[Thomas Carlyle] The Java Joint is one of the coffee shops ubiquitous in Lake View and other upscale enclaves of the city, poised between the business district and the fine condominium projects and loft conversions that flank the city's downtown. On the corner of 172nd Street and Walnut Avenue, housed in an old brick firestation built at the turn-of-the-century, the place exudes as deliberate and particular charm. The menu is hand-written in multi-colored chalk on blackboards held up by artists' easels, and the barristas all have a chic, urban vibe. The tables and chairs are mismatched, comfortably eclectic
The music playing inobtrusively in the background is some local singer-songwriter. His CD is displayed on the counter, with a PLAYING NOW and a FOR SALE - $10 - sign. Beside it is a "BE KIND - BUY CERAMIC!" sign with a series of cubbyholes where regulars can bring in and store their favorite mugs. Above it, a display of travelmugs in designer colors for sale. For all their vaunted eco-friendliness, the place is crisp and cool from air conditioning that hums constantly - a bracing little blast of it greets everyone who steps inside.
On a warm Thursday night, the place is packed. Or rather: the tables are full, half of them - at least - claimed by businessmen or college students or housewives tapping away on their laptops, grinning guiltily at lolcats or updating their Facebook pages while they pretend to be engaged in more productive pursuits.
One of the tables is claimed by a tall man with blonde hair, just graying at the temples, in a crisp bespoke suit. He has a cup of tea in front of him - not proper tea, mind you - still warm enough that the liquid gives off a curl of steam in the chill air. Instead of a laptop, the space in front of him is occupied by a well-folded section of the newspaper.
[Helen Moore] Helen had worked late, again. Most of her days are taken up by her chosen career. She starts early, wakes even earlier, and spends her day making others presentable to the world and negotiating with holier than thou attitudes, trying to get across that she really does know best and that this cut of clothing suits that frumpy backside better then the tight, unflattering fabric that the arrogant presenter is insisting on. It's not all that bad, most days, but they are tiring in general and The Java Joint had been somewhere she had been before and enjoyed the atmosphere.
In a pale gray skirt, with paler rose and dusky pink layers from blouses to cotton cardigans, and accessories of cream pearl bracelets, and a pair of ruffle toed, suede stiletto's it's clear that Helen enjoys the current trends. Her own is more classically stylish, and today she has gone for the very feminine flair, that was both practical and flattering with her paler skin and blonde hair.
She had paused with her purse in hand as she looked around at all the full tables, feeling a little dejected that they're all taken, at least for the most part. But her feet are killing her by this hour of the day and she begins across to the table that's sitting a single man.
"I'm sorry, excuse me?" Her words are quite but polite, British - London, specifically, as she seeks to draw his attention from the paper and coffee to her. "Would you mind, terribly, if I sit with you?"
[Thomas Carlyle] The stranger stands up as she approaches, tucking the crisply folded newspaper under his left arm. The business section, this - some headline about the European debt crisis, the austerity measures undertaken by Greece and Portugal, Italy and Britain.
"Of course, miss. How terribly rude of me," then, stepping aside, he pulls out one of the empty chairs at the moddishly tiled table - a high-backed chair, upholstered in teal toile - and holds it out for her with an efficient sort of charm. " - to leave a young lady standing. Please do join me."
When she sits, he tucks the chair in helpfully behind her, a perfectly unobtrusive gesture, well-practiced. Her accent is clipped and British. His is equally and quite specifically British - the practiced tone of an Eton graduate, the polished tones of the upper crust. Someone with a practiced ear might catch a hint of Sussex in the vowels. "I hope you've chosen coffee rather than tea. The tea here is simply dreadful."
Here might mean the Java Joint. It might mean: the United States of America. "If you want a proper cup, you have to make it yourself."
[Helen Moore] "Thank you." She had smiled easily as he pulls out the chair and slides herself to sit upon it, glancing slightly behind her as he pushes in the chair. Her purse is left to rest in her lap rather then on the table, leaving plenty of room for his paper, tea and her cup for when it's ready and bought over.
