Cardiff, Wales. March 2 2008.
The wheels on the bus went crunch as it drove over the gravel driveway of the manor. With a whiny crank and steamy hiss, it came just a few meters away from the entrance of the foster home.
Mrs Stephens, with a thankful smile to the driver, was the first one off, as the other den mother stayed behind to usher all the children out in single file. "Stay in line, everyone. Let's not lose anyone now." Unlike the bus doors, the stream of excited chattering hopping off the last stairs of the vehicle poured out. Teens to toddlers each held a small souvenir from their day at Barry Island Pleasure Park. Mrs. Stephens smiled, her heart swelling with fondness as she shepherded them toward the house.
Her eyes scanned the group, doing a quick headcount as they passed.
The last to disembark was Ellie, a petite girl with big, sleepy eyes, who rubbed them tiredly while clutching a stuffed toy - a large, plush monkey won at one of the park's games. She shuffled up to Mrs. Stephens; her steps slow and weary.
Ellie, at eight this year, was neither the youngest nor the oldest they fostered at the home. But she was the freshest. Only coming under Mrs Stephen's care about a month ago.
"Mrs. Stephens, can we watch a movie tonight?" Ellie asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She leaned into the matron's side, seeking comfort, and seeking the movies from one franchise everyone who lived under her roof held in highest stead.
Mrs. Stephens chuckled softly, patting the girl's head. "No, sweetheart, that's enough excitement for one day. Time to get washed up before bed."
Ellie pouted, glancing down at her new clothes—bright and fresh, a stark contrast to the worn hand-me-downs she'd arrived with. "Can I keep wearing my new clothes? Please?"
As Mrs. Stephens knelt down to Ellie's level, her knees sounded just as creaky as the bus' breaks as it pulled away. She smoothed a strand of hair from Ellie's face. "Remember how we talked about taking care of our things? Just like organizing the trip to Barry Island, Bas sends us new clothes every year. He wants you to have nice things, but we need to keep them nice. How about you change into the new pyjamas he sent instead?"
Her boy wasn't here right now, and hadn't been for a while. But his presence lingered. Every year, like clockwork, ever since he'd managed to snag his endorsement with his clothing company, Mrs Stephens would receive boxes upon boxes of free new clothes. The children - her children - she cared for always wondered why they got more presents today of all days than Christmas. But she knew what day her Bas valued more. Mother's day.
Ellie considered this for a moment, then nodded. "Okay," she agreed, her resistance melting away as she trudged towards the weathered yet warm manor. As she walked off, Mrs. Stephens noticed the name 'Potter' emblazoned on the back of Ellie's jumper. A smile tugged at her lips as she watched the little girl disappear inside.
She was a well behaved little thing, so unlike a certain someone. But the stark difference only made her miss him all the more.
After dinner, Mrs. Stephens retreated to her modest quarters. She spent only a few nights a week here, preferring the comfort of her personal home. Her Husband deserved as much attention as her children did. She glanced at the bedside table; the one next to her actual bed held the photo of the first field trip to a fair she'd taken.
Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her own souvenir from this year's trip. The keychain jingled. She reminded herself of what lock each key opened, the scratches on their metallic surface far more furrowed than the newest addition.
She'd never used that key. But knew which lock it belonged to. Bas had made sure she always had a home with him. She set it down next to the card she'd received this morning.
There wasn't a point looking at the clock, regardless of what time it was, where in the world he was, or what in the world he was doing, as she reached for her phone with the unlimited international calls plan he insisted on paying for; she dialed her son.
"Hello, Bas. Are you awake?" Mumbling was unacceptable to her. She'd taught him better.
"As long as you're on the line." He sounded tired though. It must've been very late. She'd forgive him just this once.
–
Killiechassie, Scotland. March 2 2008.
Her carpets were getting a rest today as Jo lounged on her plush sofa, a book in hand. Agatha Christie this time. Always better to learn from the best and few were left greater than her - at least when it came to a mind for murder; yet her mind wandered.
