hand along face and flank, taking in the efforts of the evening: makeup and hair, earrings and under rigging, the whole agonising and humiliating costume that helped convince the world I was a girl. Could I be blamed if my voice took on a bit of a frustrated edge? “That I’m expected to put all this on for you?” My hand swept across the room. “That at least one of the women in this room is statistically likely to go home tonight and get the shit kicked out of her by her partner?”

Dan winced. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” I shrugged. “But what the hell does ‘fair’ even mean when we’re both playing completely different games?”

He went to answer, seemed to think better of it, and hid his confusion behind a big gulp of wine. And mirroring him, I also took another deep drink, and in the brief lull my eyes slid across the room, taking in all the other couples, the murmur of conversation, and the intricate dance of their interactions. I’d always made a point of observing others, but increasingly I found myself paying attention to the women—identifying with them—taking pleasure in their appearance, sure, but also learning from their gestures, glances, the small signals they gave their partners and each other. Assessing them, evaluating; learning.

That woman there: tall and slim in an enviably elegant long dress, backless, slit to the thigh, legs crossed at the knee beneath the dance of fabric, hand delicately held to her throat as she laughed, a precise fall of notes like a chord on a piano; but with eyes that flared like a freshly struck match, and when the man sat opposite turned to call the waiter she grimaced and her fingers curled into fists. Or that girl—Cindy’s age—sat opposite a man a decade older—listening intently like a dog to its master as he spoke, dangling earring sparkling like Christmas ornaments as she nodded to the cadence of his emphatic gesticulation… my, how she rolled her eyes and sighed when he stood to go to the toilet and gazed longingly at the exit.

Jesus. I had to get back to being me, soon.