Her gaze had drifted across the room before returning to Thomas, watching him reclaim his seat as he tells her about the tea that's offered here, or in America. His latter comment has her laughing softly, eyes shining with it. "You're quite right. The best tea is the sort you make yourself, but when you can't be bothered, you get what you deserve."
A hand was extended out towards him, "I'm Helen, by the way."
[Thomas Carlyle] He folds himself back into his own seat, and sets the newspaper precisely aside, atop the untouched sections of the evening paper. The lighting is warm in the coffee shop, flattering and subtle.
"Thomas," he replies, taking her hand in a firm, warm grip after he has reclaimed his seat. Her laughter draws out the subtle suggestion of a smile at the corner of his mouth. The expression deepens in the crinkles around his pale blue eyes and remains there. He is a tall man, clearly fit beneath the tailored suit - with one of those forgettably handsome faces, perfectly regular, perfectly unremarkable. His hands are warm, calloused - not from work - but otherwise well-groomed.
"It's a pleasure to meet a fellow traveller - " then, with a brief, significant glance down at her purse before his pale eyes return to her face, " - particularly one who is not glued to either her computer or her telephone. Tell me, are you in Chicago on business? Or as a tourist?"
[Helen Moore] "It's a pleasure to meet you, Thomas." Her own hand is long, warm and rather delicate. She's a very tall woman, at five foot ten, and quite lean. In some parts she's even considered boned, like at the wrist and most joints. She fits her profession. Tall, lean or thin is a requirement to work with fashion.
Following his gaze to her lap, she smoothed fingers over her hand purse, and glanced back up with a surprised, quiet laugh. "It's very much that way, isn't it?" Looking around, she takes in just how many people are currently texting or talking on the computer, before swinging her attention back to him. "I'm here working, actually. LA before Chicago. I've been in America for about two years now."
"And yourself, Thomas?"
[Thomas Carlyle] "Longer than that - " he allows, his polished voice rich with rue. He has a way of sitting in his chosen chair - a leather armchair, a burnished, well-worn brown - that seems both relaxed and alert. His shoulders and spine are perfectly straight, but he still appears to be well at his ease. "Though my work has, in the past, taken me back to England with some regularity - I've been in Chicago for a few months. It was upstate New York before that - not far outside Rochester, if you're familiar with anything outside of the city's metro area.
"Perfectly dreadful city, Rochester. Like Manchester or Birmingham, and although the countryside is rather bucolic - it hardly compares with the New Forest." He leans forward, takes a sip of his tea - finds it both bitter and flavorless, as expected, but suppresses his expression of distaste with admirable aplomb. Then, with a quick glance over her carefully chosen attire, he continues, " - if you don't mind my asking, what is it you do?"
[Helen Moore] "I haven't spent much time in New York, certainly not outside of the central city region," she says, thoughtful on how he's comparing one place to the other. Like he, she's wondering what it is he does that has him spending time moving around constantly. There's no clues other then the paper that's laying on the table, folded upon another, and that's barely a clue at all.
Her tea has arrived along with a small plate with a muffin on it, some berry thing by the looks of the purplish red that's mixed through the pale, buttery sweet-bread. She thanks the waiter before sliding the tea closer to her side of the table and flicking a glance up at Thomas. Her smile is easy again, a small warm thing that graces her lips more often then not. She's a very personable woman. "I'm a stylist," she tells him, knowing it doesn't sound that grand. "I dress adults for a living." The way her mouth twists makes more of a bemused smirk, humour flooding the stranger colour of her eyes. A pale green with blues, and hints of brown closer to the pupil - details not seen from such a distance.
