#The Second Mrs. Tanqueray

[oscarwetnwilde]

James Wilby + theatre.

[vintagestagehotties]

Hot Vintage Stage Actress Round 1

Constance Collier: Cleopatra in Antony and Cleopatra (1906 West End); Rosa Bud in The Mystery of Edwin Drood (1908 West End); Nancy in Oliver Twist (1912 Broadway)

Mrs Leslie Carter: Madame Du Barry in Madame Du Barry (1901 Broadway); Paula Tanqueray in The Second Mrs Tanqueray (1913 Broadway); Lady Catherine Champion-Cheney in The Circle (1921 Broadway)

Propaganda under the cut

Constance Collier:

genuinely just the sexiest, hottest, most gorgeous woman alive hnngh

Mrs Leslie Carter:

Apparently her ghost haunts the Theater Republic??? This isn't even really propaganda I just feel that more people should know of this. Gave me whiplash scrolling through her Wikipedia, which is perfectly normal, and then just getting to the section called "Ghost". But apparently she haunts this theater Phantom of the Opera style, they all blame her ghost if something goes wrong or goes missing

[tapedeck-archive]

Mrs. Patrick Campbell as Paula Tanqueray (The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, by Arthur Pinero)

[elizabethanism]

"I believe the future is only the past again, entered through another gate."

"The Second Mrs. Tanqueray", 1893

~ Arthur Wing Pinero

[everything-lauramkelly]

A Look Back on LMK's 2010s

2010

Laura continues to play Mary Poppins on Broadway. On August 24, she is reunited with her original Bert, Gavin Lee, who replaces Christian Borle.

She performs at Broadway in Bryant Park and on America Celebrates July 4th, and attends a few galas.

Rumours about an involvement in the world premiere of Ghost The Musical arise.

2011

Laura leaves the Broadway production of Mary Poppins on March 6, and rejoins July 19 until October 9, which marks her final performance in the show.

During her time off, she's shooting the movie Goddess in Australia alongside Ronan Keating and Magda Szubanski. It is released in 2013.

She takes part in a reading of Amazing Grace in New York City.

2012

Goddess premieres at the 65th Cannes Film Festival.

Laura makes her Muny debut as Anna Leonowens in The King and I in August.

She returns to the UK to play Paula Tanqueray in The Second Mrs Tanqueray at the Rose Theatre in Kingston from September to October.

She attends film premieres, after parties and awards shows.

2013

On February 14, Laura performs alongside Michael Ball at the See You Soon concert in Shanghai. The concert is broadcast on TV.

Goddess is released in Australia on March 14.

On April 11, she's part of Dave Stewart's concert at the Troubadour.

She reprises the role of Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady for one night only on May 5 and is praised by critics.

Full of love for the Muny, she returns to St. Louis to play Ensign Nellie Forbush in South Pacific alongside Josh Young in July.

She performs in the concert Sondheim: Inside Out at London's Queen Elizabeth Hall on November 10.

2014

Laura returns to the Kennedy Center to play Guenevere in Camelot on May 4 alongside Brian Stokes Mitchell.

Shortly after, she's part of a reading of the new musical Republic. She was involved in either a workshop or reading of Carousel as well, playing Julie Jordan.

She originates the role of Sylvia Llewelyn-Davies in Finding Neverland alongside Jeremy Jordan at the American Repertory Theatre. The musical is confirmed to open on Broadway the following year.

2015

Livin' the Broadway Life™!

Laura opens Finding Neverland on Broadway with Matthew Morrison, Kelsey Grammer, Carolee Carmello and Teal Wicks.

She attends several awards shows (Tony Awards, Broadway.com Audience Choice Awards) and movie premieres.

She performs at Stars in the Alley, Broadway in Bryant Park, Gypsy of the Year, Broadway at the White House, Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and records the cast album for Finding Neverland.

Her backstage vlogs called Never Grow Up get a ninth episode on Broadway.com.

2016

How does one even begin to summarize that year?

After several cast changes and a run of almost 15 months, Finding Neverland closes on August 21.

However, there's a new project just around the corner: she's cast as Anna Leonowens in the National Tour of The King and I alongside Jose Llana. She's delighted to get to explore the role even more from November onwards.

She's part of several concerts: My Fair Lady and Scott and Zelda at 54 Below, the Cinema Musical Concert in Tokyo and Ragtime on Ellis Island, to name a few.

She makes her solo concert debut at 54 Below with three concerts called All That Matters, with an encore at 42 West.

Laura gets to attend the Tony Awards once again, this time as an interviewer. She also makes another appearance at Broadway in Bryant Park.

2017

Continuing to play Anna in The King and I, Laura tours the US.

She takes some time off in November to perform another series of solo concerts, Both Sides Now, at 54 Below.

She is recorded singing Hello Young Lovers on multiple occasions.

2018

Laura leaves the King and I National Tour in March.

She returns to the Muny for a solo concert that's part of the series Muny Magic at the Sheldon.

In May, she reunites with Christian Borle for the New York City Center Encores production of Me and My Girl, and everyone's delighted.

From June to July, she originates Julie Cavendish in The Royal Family of Broadway in Pittsburgh.

Later in July, Laura and Matthew Morrison get to perform with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir for the Pioneer Day Concert. She announces her engagement to Sean Helleren.

The rest of the year is spent on wedding plans and throwbacks!

2019

On January 24, Laura marries Sean Helleren on Maui, Hawaii.

Preceding her return to the London stage, she is interviewed by many radio stations and magazines.

On February 24, Laura makes her London solo concert debut at Cadogan Hall. Two concerts at the Green Room 42 scheduled for March are cancelled.

She takes the stage as Sally Bowles in Cabaret at the Connecticut Repertory Theatre July 4-21.

Next up: Matilda at the Muny as Miss Honey in August. Unfortunately, the last performance is rained out.

In October, she originates the role of Jane Austen in Austen's Pride at the Fifth Avenue Theatre in Seattle.

Due to her pregnancy and health issues, she is forced to take several performances off. Shortly before the end of the run, her first child Raphael Benjamin is born.

Congratulations on an incredibly successful decade, Laura Michelle Kelly! May the 2020s be kind to you and your family.

[alphareleasemedia]

Matilda Who Told Lies, and was Burned to Death -- Hilaire Belloc

Matilda told such dreadful lies, It made one gasp and stretch one's eyes; Her Aunt, who, from her earliest youth, Had kept a strict regard for truth, Attempted to believe Matilda: The effort very nearly killed her, And would have done so, had not she Discovered this infirmity. For once, towards the close of day, Matilda, growing tired of play, And finding she was left alone, Went tiptoe to the telephone And summoned the immediate aid Of London's noble fire-brigade. Within an hour the gallant band Were pouring in on every hand, From Putney, Hackney Downs, and Bow With courage high and hearts a-glow They galloped, roaring through the town, "Matilda's house is burning down!" Inspired by British cheers and loud Proceeding from the frenzied crowd, They ran their ladders through a score Of windows on the ballroom floor; And took peculiar pains to souse The pictures up and down the house, Until Matilda's Aunt succeeded In showing them they were not needed; And even then she had to pay To get the men to go away! It happened that a few weeks later Her Aunt was off to the theater To see that interesting play The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, She had refused to take her niece To hear this entertaining piece: A deprivation just and wise To punish her for telling lies. That night a fire did break out-- You should have heard Matilda shout! You should have heard her scream and bawl, And throw the window up and call To people passing in the street-- (The rapidly increasing heat Encouraging her to obtain Their confidence)--but all in vain! For every time she shouted "Fire!" They only answered "Little liar!" And therefore when her aunt returned, Matilda, and the house, were burned.

