Young Writers Society

Poppy had flung herself at Arabella, sinking her nails into the dress and ripping at. Feeling the fabric crushed beneath her fingers. She had grabbed at Arabella's hair and pulled it, until she sunk to the ground before ramming her into the side of the bar. Upon hearing her skull crash against the hard wooden surface, a sense of sick satisfaction rose in Poppy. She had the power over the situation now.

The remnants of the black dress hung in tatters over Arabella's body. Satiated with the result of her work, Poppy helped herself to the liquor from the bar. She had to wait for the hotel security to arrive and escort her from the premises. In the mean time, she saw fit to take advantage of the unmonitored alcohol. She was on her third glass.

Huddled at the opposite side of the room, Will was talking in hushed tones with Arabella. On occasion, he shot a disgusted look in Poppy's general direction. However, Arabella didn't even appear distraught. Maybe she had expected it? Poppy thought to herself.

"Miss Hartley?" a gruff, male voice spoke over Poppy's shoulder. It was so unexpected it made her jump, and spill some of her drink over the rim of the glass. She turned to see a tall man in a dark suit, staring at her somewhat disapprovingly.

"Y-es?" she hiccupped.

"Hotel security Madam. I'd ask you to leave quietly if you would." The man had a round, pug-like face, but Poppy didn't find him threatening in the least. She guessed the liquor might have had something to do with it.

"Of course," she nodded slowly, hauling herself away from the bar stool and staggering into the meaty arms of the security guard. He smelt strongly of cologne which made her gag slightly. For a moment, she thought she was going to vomit, but the sensation passed.

As she was lead from the bar, many faces stared at her in bewilderment. Apart from Will and his tart's she didn't recognise the others. Faceless guests, staying at the Chateau that she would probably never see again in her life. With Will, she hadn't made eye contact for some time. Poppy had realised he would side with Arabella. Naturally, the mistress would play the role of the victim. The guard took her as far as the foyer, where the clerk handed her coat and keys over the desk.

"I don't think you're in a fit state to drive, Madam," the clerk reminded her.

"No," Poppy hiccupped again.

"Do you have money Madam?"

"What f-or?" (Poppy hiccupped) and slumped over the desk, resting her chin on her hands and looked blankly up at the clerk.

"A cab. Or the phone box?" the clerk suggested.

"Yes. I do I have a mobile phone-" but Poppy stopped as she rummaged in her pockets and came away empty handed. "My purse, my phone," she whimpered. She must have left them in the hotel room, for which Will would have the room key and it would be impossible for her to persuade security to let her enter the main hotel again; and she doubted that Will would run back to the room to fetch her things for her.

"What about your phone and purse, Madam?" the clerk asked dumbly.

"They're gone," and tears began falling from Poppy's hazy eyes. The clerk's attempts to comfort her had failed, given that she had dropped each tissue he handed her before she'd collapsed on the floor in front of his desk.

"Should I get Mr Edmon for you, Madam?"

"Would you? That would be wonderful," Poppy grinned inanely, and wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand. She rescued a tissue from the floor and wiped her stinging eyes with it. Somehow, in the process, she had completely eradicated all and any thoughts of Will being angry at her.

A few moments later, the clerk reappeared with Will. Poppy could barely hear their conversation as they towered over her (she was still on the floor) and her ears seemed to be filled with some sort of bubbles that prevented her from hearing properly.

"She's a mess, get her home!" Will demanded.

"She has no money Sir," the clerk answered meekly.

"Here," a rustling noise in the background roused Poppy, whose head had previously been keeling over her shoulder.

"Thank you Sir. Would you like to talk to the lady?"

But Poppy didn't hear Will's voice again. He had walked away. The clerk crouched in front of her, pressed the notes and coins into Poppy's sweaty palms and spoke:

"I'll take you as far as the phone box Madam."

He held out his hand to Poppy, who merely stared at it in confusion. Eventually, the clerk helped her place Will's money safely in her coat pocket, before steadying her arms and helping her to her feet. She stumbled forwards, resting on the clerk as he dragged her through the foyer into the street.

At night, Broodge Street became a different place. The Chateau Rouge was the only reputable place in the area. Everywhere else was rather questionable. A land of violence, assaults and newspaper articles waiting to occur. Poppy only ever ventured there to go to the Rouge; and as she thought of this, it occurred to her that she may never be able to do that again. Or at least, not for some time. All thanks to Will and his whore.

Finally, the clerk had pulled Poppy along to the phone box, in the pouring rain. By the time they reached the shelter of the glass walls they were drowned to their skin.

"You alright now Madam?" he stared at Poppy's dropping eyes.

"Divine. Thank you. I shall make my way from here," she slurred. The clerk nodded.

"I hope what remains of your evening improves, Madam," and with a sort of bow, he left Poppy.

Sheltered and alone Poppy lifted her head from the glass wall, where she had rested and found a sticker adhered to her forehead. Pealing it off, she examined it. An advertisement for a high end escort service. In disgust, she discarded it before slotting the coins from her pocket into the machine and dialling the only number she could think of.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

Four, five, six- "What?" a voice growled from the receiver.

"Mitchell!" Poppy wailed.

"Who is this?" the voice snapped. "Oh wait, Poppy, is that you?" the voice asked.