[Thomas Carlyle] "We have something common, then - " he replies, his eyes - perfectly unremarkably, perfectly presentable, perfectly pale, the color of a winter's sky at sunrise - lingering on her features. Thomas does not allow the look to become intrusive, however. Helen's tea and muffin arrive; he looks up, tips his head with polite equanimity to the server and requests more hot water ( - "not boiled," he directs. " - just hot." - ) to warm his cup.
"I dress - " there is a muted pause, then, accompanied by a glance toward the door. " - well, adult is rather the wrong term, I think. And I'm afraid my charge is singular, and therefore rather less demanding." The rueful edge of his smile returns, then his attention alights again on her. "If you don't mind my asking, are you working for - television production companies? Or do you have a private clientele with whom you consult?"
[Helen Moore] "Charge?" That's a term she really hasn't heard used often. She resists the urge to glance over her shoulder towards the door when he looks that way, and glances down to her cup instead. Helen has her tea black, weak, with one sugar. She picks up the little sachet and tears it open, pouring the equivalent of a teaspoon of sweetener into the steaming liquid. It's stirred after she leaves the empty packet on the edge of her saucer, with only a quiet ding against one side of the cup.
He's already asking her more questions though, and she doesn't linger on the question she had asked in a matter of speaking, choosing to answer his instead. "I do both when time permits, but work with production companies behind the scenes, currently. I've enjoyed both."
There's a small smile again. "I'd really like to be able to get on board with something that travels more. Working on a movie set," she considers a moment, "though I've heard all sorts when it comes to Hollywood stars."
[Thomas Carlyle] "I imagine that the stars are rather a handful," Thomas replies, the suggestion of laughter rumbling through his chest, wry and assured, '" - but I've found that I can bear a good deal of bad behavior when the rewards are great enough - personally and professionally."
The edge of the smile lingers at the corners of his eyes as he attention drops back to her from his dim view of the windows beyond. Full dark has fallen by now, and the tinted windows - with their bric-a-brac, posters for arts shows or renegade craft fairs, local bands of reiiki healers - obscure the steet outside. The low murmur of conversation opens up around them.
"I imagine movie work would be more rewarding - not just the chance to travel, but the challenge of it." Pausing again, he sits back as the server brings him hot water in a stainless steel teapot. When the kid has darted away again, Thomas continues, humor alight in his eyes - " - now, don't think me daft - but have you ever considered Bollywood?"
[Helen Moore] "Some days it's rewarding, others you wonder why you ever considered getting into the industry in the first place," she says on his first part, about bad behaviour and the tolerance of it. Her tone is light, not quite playful but easily amused and seeking the light in situations.
Raising her cup up from the saucer, one hand curled through the handle, the other bracing fingertips against the side, she bowed her head just enough to blow across the steaming surface. She didn't sip it yet, her gaze was riveted on the man across from her, watching him steadily from under her arched brows. "I can't say that I have. They use wonderful fabrics over there, and such bold, pretty colours. But I've not done much traveling in Asia."
A quick sip is taken from her cup, testing how hot it was. Too hot to continue drinking, she had set it back on the saucer and raised her head, straightening her back again. "Why do you suggest it?"
[Thomas Carlyle] "I suspect most people feel that way about their positions. I suspect - " another wry glance around the room, then. " - that perhaps twenty-five percent of our fellow patrons are presently," and this seems almost experimental, the way he employs the word, the sense of casual intimacy underlying the human, the way his body suggests quotes around it, as if the word itself is a provisional thing, false as the constructed warmth of the coffee house. " tweeting complaints about their positions, their companies, or their irritating co-workers."
Bollywood. His eyes touch hers again; he lifts his chin faintly, unconsciously, the wry smile spreading across his mouth. Thomas is clean-shaven, perfectly groomed. Though it is the end of the day, his suit is crisp. "My young employer's family is from India. Northern India, to be sure. I don't imagine that you would be able to find work on the more traditional Bollywood sets, and I suspect they use the same costumes over and over again. Nevertheless, there are certain filmmakers trying to break the mold - who could certainly use the eye of a young woman with a keen sense of fashion.