[cocosse]

"I believe the future is only the past again, entered through another gate." Arthur Wing Pinero, The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, 1893

[feminarrie]

ice and tanqueray - prologue

a/n: sorry for the delay! thank you all for being so kind as to allow me to revamp this series into something that i'm proud of. 

warning(s): this series contains explicit language and smut.

The First Meeting

When she had accepted the position of assistant wedding planner, Y/N had thought that her summer would be filled with beauty, a little stress, and an overwhelming amount of love. Initially, the high ceilings and kaleidoscope of reds, golds, and blues cast by stained glass windows had dazzled her. Her eyes often glassy as she hears the words of enamored soon-to-be spouses and heart all mushy as parents struggle to keep their own tears at bay.

The pent up stress has settled into her bones and leaves her achey as she wades through the crowd of the second reception in the past two weeks. Her eyes flit across the center pieces at each table, stalks of lavender crowded by baby’s breath. There is little use in stopping to admire the pieces when the should-be soothing scent of lavender had instead left her stuffy after placing each center piece perfectly in the center of each table. The music that sounds through the speakers does little to distract her from the ache in her bones or lift her spirits.

It’s a shame she feels as rundown as she does, if she’s honest. The fatigue clouds her mind and stops her from being swept away by the love that’s palpable between the two newlyweds dancing in the center of the room. Everything outside of the illuminated center of their vignette is quiet as everyone else sits to watch the couple. Flashes of lights occasionally break the darkness, but Y/N hardly takes the time to see the faces that they illuminate as she pivots toward the open bar.

She orders a short glass of whiskey as she takes a seat on the only available stool. The remainder of the black leather seats are taken by guests with their ties loosened and heels clutched in one hand as they lean on their friends, running at the aching arches of their feet. Y/N has half the mind to shed the blush heels from her own aching feet, but she figures it’s not exactly professional for the wedding planner’s assistant to be seen kicking her bare feet as she sits at the bar.

For a fleeting moment, she considers finding Charlotte once the clean up has started. She thinks that, as much as she absolutely adores her boss, it’ll be too much once the beginning of the semester rolls around. Between the endless papers that come with a history degree and balancing her social life, Y/N knows it won’t be an easy task to keep up the same pace at work. Plus, the amount of travel—and money—required to work alongside Charlotte doesn’t exactly fit in with the budget of a twenty-one year old student living in London.

The amber liquid is smooth as it passes her lips, hardly leaving a trace of the burn she’s so used to. She thinks that she wouldn’t mind the telltale burn of a cheap whiskey because at the very least, it’s a brief distraction from the dull ache in her joints and the slowly worsening pain in the arches of her feet. At most, the inexpensive liquor gets her tipsy and loose just that much quicker. Either way, it warms her insides and relaxes the crease in her brow as she watches the others on the opposite side of the bar.

“There you are.”

It’s the voice of the bride, Erica , that disrupts the moment of peace. Truly a lovely girl, Y/N thinks, but awful timing. Yet, Y/N takes a deep breath and opens her eyes before plastering a smile on her features. She turns to look at Erica. Curled blonde locks cascading over her bare shoulders and stopping close to the bottom of her bust. A halter neck dress colored a light eggshell white taking the place of the mermaid gown she wore during the ceremony.

She’s an absolute vision.

Rory, her husband of only a couple hours, stands next to her. One bronzed arm wrapped around Erica’s slim waist while his free arm is leaned against the polished wood of the bar. His fingers wound loosely around the neck of a Guinness while he takes sparing glances at Y/N. He is far too consumed by nuptial bliss to focus on anyone or anything for more than a few minutes.

Y/N observes another brunette to Erica’s left, messy brown hair and his own bottle of beer held loosely in his palm. He seems to be tagging along, standing close enough that it is as if he is somehow an extension of the newlywed couple. Y/N doesn’t concentrate too much on his presence though, not when Erica begins to speak once again.

“Just wanted to say thank you.” She says, chocolate brown eyes sparkling with the admiration that she has put into words. “For helpin’ make today so special for us.”

Erica leans forward to wrap her arms around Y/N and it’s moments like this that makes her think that it’s all worth it. That getting up at half five in the morning to drive an two hours away to get tailored bridesmaids dresses was justified. She’s wrapping her own arms around Erica, squeezing her lightly before pulling back to look between the couple–and the stranger now ordering another beer.

“Best couple I’ve been able to work with,” she says sweetly. “Happy to have been included in the special day.”

Although her sentiment is genuine, she’s secretly relieved when the disc jockey announces that it is time for the couples first dance, lungs deflating with a quiet exhale. Y/N smiles at the happy couple as they walk away, but quickly turns back to her neglected glass of whiskey when they reach the dance floor. Left forearm lying flat against the bar top while her right lifts the glass to her glossed lips.

“You look tired.”

Y/N’s eyebrows furrow when she hears the thick Irish accent. Had that comment been directed at her?

When she turns to look at the source, hoping that some boy hadn’t felt it necessary to comment on her appearance, she’s met with the same stranger from before. This time he’s sat two barstools down and swallowing down the amber liquid of his beer.

Y/N remains silent in hopes that her waning sense of humor is apparent enough that he will simply go back to his own drink.

“Didn’t mean it as an insult, love. Simply an observation.” He says, a smile tugging at the corners of his pink lips. “I’m Niall.”

“Don’t recall asking.” Y/N snips, hardly in the mood to deal with some rich bloke that thinks she’ll melt at the sight of a cute smile and a handsome face.

And Niall, though humble and sweet, really isn’t used to a pretty girl waving him off. In the years since he had founded Horan Sports Marketing and Management, few had done so. If not made weak by his smile or charm, the pure gold cufflinks and expensive cars certainly sealed the deal.

Although his brows furrow with slight shock, Niall doesn’t press any further. But, something the feeling in his gut—be it butterflies or something much more ethereal, cosmic—tells him it wouldn’t be the last time he would see her.

______________________________________________________________

Her foot, clad in red heels that cost at least two weeks worth of food shopping, taps against the grey carpeted floor of an office lobby. Y/N’s more nervous than she’s ever been before, if she’s honest. She hasn’t got the slightest clue as to why she had thought applying for an assistant position at a sports management company was a good idea. She hasn’t got the faintest idea what the actual job entails even though she’d spent her time between running a few last minute errands for Charlotte researching all that she could.

The rhythm of her heartbeat rivals that of a hummingbird as it pounds quickly and violently against her sternum. Y/N thinks that it, if it were possible, her ribs and sternum would surely shatter from the force of it. Instead, it only seems to rattle its way through her bones and leaves her hands shaking.

“Miss.”

The stern tone breaks her from the nervous daydream she is in, pulling her attention back toward the present moment. She looks toward the source, a slightly older woman that sits behind the reception desk. Short brunette hair pulled into a tight bun that sits neatly at the nape of her neck and a friendly smile despite the stoniness of her voice. The receptionist steps out from behind the black and white speckled, granite desk and gestures in the direction of a line of cubicles.

“Mr. Horan will see you, now.” She says.