"Y-es, yes. I need your help," she coughed down the phone, feeling bile rise in her throat.

"What have you gotten yourself into this time?" Mitchell's voice replied. Although she couldn't see him, Poppy was sure he would have rolled his eyes at her. Whenever she had been involved in mischief before, she and Mitchell were always in it together. This time - she hadn't meant to operate alone.

"I need a place to stay for the night. I'm too inebriated to drive," she explained.

"Good lord, my Poppy, a drunkard?" Mitchell laughed airily. "Where are you darling?"

"Broodge Street."

"Sweet Caroline, are you alone?" Poppy nodded dumbly at the phone.

"I'll take that as a yes. Were you at the Rouge?" Mitchell added, sounding concerned.

"Yes, but I was thrown out," Poppy had started to cry again.

"Hush now. I'll be right over. Stay where you are... actually, where are you?"

"A telephone box."

"A tele-I'll ask later, when you're sober." Mitchell corrected himself.

Poppy could hear rustling interference at the other end of the line.

"I'll be there in ten, alright old girl? Stay put." The line went dead.

Its sudden beeping annoyed Poppy and she pushed it away from her ear and slammed it down onto the cradle. She glanced around, through the transparent walls of her glass cage at her surroundings. The dank night made her feel worse. Cold from the rain, and shivering slightly she wondered if would catch pneumonia from the cold.

Why had she done it? How had she done it? At once, all these thoughts became too much. She felt herself falling.

*

Warmth. Poppy woke some time later in a large, double bed. A familiar face appeared over her and clearing her bleary eyes she registered it as Mitchell.

"Where am I?" she asked drowsily.

"My master bedroom. Good morning." He lifted a tray of food onto the bed and placed it gently in Poppy's unsuspecting lap. The smell of the freshly buttered croissant and the sweet apple juice made her stomach turn.

"Get it away from me," she recoiled, covering her face with her hand and trying not to breathe.

"My, my, we are dramatic this morning. However, I thought a hangover might be the case," Mitchell said, sounding all-knowing. He leant over Poppy to take the tray back and replaced it with a glass of water and a white tablet.

"Dispersible aspirin, the alcoholic's breakfast," Mitchell teased.

"I am not an alcoholic. Irresponsible yes, a drunken fool no," Poppy rose from the covers and seized the glass in one hand, she dropped the aspirin in and watched it dissolves before taking gentle sips.

"The tabloids would argue the contrary," Mitchell threw something in Poppy's general direction that landed on the bed next to her.

"You made the front page," Mitchell announced, as Poppy unfurled the newspaper and examined the headline:

CRAZED ACTRESS STAGES DRESS REHEAR-BRAWL

"Oh for goodness sake!" Poppy cried.

"What? You don't think your actions were newsworthy?" Mitchell reclined in his winged chair next to the bed, balancing a cocktail glass in one hand and a second copy of the newspaper in the other.

"It's not that," Poppy continued.

Mitchell raised his eyebrows as a gesture for her to continue.

"Why did it have to make the tabloid press? I was exclusively broadsheet with all my previous features," Poppy sighed, throwing the paper ide.

"Ah I see. Tabloids aren't good enough for a woman of your calibre," Mitchell chuckled dryly to himself, whilst sipping at his cocktail.

Poppy noticed how he seemed to be enjoying himself. Then, she supposed it was a change for Mitchell to actually have company - especially of the friendly kind.

"I saw one of your advertisements in the phone box," Poppy remarked.

"Did you really? And what did you think?" he sounded incredulous.

"It's not particularly tasteful."

"Less tasteful than starting a brawl in a bar?" Mitchell looked down his nose at Poppy.

"Touche," she sighed.

"You sound defeated Poppet," Mitchell clucked his teeth at her. Poppet. Mitchell hadn't called her that since they were children. It brought back fond memories. The reminiscence soon passed due to Mitchell's persistent questions.

"So what's your plan now?" he asked.

"I'm going to go home. And see what awaits me there but - oh shit," Poppy gave a resentful look at no one in particular.

"What?"

"I've left my car at the Chateau Rou-"

"No. I asked my driver to collect it for you last night. Took the liberty of giving him your keys. Hope you don't mind. The Jag's round the back," Mitchell grinned.

"How do you do it?" Poppy gazed at him.

"Do what?" Mitchell shrugged. He was also so nonchalant about receiving compliments. She gestured wordlessly with her hands.

"You're just so..."

"Sexy? Charming? Efficient?" Mitchell suggested, winking at her.

"Efficient yes, and there's something else."

"I'm just fabulous, Poppet," Mitchell concluded for her. Poppy smiled at that.

"Thank you for all your help, but I really need to get home," Poppy pulled the covers away and wobbled to her feet.

"One, final question," Mitchell added.

"Yes?"

"What happens if when you get back, that woman is there?"

Arabella. Poppy had tried not to dwell of this eventuality but she couldn't deny the thought had crossed her mind.

"I'll get rid of her," Poppy winked at Mitchell.

"And how do you plan to do that?"

"However I see fit," and Poppy pulled her dress over herself and strode past Mitchell, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

"Be careful Poppet. Don't want you making the front page for the wrong reasons."