The Harry Potter book series was complete, and her involvement in the upcoming Deathly Hallows films was minimal until Neil Gaiman finished the first draft. Thank god that ghastly business with the strike was over so that they could finally get back to work. It was an unfamiliar feeling, this boredom. Her fingers itched, longing for the familiar weight of a pen or the click of a keyboard. Perhaps it was time to explore a new medium - something digital, maybe? Just a way to get her thoughts and feelings out-!
Ding dong! "Now who could that be?" Obviously, company wasn't expected today. The children were off at their friend's and the maid was no doubt scrubbing away whatever fresh mess they'd made in their rooms, so it fell to her to raise the portcullis.
Post? On a Sunday? "Sign here, please." Grumpy, this delivery fellow. Wasn't her fault that the package he was juggling looked as heavy and unwieldy as it did. Clearly this messenger wasn't above shooting - dirty glances, that is.
Normally she'd fire right back, but the package plonked in her hands piqued her interest more. The package was cumbersome, and she set it down with a thud. With much alacrity, she tore through the parcel. The mystery was solved in a deluge of packing peanuts and bubble wrap that joined the torn strips of their cardboard comrade on the floor.
The maid would have to get at this, too. Her children had to get their habits from somewhere.
A glass box, and a card.
All the clues combined proved that whatever it was, was fragile, and would be prone to shattering, so she'd have to be careful.
Unlike Bas, who'd decided to shatter her heart when she figured out what was encased in the cradle within the box.
It was old, crumpled, and littered with notes - even on its pink cover. "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone." The 'by Steve Kloves' completely crossed off.
The first Harry Potter movie script draft, the very one she had scribbled on, the one she had first discussed with Bas. Her fingers gently traced the glass case. Those early days of manic problem solving crashed into her mind with the same tumble that Bas had taken.
Jo felt too choked to speak, so instead plucked the card and flipped to see what that boy had to say. "The last enemy destroyed shall not be Deathly Hallows." Silly young man had twisted one of her memorable quotes from the books and extended it to their promise to carry on cooperating in the future. "Now! Where to put you?" She hefted the whole thing and searched for the most blatantly obvious place to showcase it. "Maybe this will remind those brats of mine that well wishes alone will not suffice."
–
Endeavor Agency, Beverly Hills. March 2 2008.
Weekends were for the weak. Sunday or not, Anita Specter was ready to snap up another promising client, and this time they'd swum themselves over to her shores without her needing to smell them out.
And so far, Anita liked what he was cooking.
"... and that's why I think it's time for a change. I've had my eye on bigger roles, and I think with the right guidance, I can make that leap." Right off the turnbuckle, no doubt.
Anita leaned back in her chair, and not just because Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson's enormous frame nearly filled the walls of her office. "I completely understand, Dwayne. We just need to get you in front of the right people and the right projects. I'm confident we can make it happen." Wrestling agents were all well and good, but it was an entirely different ladder Dwayne needed to climb if he wanted the purse in Hollywood.
Anita wanted him something fierce as a client, because despite only really playing bit parts or small-time villains, she could see his potential - especially if she could find some way to stuff his bulging biceps into a safari suit. She'd skimmed through the script for 'Get Smart' in which he played the twist villain. Headlining with Steve Carell and Anne Hathaway would only serve to launch his career off the ropes, even more so if he tagged her in.
Beyond that, he was great for her bottom line. His years as the face (or heel) of an entertainment franchise meant that even for the minor roles he landed, he got a fat paycheck. Anita was determined to make them even beefier.
"That's exactly why I'm here. I want to work with someone who can see my potential and help me expand my career. And when I met Bas at the Oscars a few weeks back, he really talked you up. Said you were instrumental in getting his career where it is."
"Stick with me, and we'll see about you receiving awards instead of giving them out." Sell it, Specter. This guy was on the hook! That brilliant Bas of hers had baited himself without her even asking, and she'd gotten a bite.
His grinning teeth looked that much brighter when he stood up, cast a large shadow over her, and reached out to shake on their tentative deal. "I can see why Bas has so much respect for you."