"And," he continues, " - if you want to travel, there are few places as complex or interesting as India. Though, I admit it strikes me as hardly practical, particularly since you've connections in Los Angeles and Hollywood proper."
[Helen Moore] Her shoulders tremble faintly at her quieter chuckle, which of most she suppresses, enjoying the way and how he talks about the others around him. Clearly he wasn't a fan of tweeting or texts, or anything of the sort, and she can admire that in a man. She much prefers a telephone conversation over an email, and certainly over a text, especially when they don't use full wording either. Helen doesn't voice these, she's traded her tea cup for the muffin, splitting it down the middle with her thumbs to pull it apart. There's small chips of white chocolate that are mixed with the cooked berries within, in an attempt to add sweetness to the sharp, tart tang of wild berries.
Her gaze has continuously flicked from watching what she was doing to his face as she listened to him, but eventually focuses after she's done pulling the muffin into two pieces, and then one of those in half again. "You're right in that, I started my career in London," where she also studied, "and while this may not be New York or Paris, I'm doing well enough here that moving to another country, again, would be a backward step. But it's something to consider for a project. I'd like to travel there sometime."
"I take it you've spent some time there?"
[Thomas Carlyle] "I would presume Chicago offers rather an interesting opportunity - both to build your brand and your name and your particular signature - " he pauses, his chin high, his head aslant, the hints of gray at his temples more apparent when the light shines over his hair. The cut and style of his hair is as precise and well-kept - and as un-prepossessing - as the rest of them, "hmm." The noise is thoughtful. " - to do it outside the shadow of the established industry. I often find that distance brings perspective. That may well be as true of fashion as any other endeavor."
His own tea is more prop now than anything else. His hand is around the cup, warm against the air conditioned chill, and he holds it because the gesture is both fitted and familiar. "Rather more time than most, though less than I would have preferred. The family for whom I work has estates in the foothills of the himalayas, but I have spent most of my time in the States or Britain. And," he continues, " - you absolutely should travel there. It is safe as houses for a woman traveling alone - as long as you're watchful. Important, too, to get out of the cities, out into the countryside. The variety is astonishing."
[Thomas Carlyle] transcript!
to Thomas Carlyle
The music playing inobtrusively in the background is some local singer-songwriter. His CD is displayed on the counter, with a PLAYING NOW and a FOR SALE - $10 - sign. Beside it is a "BE KIND - BUY CERAMIC!" sign with a series of cubbyholes where regulars can bring in and store their favorite mugs. Above it, a display of travelmugs in designer colors for sale. For all their vaunted eco-friendliness, the place is crisp and cool from air conditioning that hums constantly - a bracing little blast of it greets everyone who steps inside.
On a warm Thursday night, the place is packed. Or rather: the tables are full, half of them - at least - claimed by businessmen or college students or housewives tapping away on their laptops, grinning guiltily at lolcats or updating their Facebook pages while they pretend to be engaged in more productive pursuits.
One of the tables is claimed by a tall man with blonde hair, just graying at the temples, in a crisp bespoke suit. He has a cup of tea in front of him - not proper tea, mind you - still warm enough that the liquid gives off a curl of steam in the chill air. Instead of a laptop, the space in front of him is occupied by a well-folded section of the newspaper.
[Helen Moore] Helen had worked late, again. Most of her days are taken up by her chosen career. She starts early, wakes even earlier, and spends her day making others presentable to the world and negotiating with holier than thou attitudes, trying to get across that she really does know best and that this cut of clothing suits that frumpy backside better then the tight, unflattering fabric that the arrogant presenter is insisting on. It's not all that bad, most days, but they are tiring in general and The Java Joint had been somewhere she had been before and enjoyed the atmosphere.
