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| Mommies Dearest | |
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| Participants | Alison, Emma |
| Synopsis | Running into each other at the MET, two blondes get to talking over Chanel. |
| Location | Metropolitan Museum of Art - Upper East Side - Manhattan |
| Time | January 11, 2016 |
| Posted By | Alison |
Emma Frost is all about culture. Not just keeping up the appearance — she genuinely harbors an interest. So what better way to spend a Sunday afternoon, then strolling the quiet corridors of the Met? It's got this whole forlorn, abandoned atmosphere. More so now, after the Sentinels disaster. And that suits this blonde just fine, as she's not expecting company. Being a recognizable socialite can be a pain sometimes, with the paparazzi burden. Not to mention all the wine'ing and dine'ing, right? It's good to escape that headache of polite chit-chat and small talk, too, just for an afternoon. So regaled in white mink furs, she paces through the maze of the remains, whatever's left. And where else would someone expect the ever fashion-conscious Emma Frost to be, than stalking the Costume Institute. She stops, finally, in front of a certain exhibit. Chanel.
Alison is admittedly less about culture or keeping up appearances, and more about not being bored. There is considerably less to do in the city these days, and it's still way too early to go hit the club scene. And so she's found her way here to the Met, just to kill some time until it's late enough to drink without everyone jumping to the conclusion that you have a 'problem'. She has no particular endgame in mind, but it's not horribly surprising that, after drifting half-heartedly through some pottery exhibit, she's somehow found herself here. With the clothes. Her disorganized flitting brings her closer to the display in question, and upon spotting it, she finds her feet leading her in that direction. "Wow. That's gorgeous," she remarks quietly, whether to the other blonde woman admiring it or to herself.
Though really, even if the sun stubbornly refuses to set completely, a drink would be divine right now. Emma can recognize that desire — but she too quiets it, for now. Clothes are a pretty distraction, indeed. This dress, in particular. A classic Chanel design, with its clean lines and monochromatic palette. So much black. She finds it rather depressing. Which may be why she favors white so much — though, in all fairness, all-white can be just as overdone as all-black. When Alison murmurs in appreciation, something flickers across Emma's features. Not annoyance, but something stranger. Like wry or chagrined amusement. Delicately, she withdraws a pale hand from her furs and indicates the plaque, palm up. "One of my mother's donations." It doesn't sound like she's bragging, her voice is too dry. But sure enough, there it is: Donated by Miss Hazel Frost.
Alison, meanwhile, is certainly no stranger to the little black dress - though she generally does prefer a wider palette than either all white or all black. Colours are too much fun to overlook. But still, there's no denying something striking about this particular dress. She leans forward to give it a closer look, before straightening up, glancing over at the plaque Emma indicates. Of course, anyone could point to a plaque and claim to be related to the name there, but Ali doesn't seem to doubt Emma in the slightest - perhaps because she recognizes the name to put it to a face, or simply because it never occurs to her that someone might want to lie about such things. "Huh," she muses, not shocked but just passingly impressed. "That's cool. She's got good taste." There's a small grin with that, an attempt to be friendly without trying too hard.
"No she doesn't," Emma counters smoothly — but it's spoken in that same bored, aristocratic neutrality. She isn't trying to be argumentative. And the fact is, she probably isn't even reflecting on her mother's taste in dresses. Heh. Gently, she returns her unadorned hand from whence it came, digging it back into those luxurious furs. And with an eerie calmness, she turns her neck to regard the other woman. Another blonde, what a coincidence. But there's something more than that. A tiny frown darkens her features. "Ah," Emma begins softly, once recognition sets. But she doesn't call Alison out — whether it's from the tabloids or from the elevator, she doesn't comment. She turns back to the dress. "She only wore it once."
Alison just seems amused at Emma's aristocratic response, if just a little surprised that the counter comes so swiftly and smoothly. "Well, the dress is nice," she replies simply, shrugging her shoulders as she nods back towards the garment in question. That's all she meant, and she's certainly not going to get into arguing with someone else about their mother. Her eyebrows hitch up a bit as she's studied, though she just passively allows it without comment, with all the airs of someone who just simply cannot be bothered to care she's being given the once over. It's subtle - just another tiny tick of her eyebrow upwards as Emma seems to recognize her from somewhere, asking without actually asking. Instead, she moves on. "Guess it might be the sort of dress you only wear once."
"Mm," Emma murmurs, the sound ambiguous. The blonde lapses into silence, always one to keep her own clock — and damn anyone else, who might be expecting an answer sooner. Hell, she's of the variety to end the dialogue there, to walk away without so much as a good-bye. But thankfully, for the sake of any momentary awkwardness and uncertainty that might follow, she doesn't. Not that she imagines Alison would mind for very long — the other blonde seems almost equally caught up in that whole 'idle rich' thing. "Was here, actually, at the Wintour Benefit Gala. 2007. Ridiculously over-priced to attend." She allows an even look sideways, arching a brow. "But I suppose you know that."
Alison, of course, is not the most patient person, always in search of distraction, most often the sort that isn't good for her. If Emma had dragged the answer out much longer, there would have been a good chance the other blonde could have just drifted away as well. But the answer comes, and Alison looks back over at the other woman, and again the eyebrows go up just slightly. There's a pause as she considers that. "Actually, I was living in London in 2007," she replies, sort of missing the point on purpose. In a quiet and not-at-all-confrontational manner, of course.