Y/N follows behind the woman, thighs chaffing underneath the black pencil skirt she had worn. While it makes the skin tingle and sting with each step, it is the least of her worries. She’s too preoccupied with the thought that she’s meeting the potential owner of the company or perhaps it’s the son. It makes sweat bead up at the nape of her neck and a small lump forms in her throat. She tries her best to ignore the building nerves, instead turning her focus to taking careful steps as to avoid rolling an ankle or stumbling over boxes set outside the small cubicles.

They come to stand before the polished black doors of an elevator and Y/N has to control her breathing when the doors open.

Inhale.

Why had she thought applying for an assistant position for some big corporation was a good idea? She could hardly juggle all of her responsibilities with Charlotte without burning out or breaking down.

Exhale.

What does an assistant to the head of a sports management company even do?

Y/N continues to concentrate on her breathing as she steps into the elevator. The receptionist beside her presses the circular button with the number five painted on it, the plastic lighting up. She doesn’t stay, though. Instead wishes Y/N good luck before exiting the elevator with a small wave.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Y/N watches as the needle just above the set of doors ticks past each number as the elevator rises. When it stops on the fifth floor, the elevator settles with a soft thud before the doors open.

The air is cold when she steps from the elevator that goose pimples begin to rise along her bare arms, each hair standing up at the follicle. However, if the air hadn’t given her chills, the sight of the office set before her certainly would have. Whether it would have been from fear or awe, she isn’t entirely sure.

The office offers a much more warm, homely environment than the pristine area downstairs. There is dark maple wood that stretches across the floor, only being covered by a muted sea foam grey are rug. The black sofa and accent chairs look much more inviting than the uncomfortable arm chairs scattered across the lobby of the company’s foyer.

Despite the warmth the emanates from the room, Y/N’s nerves are lit that much more alight as she reads the silver name plate set at the edge of the desk in front of her.

N. Horan, Founder and CEO.

She draws her lip between her teeth, chewing at the soft flesh that is there before dragging her eyes from the plate to the person sat just behind the desk. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip to keep a sound of disbelief from passing between them. There is a flutter in her stomach that she can’t quite place, but she thinks that the shock of seeing him combined with her normal interview jitters is the likely culprit.

If he’s shocked by her presence, he doesn’t show it. He simply gives her a tight lipped smile and there’s a glimmer of curiosity in his blue eyes. Little more than a polite welcome and an invitation to take a seat passes his lips.

Truth be told, Niall doesn’t trust himself to say much more than that in the moment. He needs a moment to collect himself as the familiar feeling of butterflies in his own stomach returns. It’s a gentle, pleasant feeling that he welcomes despite how it rattles his nerves. All triggered by the mere presence of the woman before him.

[royatlyfree1923]

THE ENCHANTED COTTAGE

March 31, 1923

The Enchanted Cottage is a three-act fantasy by Sir Arthur Wing Pinhero, produced by William A. Brady, who co-directed with Jessie Bonstelle.  It opened on March 31, 1923 at the Ritz Theatre and ran for 65 performances.  

The play is set in rural England. 

Synopsis ~ A homely maid and a scarred ex-GI meet at the cottage where she works and where he was to spend his honeymoon prior to his accident. The two develop a bond and agree to marry, more out of loneliness than love. The romantic spirit of the cottage, however, overtakes them. They soon begin to look beautiful to each other, but no one else.

The play was first produced in London’s West End at the Duke of York’s Theatre on March 1, 1922. The play was published by Heinemann in 1922.

In April 1925, The Enchanted Cottage was the opening play for the Omaha Community Playhouse, starring Dodie Brando, mother of Marlon Brando.

A musical adaptation emerged early in 2000. The book is by Thomas Edward West, lyrics by Alison Hubbard, and music by Kim Oler. The musical made its debut in 2002 at the National Alliance for Musical Theatre (NAMT) Festival of New Musicals in New York and has had several productions since.

In December 2018, a staged reading of the play was presented off-Broadway by the Gingold Theatrical Group’s Shaw Project. 

A silent film adaptation was released in 1924 starring Richard Barthelmess and May McAvoy.   

A film adaptation was released in 1945 starring Dorothy McGuire and Robert Young.  In 1973 it was announced that a remake would be made with the two stars in supporting roles. The idea fell through after McGuire said that the film belonged to another period and that she did not want to go backward.

In 1949 a radio version was broadcast starring Ray Milland, Margaret Phillips, and John Carradine. 

A television adaptation by Walter Ferris was aired in December 1952. A second TV version was made in 1955 as part of “Lux Video Theatre.” 

In 2009, the New York Daily News reported the rumor that Cher would direct and star in a film version of The Enchanted Cottage. 

A widely panned independent film adaptation was released in 2016 with the timeline advanced to the present day. 

AUTHOR

Arthur Wing Pinero (1855-1934) was born in England and became an actor at age 19, performing with Sir Henry Irving’s company in London. Pinero wrote his first play in 1877. Seven years later, having written 15 more, he abandoned acting and became a full-time playwright. The Second Mrs Tanqueray (1893), dealing with a woman with a scandalous past, was regarded as shocking, but ran well and made a large profit. His other successes included Trelawney of the "Wells" (1898), a romantic comedy celebrating the theatre. Pinero was knighted in 1909, only the second dramatist to receive the honor (W.S. Gilbert having been knighted two years earlier). One of Pinero’s friends and colleagues was George Bernard Shaw. 

CAST 

Katharine Cornell

(1893-1974) as Laura Pennington. Cornell was one of the pre-eminant stage actors of the early 20th century. This was her fourth of 40 Broadway plays, most notably

The Barretts of Wimpole Street

(1931), which she revived in 1935 and 1945. She was married to director Guthrie McClintic, making a Broadway power couple.

Noel Tearle (1892-1970) as Oliver Bashforth. This is Tearle’s 7th of nine Broadway plays from 1917 to 1930. His first Broadway show was Disreali in 1917. He also did the film version in 1921. This was one of only four films he is credited with. 

Clara Blandick (1880-1962) as Mrs. Minnett / First Witch. Blandick is probably best known as Auntie Em in the 1939 MGM film The Wizard of Oz. Before moving to Hollywood in 1929 to devote the rest of her career to film work, she did 20 Broadway plays starting in 1901. 

VENUE

The Ritz Theatre (219 West 48th Street; 945 seats) was built in just 66 days, a record in 1921. It was leased by the Federal Theatre Project in 1937. It was used as a radio and TV station from 1943 to 1965, with Alexander Woolcott broadcasting his Broadway commentaries from the stage. After being dark from 1965 to 1969, it was bought and renovated in 1971. Ten years later, Jujamcyn bought it, renovating it further in 1989. In 1990, it was renamed for critic-playwright Walter Kerr. The venue’s longest run was Proof (2000) which ran 917 performances. 

[carpartnow]

Kitchen Manufacturers in Nigeria

The opening and shutting of entryways are the main activities of man's life. What a secret lies in entryways!

 Kitchen Manufacturers https://www.juvantegroup.com/kitchen-design-layout/

No man realizes what anticipates him when he opens an entryway. Indeed, even the most recognizable room, where the clock ticks and the hearth shines red at nightfall, may hold onto shocks. The handyman may really have called (while you were out) and fixed that spilling fixture. The cook might have thrown a tantrum of the fumes and requested her travel papers. The savvy man opens his front entryway with modesty and a feeling of acknowledgment.