In a pale gray skirt, with paler rose and dusky pink layers from blouses to cotton cardigans, and accessories of cream pearl bracelets, and a pair of ruffle toed, suede stiletto's it's clear that Helen enjoys the current trends. Her own is more classically stylish, and today she has gone for the very feminine flair, that was both practical and flattering with her paler skin and blonde hair.
She had paused with her purse in hand as she looked around at all the full tables, feeling a little dejected that they're all taken, at least for the most part. But her feet are killing her by this hour of the day and she begins across to the table that's sitting a single man.
"I'm sorry, excuse me?" Her words are quite but polite, British - London, specifically, as she seeks to draw his attention from the paper and coffee to her. "Would you mind, terribly, if I sit with you?"
[Thomas Carlyle] The stranger stands up as she approaches, tucking the crisply folded newspaper under his left arm. The business section, this - some headline about the European debt crisis, the austerity measures undertaken by Greece and Portugal, Italy and Britain.
"Of course, miss. How terribly rude of me," then, stepping aside, he pulls out one of the empty chairs at the moddishly tiled table - a high-backed chair, upholstered in teal toile - and holds it out for her with an efficient sort of charm. " - to leave a young lady standing. Please do join me."
When she sits, he tucks the chair in helpfully behind her, a perfectly unobtrusive gesture, well-practiced. Her accent is clipped and British. His is equally and quite specifically British - the practiced tone of an Eton graduate, the polished tones of the upper crust. Someone with a practiced ear might catch a hint of Sussex in the vowels. "I hope you've chosen coffee rather than tea. The tea here is simply dreadful."
Here might mean the Java Joint. It might mean: the United States of America. "If you want a proper cup, you have to make it yourself."
[Helen Moore] "Thank you." She had smiled easily as he pulls out the chair and slides herself to sit upon it, glancing slightly behind her as he pushes in the chair. Her purse is left to rest in her lap rather then on the table, leaving plenty of room for his paper, tea and her cup for when it's ready and bought over.
Her gaze had drifted across the room before returning to Thomas, watching him reclaim his seat as he tells her about the tea that's offered here, or in America. His latter comment has her laughing softly, eyes shining with it. "You're quite right. The best tea is the sort you make yourself, but when you can't be bothered, you get what you deserve."
A hand was extended out towards him, "I'm Helen, by the way."
[Thomas Carlyle] He folds himself back into his own seat, and sets the newspaper precisely aside, atop the untouched sections of the evening paper. The lighting is warm in the coffee shop, flattering and subtle.
"Thomas," he replies, taking her hand in a firm, warm grip after he has reclaimed his seat. Her laughter draws out the subtle suggestion of a smile at the corner of his mouth. The expression deepens in the crinkles around his pale blue eyes and remains there. He is a tall man, clearly fit beneath the tailored suit - with one of those forgettably handsome faces, perfectly regular, perfectly unremarkable. His hands are warm, calloused - not from work - but otherwise well-groomed.
"It's a pleasure to meet a fellow traveller - " then, with a brief, significant glance down at her purse before his pale eyes return to her face, " - particularly one who is not glued to either her computer or her telephone. Tell me, are you in Chicago on business? Or as a tourist?"
[Helen Moore] "It's a pleasure to meet you, Thomas." Her own hand is long, warm and rather delicate. She's a very tall woman, at five foot ten, and quite lean. In some parts she's even considered boned, like at the wrist and most joints. She fits her profession. Tall, lean or thin is a requirement to work with fashion.
Following his gaze to her lap, she smoothed fingers over her hand purse, and glanced back up with a surprised, quiet laugh. "It's very much that way, isn't it?" Looking around, she takes in just how many people are currently texting or talking on the computer, before swinging her attention back to him. "I'm here working, actually. LA before Chicago. I've been in America for about two years now."
"And yourself, Thomas?"
[Thomas Carlyle] "Longer than that - " he allows, his polished voice rich with rue. He has a way of sitting in his chosen chair - a leather armchair, a burnished, well-worn brown - that seems both relaxed and alert. His shoulders and spine are perfectly straight, but he still appears to be well at his ease. "Though my work has, in the past, taken me back to England with some regularity - I've been in Chicago for a few months. It was upstate New York before that - not far outside Rochester, if you're familiar with anything outside of the city's metro area.