"I know," Emma returns, just as measured and patient. Even if it comes so smoothly, almost an immediate answer, she manages to sound like she's choosing her words carefully. Of course, it's also a completely unhelpful response, since it's followed-up with nothing. Nine years ago, she couldn't have been more than a teenager. Same with Alison. But that doesn't seem to shake Emma, now that she's certain she does, indeed, recognize the other woman. The Upper East Side is so very small. She steps away from the Chanel, ghosting to the next exhibit without a glance back at Alison. She does, however, speak again. "Our mothers might have gotten along splendidly. Pity."
This is why Alison generally doesn't go around trying to outwit people. In attempting not to play the game, she's wound up deeper in it than ever. The mention of mothers, though, that does get a reaction, one that she doesn't even really bother trying to hide. "Yeah, well," is all she replies to the 'pity', shrugging her shoulders in a very 'whatcha gonna do' sort of gesture, though there's more awkwardness to it than really befits the supposedly untroubled one. She doesn't move to follow, but turns, taking her turn to watch Emma now. "Then again, wasn't really her scene." Except for an open bar, perhaps.
"No, wasn't. Maybe the pharmacy down the block, though. My mother's the same way," Emma continues, breezing over the subject. She's not really trying to be delicate, she just finds the cat-and-mouse aspect more amusing. And ever-bored, any amusement is welcome. She shrugs, inadvertantly shaking the furs loose to bare one naked shoulder. It takes a moment to right herself, drawing the coat closer. Mm, warmth. "Then again, my dear mother frowns on suicide. Something about undignified surrender, you know?" She tosses a look back at Alison, offering a smile. But it's rather bland. "I don't share that sentiment, though, don't worry."
There are very few things in this world that Alison can't shrug off, and Emma has quite efficiently located the very worst of the bunch. Suffice to say, she's really not finding the cat-and-mouse nearly as amusing as the other woman. It isn't even about someone judging her mother - Lord knows she's had a lifetime of that. But this is bringing up things she spends a lot on booze and pills to keep from thinking about or, heaven forbid, ever discussing. "Yeah, that's such a relief," she mutters dryly, as Emma assures her of her own views. "But not understanding things never stopped anyone from drawing their own conclusions." While it's meant to refer to Mrs. Frost, there's a certain set to Alison's jaw, a way that she just simply looks at Emma, that hints she is suggesting no one here should be going around drawing conclusions, or at least not aloud.
"Oh, I think I understand just perfectly," Emma assures the poor thing, saying nothing in defense of Hazel Frost. She's quite sure her mother is an idiot, so why bother? Besides, she doesn't need any mind-reading powers to know that Alison doesn't just mean her mother. She rounds at the next exhibit, turning back to face Alison completely. She remains that infuriating picture of neutrality, still and statuesque. But worse, that smile lingers. "It's the music that's to blame, really. The whole rock princess thing — it makes idiots of us all. Good thing you're not so stupid, though." As far as she knows, anyway. But hey, never say Emma Frost isn't a bitch. "Right?"
"Mm," Alison responds, a simple, non-committal consonant in the back of her throat, as to whether or not Emma could possibly understand. But at least she doesn't seem inclined to debate the issue. "Oh, I don't know. I'm sure I have my moments," she replies more breezily. Much easier to insult her own intelligence than get into what all was to blame in the whole mess. And it has the added advantage of being true. She certainly does have her moments of idiocy. And that's only counting the ones she can actually remember. "But what's the point of life if you're not having fun." There's a small shrug with that, as she tries to steer this back into safer territory.
Emma's smile turns wicked, if only for a moment. She's almost proud of Alison, bouncing back with that same callous disinterest that she often finds so valuable — especially when confronted on sensitive grounds. It obviously protects Alison from that dangerous thing called emotion, dancing away from the subject of the rock-and-roll craziness and suicidal mothers. Emma can respect it, almost. With a soft sound in return, just as non-commital, she allows the dark smile to soften. Still somewhat cold, but that's just who she is. "Fun, mm? Well, the next time you're feeling reckless, do stop off on the tenth floor on your way out, Miss Blaire." She definitely knows who Alison is, then. And with the earlier demonstration about her own mother's donation, she's sure Alison is on the same page, too. She turns again, in a flurry of those white furs to move towards the exit. "I'm quite sure I'd be able to keep up."
Of course, Alison isn't realizing she's quite that obvious to the other young woman. She's just relived to get this back onto safer ground and away from uncomfortable topics that should never, ever be examined. She doesn't catch the wickedness in Emma's smile, and remains oblivious to the fact her rather thin coping mechanism - if it can even count as such - has been sussed out. Instead, she's just a bit surprised as Emma switches gears. "Yeah? Okay then, I just might." Her smile returns, careless, a little indifferent, but friendly - just who she is, perhaps? "Always nice to have some company." And considering the quality of her other club-going friends, Emma can only be an improvement.
It's easy for a cat to recognize another cat — or something, right? The coping is something Emma's all too well-versed with. But she's also familiar with just how much she detests being called out on that particular mechanism, so she doesn't bother to be a bitch about it with Alison. Maybe another time. Or maybe she's just as amused by the thought of a night of pills, shots, and sweaty dancing with anonymous drunks. Always better with some high-class company that can keep up. Not just in tolerance, but in funds. She hates having to cover for friends, after all. So walking away, she pulls a hand free to raise it in the air — a wave, without having to look back. "You know where to find me, Blaire." She drops the 'miss' on her way out.