Which one of us has not sat in some bet room and watched the incomprehensible boards of an entryway that was profound? Maybe you were holding on to go after a position; maybe you had a few "bargain" you were eager to put over. You watched the classified transcriber bounce in and out, indiscreetly turning that spiritualist entryway which, as far as you might be concerned, rotated on pivots of destiny. And afterward the young lady said, "Mr. Cranberry will see you now." As you got a handle on the handle the idea streaked, "When I open this entryway once more, what will have occurred?"

There are numerous sorts of entryways. Rotating entryways for inns, shops and public structures. These are run of the mill of the energetic, clamoring methods of current life. Would you be able to envision John Milton or William Penn skirting through a rotating entryway? Then, at that point there are the inquisitive little slatted entryways that actually swing outside denatured saloons and stretch out just from shoulder to knee. There are hidden entryways, sliding entryways, swinging doors, stage entryways, jail entryways, glass entryways. Be that as it may, the image and secret of an entryway dwells in its nature of camouflage. A glass entryway isn't an entryway by any means, yet a window. The importance of an entryway is to conceal what lies inside; to keep the heart in anticipation.

Additionally, there are numerous methods of opening entryways. There is the lively push of elbow with which the server pushes open the kitchen entryway when he bears in your plate of dinner. There is the dubious and speculative withdrawal of an entryway before the troubled book specialist or seller. There is the respectable and painstakingly tweaked downturn with which footmen swing wide the oaken boundaries of the extraordinary. There is the thoughtful and dreadful quiet of the dental specialist's house keeper who opens the entryway into the working room and, without talking, infers that the specialist is prepared for you. There is the energetic disastrous opening of an entryway when the attendant comes in, promptly in the first part of the day "It's a kid!"

Entryways are the image of protection, of retreat, of the psyche's departure into ecstatic quietude or pitiful mystery battle. A room without entryways isn't a room, however a lobby. Regardless of where he is, a man can make himself at home behind a shut entryway. The psyche works best away from plain view. Men are not ponies to be crowded together. Canines know the importance and agony of entryways. Have you at any point seen a pup longing at a shut gateway? It is an image of human existence.

The kickoff of entryways is a spiritualist demonstration: it has in it some kind of the obscure, some feeling of moving into another second, another example of the human nonsense. It incorporates the most noteworthy looks at mortal energy: reunions, compromises, the delight of sweethearts since quite a while ago separated. Indeed, even in bitterness, the kickoff of an entryway might bring alleviation: it changes and rearranges human powers. However, the end of entryways is undeniably more horrible. It is an admission of conclusiveness. Each entryway shut finishes something. Furthermore, there are levels of trouble in the end of entryways. An entryway hammered is an admission of shortcoming. An entryway delicately shut is regularly the most grievous signal throughout everyday life. Each one knows the capture of torment that comes soon after the end of an entryway, when the adored one is still close, inside strong of voice, but currently far away.

The opening and shutting of entryways is a piece of the harsh familiarity of life. Life won't remain still and let us alone. We are consistently opening entryways with trust, shutting them with despair. Life keeps going very little more than a line of tobacco, and fate takes us out like the cinders.

The end of an entryway is unalterable. It snaps the packthread of the heart. It is no benefit to resume, to return. Pinero talked jabber when he made Paula Tanqueray say, "what's to come is just the past entered through another entryway." Alas, there could be no other door. At the point when the entryway is closed, it is closed for eternity. There could be no other access to that disappeared beat of time. "The moving finger composes, and having writ"–

There is a particular sort of entryway closing that will come to us every one of us. The sort of entryway closing that is done discreetly, with the sharp snap of the lock to break the quietness. They will think then, at that point, one expectations, of our unfulfilled conventionalities as opposed to of our pluperfected crimes. Then, at that point they will go out and close the entryway.

[hollerace]

Ace, Cheese and the Star--January 22, 2021

I was in the “this drum for hire” mode. A stint with a soulful woman from the city (There’s only one. City, that is.). A folk-rock band who played only for friends, so they were liked by few. An act with a passel of horns with hard, r&b underpinnings and fetid, doubleknit stage costumes. Even a stint in the pit at a local theater (The frenzied, amusical “artistic” director would scream, “BAND GO!” at rehearsals). I really enjoyed the Cheese Russell gigs. He had this loosely knit, scuffling, skiffling outfit. Cheese managed the vocals and a bit of harmonica. Copious amounts of Tanqueray fueled his performances, closely monitored by his girlfriend, who was an immaculately turned-out Wall Streeter, seamlessly blonde and forever in control. Peggy provided a stark contrast to Cheese, who resembled a human unmade bed, a big rumple of a man whose goal in life was to induce in others the jollity that he himself exuded, seemingly at all times. Cheese Russell had the unique ability to win over any audience, anywhere. We’d do bluesy shuffles and funky expeditions. He feared no genre and attacked them all with a weird mix of brashity and balls-to-the-walls cheerfulness. Peggy managed to procure decent gigs. The dingy bars were few and far between. Often, we’d journey to the northern climes of New England to play for kids from financially gifted environments at small schools where excellence—and fun—were strictly moderated. We’d travel in a well-worn, former special-ed bus. Peggy piloted. I’m not sure whether Cheese was allowed to do so. The vehicle was kitted out quite nicely. One particular foray took place early in the school year, on an pristine field hockey venue at a suitably tweedy college in Massachusetts. I learned multiple acts were booked for a “welcome back” event of forced enjoyment for the young scholars. I claimed an embracing easy chair between my bass drum and the Hammond B-3, which organ Cheese owned and required players to master. The band that day was Cheese’s usual amalgam of players. I know we had Beefsteak Osborne on the B-3, a solid cat. I was less sanguine about our bassist, simply known as Riley. A modestly talented player, Riley seemed more thrilled with the music business than actually honing his skills on his selected instrument. Riley was a former rugby jock with broad-shouldered, Sellecky good looks. He didn’t mind the female attention he’d get at every venue, either. On the bus, he exclaimed: “We’re opening up for Dalton Willow today. Cool.” This didn’t faze me, but it rankled our leader, who snapped: “We are The Cheese Russell Band. Cheese doesn’t ‘open’ for anyone. He’s lucky we’re here.” I had heard of this Willow character. He played solo, strumming wan ballads that college kids favored, since the tunes had little content. One song, “Sunday Funday” had reached the airwaves in certain parts of the country. I had heard the harmless ditty once or twice. The Cheese bus contained enough years of grizzled talent that Dalton Willow didn’t impact the crazed paths we each had committed to following. No matter. A beautiful Sunday lay ahead. One quick set and gone. Peggy always took care to put ample jingle in our pockets. She doled out the gin, tonic and limes in just the right doses to get Cheese limbered up, but with at least two wheels on the track. As two flanneled, weight-advantaged Vermont girls warbled folk songs, I set my kit up behind the stage. There would be at least two more acts before we hit. I took my time. Peggy, pristine in cashmere and camel, saw to Cheese. “These kids think I’m someone’s aunt,” she remarked to me at one college gig. A pressed-jean guy wearing myriad laminated backstage passes from various small-time venues seemed to be directing traffic backstage. “You, over there,” he barked to no one in general, “are you with Cheese Russell?” Cheese rolled his eyes, took a deep swill and said, “I AM Cheese Russell. Relax, buddy.” This discomfited the laminati man somewhat. He said, “I am Dalton’s manager, and we can’t have people roaming around back here. Dalton is the headliner and he requires…”

By this time, Cheese’s back was turned. He lit a Lucky as the manager fumed. Peggy quickly intervened to mollify. I went about my business of unfolding, tightening and securing, as I had done so many times before.