"Perfectly dreadful city, Rochester. Like Manchester or Birmingham, and although the countryside is rather bucolic - it hardly compares with the New Forest." He leans forward, takes a sip of his tea - finds it both bitter and flavorless, as expected, but suppresses his expression of distaste with admirable aplomb. Then, with a quick glance over her carefully chosen attire, he continues, " - if you don't mind my asking, what is it you do?"
[Helen Moore] "I haven't spent much time in New York, certainly not outside of the central city region," she says, thoughtful on how he's comparing one place to the other. Like he, she's wondering what it is he does that has him spending time moving around constantly. There's no clues other then the paper that's laying on the table, folded upon another, and that's barely a clue at all.
Her tea has arrived along with a small plate with a muffin on it, some berry thing by the looks of the purplish red that's mixed through the pale, buttery sweet-bread. She thanks the waiter before sliding the tea closer to her side of the table and flicking a glance up at Thomas. Her smile is easy again, a small warm thing that graces her lips more often then not. She's a very personable woman. "I'm a stylist," she tells him, knowing it doesn't sound that grand. "I dress adults for a living." The way her mouth twists makes more of a bemused smirk, humour flooding the stranger colour of her eyes. A pale green with blues, and hints of brown closer to the pupil - details not seen from such a distance.
[Thomas Carlyle] "We have something common, then - " he replies, his eyes - perfectly unremarkably, perfectly presentable, perfectly pale, the color of a winter's sky at sunrise - lingering on her features. Thomas does not allow the look to become intrusive, however. Helen's tea and muffin arrive; he looks up, tips his head with polite equanimity to the server and requests more hot water ( - "not boiled," he directs. " - just hot." - ) to warm his cup.
"I dress - " there is a muted pause, then, accompanied by a glance toward the door. " - well, adult is rather the wrong term, I think. And I'm afraid my charge is singular, and therefore rather less demanding." The rueful edge of his smile returns, then his attention alights again on her. "If you don't mind my asking, are you working for - television production companies? Or do you have a private clientele with whom you consult?"
[Helen Moore] "Charge?" That's a term she really hasn't heard used often. She resists the urge to glance over her shoulder towards the door when he looks that way, and glances down to her cup instead. Helen has her tea black, weak, with one sugar. She picks up the little sachet and tears it open, pouring the equivalent of a teaspoon of sweetener into the steaming liquid. It's stirred after she leaves the empty packet on the edge of her saucer, with only a quiet ding against one side of the cup.
He's already asking her more questions though, and she doesn't linger on the question she had asked in a matter of speaking, choosing to answer his instead. "I do both when time permits, but work with production companies behind the scenes, currently. I've enjoyed both."
There's a small smile again. "I'd really like to be able to get on board with something that travels more. Working on a movie set," she considers a moment, "though I've heard all sorts when it comes to Hollywood stars."
[Thomas Carlyle] "I imagine that the stars are rather a handful," Thomas replies, the suggestion of laughter rumbling through his chest, wry and assured, '" - but I've found that I can bear a good deal of bad behavior when the rewards are great enough - personally and professionally."
The edge of the smile lingers at the corners of his eyes as he attention drops back to her from his dim view of the windows beyond. Full dark has fallen by now, and the tinted windows - with their bric-a-brac, posters for arts shows or renegade craft fairs, local bands of reiiki healers - obscure the steet outside. The low murmur of conversation opens up around them.
"I imagine movie work would be more rewarding - not just the chance to travel, but the challenge of it." Pausing again, he sits back as the server brings him hot water in a stainless steel teapot. When the kid has darted away again, Thomas continues, humor alight in his eyes - " - now, don't think me daft - but have you ever considered Bollywood?"
