⚜ ain't nothing in this life for free

In Mr Stanford's head, the whole world is laid out to be scrutinised, tracked, and predicted. Within the whirlwinds and dust-storms, the tall stone pillars that mark the gates to Temple Studios loom upwards into his conscious thought, the secrets held behind (and beneath) them always playing in his mind. Can this woman be trusted with those secrets? His imagination ventures between those gates, entering the dark facade of the studios, its blood-red shutters groaning as his consciousness sweeps into the building - his building. Around him are the smells and sounds he knows so well; old wood; the low bass-note hum of electricity; cigarette smoke; a tannoy calling some personnel to some room to make some decision about some administration.

And there, in front of him, stands Flavia Antonia.

She is dressed from head to toe in sequins, and Stanford is amused at his own projection of Dolores onto this fresh and rising star. Her head is thrown back, shining dark hair cascading down her bare back in an untamed curtain, and her laugh fills the corridor of the studios like light. Stanford feels warm determination flooding his chest and abdomen as he watches her twirl in ecstasy. He can give her this, if she lets him. Somewhere, echoing in the corners of this mind Studio, jazz music plays at half-pace. Yes. If she lets him, he and Flavia are going to dance.

He is brought back to reality by the sound of a glass smashing behind the bar, and noises of complaint arising from the crowd who wait impatiently to be served. Here, in their corner, the couple discuss business as if in total isolation. No disturbances. A smile threatens to curl the corner of Stanford's serious lips as he watches her begin to speak, but he lets the temptation pass unhumoured. "I may be convinced to stay and hear the details of your offer if you buy me some decent vodka."

"Vodka," Stanford repeats the word as if he's never heard it before in his life. He holds no judgement for her drink of choice, but knows that appearing to think something of it might intrigue her. Allowing her a moment to turn the thought in her head, to pique her curiosity,he moves on swiftly and responds to the next part of her ultimatum. "There will be no convincing necessary, Miss- Flavia," he corrects his formality, surrendering to her request respectfully, "this is a choice which you will make yourself. Your bearings shape your fate, I cannot steer you." Finally, the smile appears, and as it does he tilts his head downwards, hiding all but his forehead in the deepest shadow.

His eyes are on her face, but hers are on his right hand, which he unwraps from around the tumbler of whiskey he had accepted from a waiter on the way in. Although his open eyes have lost focus, his mind once again diving into the Studios he keeps inside his head to watch the vision of this woman dancing in his halls, he is certain that she continues to watch as his hand first presses flat against the table, then begins to slide towards her own. As it reaches her skin, before the first touch, he pauses, and quietly begins to speak again.

"However, Miss Antonia," familiarity once again discarded. His long fingers gently encircle her wrist, and turn her hand palm-up, "without convincing you, there are some things I can guarantee if you choose to come with me."

His thumb runs lightly over the frail pair of tendons that connect her palm to her forearm. He traces the blue vein he finds there, listening in his touch for her heartbeat.

"I can guarantee, for example, that you will never be without a home, or without company - intimately," there is total dignity in his words; he is not mocking her, "or otherwise."

In a fine and fluid movement, Stanford's thumbnail trails a long, crooked line from the heel of Flavia's thumb, across those tendons and veins, and several inches up her forearm. Instead of coming to a stop there, the thumbnail starts to move at right angles to its previous direction, slowly trailing horizontally across Flavia's pale skin.

"I can guarantee you will be wealthy, in more than just riches - though those will come. I can guarantee you total adoration, total commandment of an audience that lives on your life."

His pattern once again takes a corner turn, and begins to trace the second side of a square. He allows his thumb to finish its dance, trailing the final two sides of its square, coming back to rest at the point it started. A constellation visible on any clear night, the stallion in the stars, Pegasus, now finely imprinted on Flavia's skin.

"There are only two conditions for these guarantees, Miss Antonia," his voice, still quiet, now grows in urgency, forbidding Flavia to become distracted from it, "the first is your agreement, your vocal contract - signed now with your answer. The second..."

Uncharacteristically, Stanford trails off, suddenly plagued with images of his first love, Sienna, who had given herself up entirely to the first condition, but had been left totally destroyed when she failed to meet the second. Stanford's mouth hangs open, his eyes once again unfocussed, his grip on Flavia's wrist suddenly tight and unyielding. Then - all at once - it passes. He clears his throat softly. He won't let himself be embarrassed.

"The second, Flavia, comes after. It doesn't matter until you have made your choice on the first."

And then, he releases her wrist and clutches the tumbler again, taking a slow gulp as he leans back in his seat. Now all there is to do is wait, for Flavia to think over his half-explained proposal (the one that has always been designed to be undeclinable - too good to be true and yet somehow still true) and for her to come to the correct conclusion.

They always do.