A guy approached me as I worked. He said, “You’re Ace Holleran, aren’t you?”

Whoa. I didn’t expect this so far north. I assented. He said, “I saw you at McCall’s in New York with Darlene Sanders. Nice drums.”

We shook. “Cool,” I said. “What’s your name?” The guy stepped back and offered me a perplexed look. “Why, I’m Dalton.” As in “howdareyounotknowwhoIam.”

I feigned fandom. For a second. Then, I figured that I had been in the biz long enough to brook  such nonsense. I challenged: “What’s your real name? Can’t be Dalton Willow. Come on, man.”

He looked at the ground, almost ashamed. “It’s  Harold. Harold Kisch.”I as

ked, “What about ‘Sunday Funday’? Are you tired of playing it?”

He said, “Yeah, but…”

I replied, “Then don’t do it today. Play one of your newer tunes, something you like better.”

Harold/Dalton began to protest. His manager stepped in. “YOU CAN’T TALK TO HIM! THAT’S DALTON WILLOW, POLYGRAND RECORDING ARTIST! Dalton, come get into your stage clothes!”

I met Mr. Laminate’s glare with a dismissive middle digit and got my gear sorted.

Per usual, Cheese confused his audience in the early going. These young listeners, fueled mainly by cheap wine, were not used to hearing Curtis Mayfield and J. Geils. In reality, they must have thought the Supremes assayed real soul music.

But through our leader’s insistent goading (and vicious harp licks), the students began to come around. Even extremely pale, rhythmically challenged girls tried to dance to “The World Is a Ghetto” and “Superfly”. In the end, hundreds of young Episcopalians asked for an encore.

Riley looked elated, smiling for a passel of adoring coeds. As I packed up, Peggy asked us if we wanted to stay for Dakota Willow. Cheese was settling into post-gig lassitude and Riley, who was working a bosomy young scholar, pleaded with me.

I added, “Ok, Riley. But I’ll betcha ten that he doesn’t do his hit.” The bassist took the wager. He had already found blanket space with his paramour.

A few feet away, Dalton Willow, clad in a confusing medley of buckskin, brandished a ridiculously expensive Martin guitar and prepared to serenade his homogenous public.

At the rear of the crowd, after getting buttonholed by the lubricated lacrosse team (and newfound Cheese fans), I settled back with a Ballantine ale and watched a minor rock star play at earnest while the sun set.

I must admit, some of the songs weren’t half bad. DW warbled about his dog, an old VW van and a lost girlfriend whose name might have been Mary (I couldn’t follow the lyrics). To my delight, he didn’t attempt his “hit.” As he finished up, most of the students had left for their deluxe townhouses on campus.

The ovation was paltry; the manager was furious. I could hear him as we got on our bus, upbraiding the leathery balladeer (“Are you kidding me? That song is your living!”) I caught one last view of the former Harold Kisch. He gave me a thumbs-up and a wink.

On the way, before I dozed, I said, “Riley that’s ten you owe me.”

***

Within the next year, I emigrated to Los Angeles. Not long after, Beefsteak Osborne sent me a newspaper clipping. It seems a school bus driven by one Margaret Flannery had been sideswiped by an errant oil truck on a rural Vermont highway. Her lone passenger, one Marlon (Marlon?) Russell, died on the spot.

Later in my career, I drove to a producer’s home in Malibu to discuss an upcoming album. I tuned the juke to a rock station. I found myself intrigued by a newer, uptempo tune by established stars, the Desperadoes. The DJ purred, “A bit of trivia for you listeners. That song was written by one ‘H. Kisch.’ He might be better known to some of you folks back East as one-hit wonder Dalton Willow.” 

[universitybookstore]

Matilda,

Who told Lies, and was Burned to Death.

Matilda told such Dreadful Lies,

It made one Gasp and Stretch one’s Eyes; Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth, Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth,

Attempted to Believe Matilda: The effort very nearly killed her, And would have done so, had not She Discovered this Infirmity. For once, towards the Close of Day, Matilda, growing tired of play, And finding she was left alone, Went tiptoe

           to               the Telephone And summoned the Immediate Aid Of London’s Noble Fire-Brigade. Within an hour the Gallant Band Were pouring in on every hand, From Putney, Hackney Downs and Bow, With Courage high and Hearts a-glow They galloped, roaring through the Town,

“Matilda’s House is Burning Down!” Inspired by British Cheers and Loud Proceeding from the Frenzied Crowd, They ran their ladders through a score Of windows on the Ball Room Floor; And took Peculiar Pains to Souse The Pictures up and down the House,

Until Matilda’s Aunt succeeded In showing them they were not needed And even then she had to pay To get the Men to go away!

It happened that a few Weeks later Her Aunt was off to the Theatre To see that Interesting Play The Second Mrs. Tanqueray.

She had refused to take her Niece To hear this Entertaining Piece: A Deprivation Just and Wise To Punish her for Telling Lies. That Night a Fire did break out— You should have heard Matilda Shout! You should have heard her Scream and Bawl, And throw the window up and call To People passing in the Street— (The rapidly increasing Heat Encouraging her to obtain Their confidence)—but all in vain! For every time She shouted “Fire!”

They only answered “Little Liar!” And therefore when her Aunt returned, Matilda, and the House, were Burned.

--from Hilaire Belloc’s Cautionary Tales for Children.  The poet was born July 27, 1870.

[ancientbooshartifacts]

Bailey's on Me CoCoaPuffs!

Author: Brain_Secretary

Year: 2009

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Saboo/Tony Harrison

The night was beginning to wind down at the Shaman Shack, where the famous Board of Shaman were celebrating their approval for a spin-off series. The bar was swimming with the sounds of glasses clinking, groupies giggling, magic men laughing loudly and of course, the singing; “We’re super magic men! We go on at 3 am! Although we’re on The Mighty Boosh, we’ll kill them lads! Watch for proof!” After the minutes turned to hours, the board were wasted. Dennis, Head Shaman, was off caressing himself and sniffing the curtains, all while softly weeping. He would say later that he had taken the wrong pills for his migraines and that it mixed with the mass quantity of alcohol that he consumed.

 But everyone knew that he had only had a few sips of his pint and spilled the rest. Kirk was on the bar wooing four groupies who eagerly awaited escorting him to his hotel room. The wild, red-haired magic man Barry had popped by to join the festivities. He had four Mick Jaggers and half a crate of poppers. Now he was over by the jukebox with his arms around two beautiful, curvaceous young women; a tall blonde and a shorter queen with jet black hair. They remind one of this unsuccessful duo from a few years back… Naboo and Bollo were finished with their karaoke rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s “Tusk” and were staggering around trying to remember the lyrics to “Peacock Dreams”. They soon gave up on it and launched into another track from “Tusk”. Saboo was drunk, but he still had the capacity to hate.

“You’re rubbish ya berks! Shut it!” Saboo shouted. He hated Fleetwood Mac not only because they were indeed bullshit munchers, but also because it seemed that people hadn’t had enough of them in the 70’s and had to keep playing their songs. Yes, there was that one track off of “Rumours” that didn’t suck so hard, but “Tusk”?! ONE song off that album got airplay! ONE! These thoughts were racing through his head and he shouted, “No one knows that shite! It sucked in ‘79 and it sucks now!”