[Helen Moore] "Some days it's rewarding, others you wonder why you ever considered getting into the industry in the first place," she says on his first part, about bad behaviour and the tolerance of it. Her tone is light, not quite playful but easily amused and seeking the light in situations.
Raising her cup up from the saucer, one hand curled through the handle, the other bracing fingertips against the side, she bowed her head just enough to blow across the steaming surface. She didn't sip it yet, her gaze was riveted on the man across from her, watching him steadily from under her arched brows. "I can't say that I have. They use wonderful fabrics over there, and such bold, pretty colours. But I've not done much traveling in Asia."
A quick sip is taken from her cup, testing how hot it was. Too hot to continue drinking, she had set it back on the saucer and raised her head, straightening her back again. "Why do you suggest it?"
[Thomas Carlyle] "I suspect most people feel that way about their positions. I suspect - " another wry glance around the room, then. " - that perhaps twenty-five percent of our fellow patrons are presently," and this seems almost experimental, the way he employs the word, the sense of casual intimacy underlying the human, the way his body suggests quotes around it, as if the word itself is a provisional thing, false as the constructed warmth of the coffee house. " tweeting complaints about their positions, their companies, or their irritating co-workers."
Bollywood. His eyes touch hers again; he lifts his chin faintly, unconsciously, the wry smile spreading across his mouth. Thomas is clean-shaven, perfectly groomed. Though it is the end of the day, his suit is crisp. "My young employer's family is from India. Northern India, to be sure. I don't imagine that you would be able to find work on the more traditional Bollywood sets, and I suspect they use the same costumes over and over again. Nevertheless, there are certain filmmakers trying to break the mold - who could certainly use the eye of a young woman with a keen sense of fashion.
"And," he continues, " - if you want to travel, there are few places as complex or interesting as India. Though, I admit it strikes me as hardly practical, particularly since you've connections in Los Angeles and Hollywood proper."
[Helen Moore] Her shoulders tremble faintly at her quieter chuckle, which of most she suppresses, enjoying the way and how he talks about the others around him. Clearly he wasn't a fan of tweeting or texts, or anything of the sort, and she can admire that in a man. She much prefers a telephone conversation over an email, and certainly over a text, especially when they don't use full wording either. Helen doesn't voice these, she's traded her tea cup for the muffin, splitting it down the middle with her thumbs to pull it apart. There's small chips of white chocolate that are mixed with the cooked berries within, in an attempt to add sweetness to the sharp, tart tang of wild berries.
Her gaze has continuously flicked from watching what she was doing to his face as she listened to him, but eventually focuses after she's done pulling the muffin into two pieces, and then one of those in half again. "You're right in that, I started my career in London," where she also studied, "and while this may not be New York or Paris, I'm doing well enough here that moving to another country, again, would be a backward step. But it's something to consider for a project. I'd like to travel there sometime."
"I take it you've spent some time there?"
[Thomas Carlyle] "I would presume Chicago offers rather an interesting opportunity - both to build your brand and your name and your particular signature - " he pauses, his chin high, his head aslant, the hints of gray at his temples more apparent when the light shines over his hair. The cut and style of his hair is as precise and well-kept - and as un-prepossessing - as the rest of them, "hmm." The noise is thoughtful. " - to do it outside the shadow of the established industry. I often find that distance brings perspective. That may well be as true of fashion as any other endeavor."
His own tea is more prop now than anything else. His hand is around the cup, warm against the air conditioned chill, and he holds it because the gesture is both fitted and familiar. "Rather more time than most, though less than I would have preferred. The family for whom I work has estates in the foothills of the himalayas, but I have spent most of my time in the States or Britain. And," he continues, " - you absolutely should travel there. It is safe as houses for a woman traveling alone - as long as you're watchful. Important, too, to get out of the cities, out into the countryside. The variety is astonishing."
[Thomas Carlyle] transcript!
to Thomas Carlyle
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