When they shook, Anita made sure her grip let him know how firm she expected their deal to be. "We'll talk deets and paperwork soon. Count on it." She pinned him on the mat.
"Hopefully, my old agent won't get too mad when I drop the news." And he didn't tap out. "Oh! Before I forget, Bas asked me to give this to you if our talks went well." He reached into his coat pocket - Anita had to wonder how there was any room with how tight the fit was over his pecs - and pulled out an envelope.
As Dwayne left, Anita returned to her desk, the envelope in hand, sliced it opened with a sharp nail, and read it, "Happy Shark Week?" What the hell was-? She checked her calendar. She saw what significance today's date held. "That smarmy motherf-! I'm way too young for that!"
–
Bas' Caravan, Leavesden. March 2 2008.
Cadbur- Mrs Fine - Lord, that boy had her calling herself that even in the confines of her own mind.
Nonetheless, Mrs Fine caressed the autographed polaroid of her robotically, standing next to that dashing David Suchet.
Her mother's day gift, along with the others he'd organized for today, came as little surprise to her.
She'd thought that she'd be floating on air, but unfortunately, this little piece of paper in her hand weighed heavier than she'd hoped.
"I… I understand, Cadbury." She'd always generally kept her words short, but today she was entirely devoid of them. "I'll make us some of your best cocoa, shall I? Always makes me feel better." Losing her voice made her grateful for his. She wished that, in this moment, she had the same courage Bas did as he squeezed her knee and headed to the kettle.
She couldn't bear to look at him, so instead focused on the photograph. It had been Bas's pretext for their trip to London, supposedly to meet with the BBC for a potential role in the Poirot series. She knew better. It was a frivolous attempt, a role he knew he wouldn't get, but he had tried anyway - just to get her this memento.
Pointless. She bit her lip. It took everything in her forearms not to crush this precious gift. She finally looked up at him as he fiddled about with cups and spoons. He kept a measured expression, but she had been with him long enough to know that he was hiding from her. She was well past menopause, so she knew very well that the hot flash she suddenly experienced wasn't hormones.
It was anger. It was a shame.
What made Bas think he could hide anything from her? Deceit with her was an impossibility, he was naked in front of her. She knew everything, everything about him, whether he liked it or not.
Like how even to this day he tried all the time to circumvent her parental locks on all his devices. Like how he needed her just to keep him in fighting shape when he was determined to sacrifice himself in his ambition. Like how he preferred having his hair combed, like how callously he brushes off her concern for his wellbeing.
The picture in front of her got blurrier. She refused to concede why.
Like how he insists on shouldering the burden of his friends when they need somewhere to lean their heads. Like how sweetly he cares for his fans, for his family… A tear dripped on the plastic shaking in her hands. Like how deeply he cared for Cadbury - for her.
And she was leaving him. Alone.
Inhaling its scent, more than hearing the saucer being set down, Cadbury realized the cocoa - which should have been her duty to prepare - was ready. "M-my contract does not terminate until after your eighteenth birthday, yet I am already relegating my responsibilities to you."
"Chocolate's meant to be sweet. Your tears would make it too salty." Those jokes? She knew just how much he veiled behind them.
"I can offer nothing to you anymore. Not even apologies. Because how does one feel sorry for wanting to help raise their grandchildren?" She'd spent a lifetime raising children that were not hers. Most she'd remember, few fondly, none like Bas. But what she wanted to remember most was her own.
Even when Bas had offered to extend the contract, as a personal assistant rather than an au pair, she'd had to refuse.
"Who would have thought robots can cry?" She so terribly desired to strike him one last time. But her percussive therapy halted when he took her trembling hands in his own. "Can't say I'm not jealous, and who knows what degeneracy I'll get up to without you." She did. "Your grandkids deserve to have someone as wonderful as you rearing them." They did. "But they're just going to have to wait their turn. I still have you for a few more months yet." He did. "Let's make the most of it."
She wiped her tears, "okay," and took a sip of the proffered beverage. Bas had used the bitter mix. "We-we'll have to start in the kitchen. This is awful Mr Rhys." She gulped it all down, anyway.
It tasted sweeter than anything.