“Oooooh! Ease up on it ya nonce!” Saboo didn’t even have to turn around. He knew that it was the unmistakable voice of Tony Harrison. “Tusk was brilliant! Buckingham at his best! Have you listened to Not That Funny? Absolutely genius!” “Can it, you magenta mongrel!” “If I weren’t so wasted, I’d come at you, ya ball bag!” “Get back in your box, you pink poof! You’ve had enough!” “Had enough?! I’ve only just begun! I’m toppin’ it off with Bailey’s on me Co-Co Puffs!” “Oh! Sick you are!” Saboo watched in disgust as the little pink octopus slithered [is that the appropriate term?] over to the bar. He stared in silence as Harrison tried to climb up to the bar to order his hideous “meal”, but fell onto the floor. In that moment Saboo felt something he had never felt before; compassion. He bolted up almost immediately and trotted over to Tony. He saw that Tony wasn’t hurt, but that he was done for the night and needed to sleep this off. Saboo realized that he had to shoot off some sarcasm to play this act of care off. “Oh, great! Look what you’ve done. Bravo, Tony Harrison!” “Awww. What’s happenin’? I’m blazin’!” “It’s about time for you to get home and out of our sight, ya berk.” “I can’t drive! And I can’t go home to the Mrs. Like this! She’ll throw me out!” “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Tony! Then what the hell are we supposed to do with you?” “I need a place to stay.” “Well let’s find some poor, unfortunate spirit to take you.” Saboo looked around the bar for a fellow Shaman that he could dump Harrison onto. Dennis was nearly passed out on the floor twitching and shivering. Kirk had disappeared with the four groupies (and some others that trailed after them.), Barry was half attempting a three-way with the two girls (who were practically undressed. Had the patrons been more sober, this would have been quite a show) and Naboo and Bollo were finished singing and they had their arms around each other. They appeared to be… intimately embracing one another… No! Could it be? Either way, there was no possibility of them taking on the burden of Tony. He went up to bar tender. “Oi mate! Is there any way this, thing here could get a cab?” “Oh, sorry lad! Cabs don’t come out this far at this hour. ‘Cept Death Cabs, but you really don’t want to call one of them. Don’t operate too well, and they sing Union Gang songs ‘til you WANT to die!” “This wank here probably enjoys that 60’s shite!” Saboo was hoping that the bar keep would do him the favor and get him the number, but he just turned around. Saboo gave him a nice two fingered gesture behind his back and twirled back to Harrison. He looked down into Tony’s blurred and strangely familiar eyes and read them perfectly. He shook his head, but realized that there was no alternative. He’d have to take Harrison home with him. Saboo was beyond annoyed; even beyond angry. Harrison was probably the most obnoxious being on this or any other planet! He had to get shitfaced if he was going to survive this night. He went back to the bar and ordered two shots of Bacardi 151 and a straight Tanqueray chaser. With the liquid fire resonating in his system, he was ready to go home, put the pink ball bag to sleep and crash. He lifted Tony up and they left the Shaman Shack. They boarded the magic carpet and headed off. Saboo knew he shouldn’t be driving, but clearly, there was no alternative. He hadn’t even thought about booking a hotel room, most likely because he hadn’t planned on either getting laid or getting drunk. Saboo had hoped that Harrison would pass out from the booze, but he was actually still speaking coherently. He was babbling on about Lindsey Buckingham’s inspiration from John Stewart. Wait. Wasn’t he some American news guy? Had to have been someone else… And then something about an early career with Stephanie Nicks. Now it was actually Saboo who felt close to passing out. He couldn’t even come up with an insult to hurl at Tony’s taste in music. Saboo began to listen to Tony and the voice became less irritating and more, well, soothing. He started to feel weird. For a few moments he seemed to black out and only remembered feeling the carpet beneath him, but nothing else; he couldn’t feel himself. It was all very strange, but then he came back down to catch Tony talking about the girls from the bar. “Those birds that were all over Kirk were pretty sexy, but Barry was the real winner!” Saboo recalled the two girls and finally found his voice. “I know! They were hot double X’s! I would let them use my body like a primary school play structure!” “That slag probably won’t even remember it!” “Lucky bastard.” “I wish the Mrs. was hot like that. She’s at that age where they never open the valve, ya know?” “That’s a shame.” It didn’t even bother Saboo to be talking about Harrison’s sex life. It then occurred to him that no one knew what Mrs. Harrison looked like. “Hey Tony, what exactly is ¾” He was cut off by the sound of the Moon letting about a burp, which in the sky was like having a car explode next to your ear. The shock and then the next minute and a half of shouting obscenities at the Moon made him completely lose his train of thought. The carpet eventually passed on. The Moon watched it go by and muttered to himself, “Well that’s just bloody rude.” Saboo calmed down and looked back at Tony. He was staring back up at him with a huge grin. He then got the courage to ask Saboo something he had wondered for ages. “So, you’re an attractive young man, why don’t you have a lady?” Saboo was confused. No one had ever asked him something like this before. Truth be told, he didn’t have many friends, which is probably why the subject of his personal life never came up. “I.. I am dedicated to my work as a Shaman… And you know, now with the series, I’m going to have a lot on my plate… I still get my fill of women. Oh yes! Just a brief affair is all I need.” He looked at Tony and knew that he wasn’t buying it. “Look! It’s none of your concern! You’ve got no room to judge me you mauve menace!” Harrison looked shocked. Saboo hung his head and turned away, shamed. He then felt the touch of a soft tentacle brush his side. He turned and met Tony’s understanding gaze. He let go of all sobriety and inhibitions and embraced the little creature. At first he told himself it was like practicing kissing with your stuffed animal, which a young Saboo had once done. He had gotten good at it, but so rarely ever had to use the skills acquired. Now he was making good use of it. Eyes shut tightly, he locked tongues with the miniature being. Tony felt like he was getting warmer and his soft tentacles soon became stiff. He was aroused. The feeling of the phallic like limbs began to excite Saboo. He found himself stroking them and this made Tony moan. Saboo stuck one in his mouth and sucked hard. He didn’t exactly know what Tony’s body was doing, but he got the basic idea. Tony was having an awesome alien orgasm. Saboo was drunk, but not gone. He backed away from the tentacle just in time to get a face full of extra terrestrial semen. He hoped that the shame of this would never kick in, and that’s when he felt the squishy limbs around his dick. The feeling was different than that of hands, better. It felt like a hot and moist flower closing its pedals around him. It was great. Better than great. Spectacular. It was over in a matter of seconds. Saboo managed to stay functional until they reached his place. He parked the rug and put it away. He carried Tony into his place and put him to sleep in an arm chair. He found his way to his bedroom and crashed, quite literally. Neither of the Shaman remembered what had happened the next morning, but they seemed to like each other a lot more. They ate breakfast together; Co-Co Puffs with Bailey’s. It was actually rather tasty. Tony from then on was puzzled as to why after sex with the Mrs., he always thought of Saboo. And Saboo always questioned why he became aroused by the sight of flowers.

[seagull-astrology]

#44 British Actor George Arliss

#44 British Actor George Arliss

George Arliss, original name Augustus George Andrews, (born April 10, 1868, London, Eng.—died Feb. 5, 1946, London from chronic bronchitis age 77). He portrayed many historic personages in motion pictures.

