"Whoa", he thought.
He dressed quickly, ran downstairs, inhaled a plate of scrapple and applesauce, and departed for the boathouse. Hot Saturday in July, a busy day, Mr. Armstrong will need help.
Meanwhile, in her room, Megan finished some entries to her secret detailed journal. She turned to her novel, Lust and Lustiness, which she is writing in a style best described as a fusion of Jane Austen and the bodice-rippers sold at Zeppelin Drugs.
The next morning, Miss Emma Chillingworth stood in the grand foyer of Tamworth Hall, her gown slightly disshevelled from events of the previous evening. She opined: "There are two things in life that matter, an income and sex. And if I must choose between one and the other, I choose sex."
Wordlessly, Mr. Bromley swept Emma from her feet, carried her up the grand staircase, past the large portrait of the ancient Earl of Tamworth and down the hall to Miss Chillingworth's boudoir, where he threw her on the massive four-poster bed. With a single tug, he pulled her gown to her ankles, revealing that she wore nothing underneath other than the long string of pearls Mr. Podsworth purchased in Putteringham and gave to Emma as a token of his esteem.
Mr. Bromley saw the pearls, and was thunderstruck. "I must withdraw! You are betrothed to Mr. Podsworth!". At that moment, he realized they could not marry. She had attended Cambridge, while he was an Oxford man.
Emma grasped Mr. Bromley's shoulder. "I shall marry Mr. Podsworth for his income", she gasped, "but you I shall have. Now ravish me."
Megan paused. God, she thought. I love to write.
Seated at her customary table in the Cafe Venice, Amanda opened her laptop, logged in to Cries and Whispers, and blogged:
Was it a hate crime, or merely rotten fish?Actually, Amanda knows very little, but is very good at fabricating stories. She has a promising career in journalism.
Did a certain blonde newbie and her armed competitor kiss and make up?
Amanda knows all.
A little later that morning, Mrs. Gabrieli showed Molly a letter:
Dear Mrs. Gabrieli:
Your student, Miss Molly Bloom, attended a lesson with Maestro Chickarina Wednesday last. The Maestro wishes me to inform you that Miss Bloom's performance was adequate.
Sincerely,
Peter Pufter
Personal Secretary to Adolph Chickarina.
"Adequate?" said Molly, angrily, "I played the Diabelli perfectly. And with his hand up my skirt."
"Don't worry about it, dear", said Mrs. Gabrieli, soothingly. "Everyone knows he's a jerk. That letter assures you will get in to Old Ivy. As to the other matter, the women at Conservatory called him 'Mr. Handy'".
Molly didn't really hear Mrs' Gabrieli's response, as she was already doing her scales.
At the same moment, Natasha and Henry lay naked in her bed, where she had successfully lured him the night before; her diaphragm remained in its case in the medicine cabinet. Henry lay with his head on Natasha's stomach, tracking his fingers along her left thigh.
"What's this?" he asked, pointing to the little mark on the inner part of her thigh.
"It's nothing", said Natasha, instinctively covering the spot with her hand.
Henry pushed her hand aside and looked closely. "It's a tattoo!", he said, reading: "K.."
"Oh no", thought Natasha. She felt her world collapsing.
Henry was stunned. "You ran with the KulturPunks!"
If this were a movie, you would now hear an ominous "da-da-duhhhh". But since it is not a movie, the reader will have to imagine the music, and visualize the scene: Henry, shocked, pacing the room; and Natasha, sobbing, head in hands, her life ruined.