He began his acting career in 1887 but found success when he appeared with Mrs. Patrick Campbell in London during the 1900–01 season. In 1902 he played in The Second Mrs. Tanqueray in New…

[industrialresearchupdatedip-blog]

Gin Market - Size, Share, Outlook and Opportunity Analysis, 2018–2025

Gin is an alcoholic beverage deriving its flavor from juniper berries. Gin is produced by a two-step process by re-distillation of a neutral spirit. Botanicals and natural extracts are added to the neutral spirit to obtain the final product. The neutral spirit is derived from grains such as rye, wheat, corn or barley. The most commonly utilized botanicals include coriander seeds, angelica root, lemon peel, cassia, and orris roots among others.

Gin is the favored drinks for cocktails and blends with other beverages. It is popularly consumed along with tonic water or blended into cocktails with other spirits. This has increased its popularity and it is among the fastest growing alcoholic spirits.

Download PDF Brochure at :

https://www.coherentmarketinsights.com/insight/request-pdf/1986

Market Dynamics

Increasing number of adults and young population and high disposable income of consumers are the major factors driving growth of the market. Innovation in products due to high demand for alcoholic beverages with changing taste and preferences is key factor for growth of the gin market. New gin products with unique botanicals has witnessed rising sales in recent times. Furthermore, advancements in distribution channels such as availability of separate counter for females, outlets on airports, online sales, and a growing tourism sector are some of the factors boosting growth of the gin market.

Growing population of female alcohol consumers, rising number of bars and restaurants, and growing demand from emerging economies are key driving factors for the gin market. Additionally, with increasing number of millennials shifting from beer and to spirits, the market for gin is expected to witness a positive growth trend during the forecast period. According to the Distilled Spirits Council, gin supplier revenues in the U.S. rose by 2.2% during the period 2016-17.

Market Outlook

North America is gaining significant traction in the alcoholic beverage market, owing to increasing trend of alcohol consumption among young adults, which increases demand for high-quality alcoholic beverages. According to National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism (NIAAA), in 2015, around 6.2% of adult population was reported to be consuming alcoholic beverages in the U.S. Furthermore, according to the Distilled Spirits Council, the gin sales volume in the U.S. was pegged at about 9.87 million 9 liter cases in 2017.

Europe was the second-largest market for gin in 2016. Increasing alcohol consumption across Europe is projected to bolster the market growth for gin. Alcoholic beverages market in this region is led by France, followed by Germany, Italy, UK, and others. The high consumption rate of alcohol has also been recorded in the economies such as Estonia, Belarus, and Lithuania in this region. According to the World Bank Group, in 2015, Belarus consumed 17.1 liters per person per capita as compared to world average of 6.3 liters per person per capita. According to the Wine and Spirit Trade Association (WSTA), sales of gin in the U.K. was valued at US$ 1.9 billion in 2017.

Key Market Players and Brands

The world’s largest selling gin brands by revenue include Larios, Seagram’s, Beefeater, Tanqueray, Bombay Sapphire, and Gordon’s. According to Diageo plc, the company’s gin brand, Tanqueray, witnessed growth in all regions. The brand exhibited a growth of 9% worldwide and double digit growth across Europe.

Increasing demand for gin has resulted in adoption of strategies by key players such as mergers and acquisitions to enter new markets and seek to increase market share. For instance, Gruppo Campari in 2017, acquired premium gin manufacturer, Bulldog Gin, for US$ 58 million. In 2014, Davos Brands acquired Aviation American Gin. Organic growth strategies included new product launches. For instance, Diageo plc launched Gordon’s Premium Pink Gin in the U.S., Europe, and Australia in 2017 and early 2018. The product targets the young populace in the aforementioned regions.

Major players operating in the global gin market include San Miguel Corporation, Pernod Ricard, Diageo plc, Bacardi Limited, William Grant & Sons Ltd., Gruppo Campari, and Beam Suntory, Inc.

For More Information :

https://www.coherentmarketinsights.com/ongoing-insight/gin-market-1986

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Coherent Market Insights is a prominent market research and consulting firm offering action-ready syndicated research reports, custom market analysis, consulting services, and competitive analysis through various recommendations related to emerging market trends, technologies, and potential absolute dollar opportunity.

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[feminarrie]

ice and tanqueray - one

warning(s): this series contains smut (18+)

[ masterlist ] / [ story tag ] / [ niall tag ]

The First Glimpse

The spitfire attitude that she had upon their first meeting hadn’t disappeared even after Y/N accepted the position of Niall’s personal assistant. Niall had seen the target upon his chest shift to overly flirtatious athletes and some particularly rude staff members from the second floor. Though, Niall likes to think that she’s a bit softer on him now that she’s gotten to know him a little better over the past six or so weeks. She no longer rolls her eyes at him when he laughs at his own jokes during some meeting with an athlete and their legal team. Niall could swear he’s seen her smile down at the minutes she’s typing up on her laptop. She’s even had his regular coffee order (two creams and three sugar) sat at the edge of Y/N’s desk, still hot, by the time he has arrived on more than one occasion.

When he arrives today, there’s no coffee sat neatly on a coaster atop his desk. But, the lack of the caffeinated beverage isn’t why his eyebrows furrow and a huff of air is expelled from his nose. The desk that sits just outside the heavy double doors of his office is empty of its occupant and the black handbag that served as both her purse and backpack.

It’s unlike Y/N to be late, as far as Niall knows. She could have certainly come in late on the days that he’s played golf before coming into the office a few hours later. However, he doubts that Y/N would do such a thing. She’s there earlier than he is, most days, with a notebook splayed out on top of one textbook or another. Sometimes with some acoustic playlist that he wonders how she hears through all the rustling and turning of the pages.

Niall’s putting his phone to his ear when he hears the elevator chime with someone’s arrival. The silver doors open to reveal a disheveled Y/N rummaging through the contents of her bag to find, what Niall assumes to be, her phone. Her free hand brushes a few loose tendrils behind her ear when they fall in front of her eyes. Her brow remains furrowed as she continues the search for her phone. Niall thinks he can hear a soft hmph from where he is standing, a sure sign of Y/N’s building frustration.

Y/N looks up when she sees the pair of black Chelsea boots Niall wears on the more casual days at the office. She gives up the search for her phone then and shifts her attention to pulling a tissue from her bag. With a quiet sniffle and a quick swipe of the crumpled tissue, Y/N allows herself to make eye contact with Niall. Though, Niall is momentarily distracted as his eyes take in her appearance even further. A chapped nose, nostrils and tip tinged pink, and eyes half-lidded with fatigue. Niall cannot help the slight dip in his brow when she finally opens her mouth to speak.

“Sorry I’m late, Mr. Horan.” Y/N says, a cough following closely afterwards. It’s a terrible, painful noise that comes deep from within her chest. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Don’t mean to be rude, pet. But, you look a little worse for wear.” Niall says, a sympathetic smile on his face. “You didn’t have to come in if you’re ill.”

Niall expects a snarky remark to follow his words, but instead he’s met with Y/N’s lips settled into a pout. Her lower lip is jutted and her nose twitches when she sniffles once again. The look on her face remains even as she quite literally drops her bag on the floor without any regard to the contents inside it.

“I’m already two days behind on my summer course work. I can’t afford to fall behind at school and work.” Y/N frowns, plopping down in the black faux leather computer chair that rolls slightly with the sudden weight.

Niall’s not so far removed from his time at university that he’s forgotten just how hard it was to be a student. Even with his father’s legacy and support—fiscal or otherwise—he had worked hard in his studies to be where he is today. Remembers the inconvenience and added stress of taking courses during what should be a time of rest. So, maybe that’s the reason why his eyes turn soft and he’s shaking his head as Y/N begins to unpack the contents of her bag. Pulling crumpled and used tissues from her bag and tossing them into the garbage as she sifts through to find her notebooks. Or maybe it’s the fact that she’s been on his mind ever since Grace and Niall’s wedding. Mostly innocent, but he’s not too keen to admit that he’s thought about her when he’s getting off.

“Go home, Y/N.” He says, voice softer than Y/N has ever heard. “Get some rest.”

Even though she can feel the way her lungs struggle to inflate and can hear the wheeze that the action causes, she shakes her head. She knows she literally cannot afford to skip a day of work if it means she wants to maintain a roof over her head and a tummy full of chicken noodle soup when she’s ill.

“I’ll leave to get myself a tea and your coffee in a minute,” Y/N rasps.

Niall’s chest rises and falls with a heavy sigh.

“It wasn’t up for debate.” Niall orders, voice stony with authority. “Go home.”

Y/N heaves a sigh, but immediately regrets it when it catapults her into a coughing fit that rips at her throat. Though it’s short lived, it leaves her throat feel more raw and swollen than before. She struggles to speak, each word falling silent as they claw their way up and finally settle on her tongue.

“Can’t.” A single syllable is all she can muster.

Niall crouches down before Y/N, tipping forward onto the balls of his feet. His thick and freshly manicured hands are plucking up creased papers and frayed notebooks to put into her bag. He nestles them between textbooks with post-it flagged pages and her wallet. Y/N watches him with narrowed eyes, a pout reappearing on her lips.

“Put that lip away, Y/N.” Niall says when he glances up at her. “Go home and rest.”

Y/N had remained sedentary in her bed for the next four days. Wrapped tightly in a quilted blanket and reruns of Grey’s Anatomy playing quietly in the background as she slept. She’s been asleep for the majority of those ninety-six hours and plenty more ill than she had even realized. And as much as she had balked at Niall sending her home on Wednesday, she was grateful that he had insisted. So grateful, in fact, that she’s attempting to balance a plate of freshly made banana bread and his regular coffee order in one hand while calling the elevator with the other.

She doesn’t actually know if Niall likes banana bread or if he’s allergic to the finely chopped walnuts that are scattered throughout. So, in theory all of her efforts could have been for absolutely nothing, but she tries not to focus on that. Rather turns her attention to the woman at her side and kindly asks if she would press the button to take her to her designated floor. The woman, whom Y/N assumes is a professional athlete based on her height and toned physique, presses the shiny plastic of the button without further acknowledgment.

The bell sounds sooner than Y/N had anticipated and startles her. The coffee that is nestled in the crook of her elbow slips from where its held and splashes against the black and gold marbled floor.

“Fuck!” She exclaims, both in frustration and at the hot liquid that has splashed at her feet.

Y/N glances over at the woman next to her, noting the splotches of brown that have begun to stain her stockings and the disgruntled look on her face. A string of apologies and promises to buy a new set of heels for her falls from her mouth before she can stop herself. Far before she’s noticed the red bottoms of the velvet, pointed-toe shoes that once were a pristine burgundy.

But, Y/N is a woman of her word and doesn’t shy when they exchange details as they step outside of the elevator. The tall blonde with stained shoes and lips pressed into a hard line holds the doors ajar as Y/N types her number into her phone. She receives a text message seconds later with the woman’s name and ‘red velvet Pigalle Follies’ written in capital letters.

A few more whispered apologies fall from Y/N’s lips until the doors are sealed and she’s left alone in the large foyer. Her steps sound sloshy as she makes her way toward her desk, the bottom of her kitten heels sticking to the ground before lifting with a distinct noise that makes her frown deepen.

She had every professional and personal intention of thanking Niall for being as kind as he was. But, she feels deflated as she places the plate of banana bread on her desk and tosses the now empty coffee cup in the waste basket beside her desk. The thought of time wasted and the hundreds of dollars that she will inevitably have to drain from her savings weigh her down. The weight teeters on her shoulders as she quite literally drops into her seat.

A shaky sigh and the wrinkling of her nose suggests that frustrated tears are just around the corner. The thought of crying at work, where Niall could walk in at any moment to see her in such a state, only frustrates her more. Doesn’t really like the idea of other people seeing her cry.

She does what she can with sticky fingers and blurry vision, to clean up any coffee that had managed to splash onto the plate sat on her desk. Scrubbing until the sticky residue is gone and the weight on her shoulders is replaced with a feeling of satisfaction.

(Tidying has always seemed to clear Y/N’s mind. She doesn’t know if it’s a distraction from the rest of the world or if a clear space really does help to declutter her brain, but she’s grateful that such a small act of self care can bring her clarity).

Niall is two hours late when he finally arrives back in his penthouse office. A navy suit jacket is draped over his bare forearms, the sleeves of his baby blue dress shirt rolled to the crease of his elbow. The tie that once sat expertly tied beneath his collar is now loosened and the top two buttons beneath it are open.

Y/N glances at him while she converses with someone on the phone, but returns her attention to the open planner in front of her to write yet another appointment down. She’s sweet with her words as the call comes to an end, one of the first genuine smiles since her day began.

“You’ve got another benefit this weekend. It’s for the Tomlinson Foundation.” Y/N says, quite literally dotting all of her “i’s” and crossing her “t’s” before she moves onto her next task of opening up Niall’s office doors.

“Louis call you himself?” Niall asks, though he knows the answer. Their seven year friendship had made him feel a little like an expert.

Y/N nods as she kicks triangular door stops beneath both doors and juts her chin toward the plate of banana bread left on the coffee table to the left of Niall’s desk.

Niall raises a brow at the bread as he walks behind his desk to drop his jacket over his chair. He asks which company or agent had sent over the plate, prompting Y/N to smile widely at him.

“I made it,” she beams, picking up the plate and bringing it to him. “Would’ve had a coffee for you, but that’s mostly stuck to the elevator floor.”

Niall’s eyebrow appears to be permanently arched even when he reaches for a slice, but his features soften when he takes his first bite. Y/N’s eyes are wide and expectant as he swallows.

“S’really good, Y/N.” He says, taking the plate from her hands and setting it on the left side of his desk.

(He had to skip breakfast and knows he’ll be picking at it for the remainder of the afternoon).

“I just wanted to thank you for sending me home last week.” Y/N says, “I really needed it.”

Niall waves a hand at her dismissively as he sits down behind his desk. He leans to set his right elbow on the armrest of his chair and looks at Y/N. She’s standing in front of his desk, a hand lightly clutching the back cushion of a chair. He notices the chipped polish in passing, paying little mind to it as he makes eye contact with her once again.

“You don’t have to thank me for that.” He says. “You’ve just got to take better care of yourself for me, pet.”

There’s no flutter in her stomach at Niall’s words, but a warmth does settle in her tummy. It’s the second time in two weeks that he has treated her so gently. A gentleness that implies that he cares for her as more than just his personal assistant. A bittersweet sentiment for someone as independent and in control as Y/N.

She airs on the side of sweet, though. Because Niall’s gentle dominance forces her to relinquish some of her control and breathe for a moment. Something that she hardly experiences between work, university, and commitments that she was too kind to say “no” to. Something that she knows she needs to work on, but isn’t entirely sure how.