Meeting
You cannot possibly believe that this is happening.
Your best friend had given you the flier mostly as a joke, you think- an ivory sheet, with a border resembling splashes of dark ink, reading, "In celebration of their first female president, the London Library is pleased to announce an open poetry competition, judged by the new president herself, Helena Bonham Carter. The top three submitted works will be framed and hung in the poetry section of the library itself, and first prize will be treated to a lunch and afternoon out with Dame Bonham Carter."
They had met the intern hanging the fliers in the cafe in which they work, and had asked for an extra copy just to give to you. You have always shared your admiration for Helena Bonham Carter with your friends, given how much she's inspired you throughout your young lifespan.
'What the hell?' you had thought, 'there's no way I'd win anyway, but at least I'd have one of my works read by her.' It was just harmless fun, a little confidence boost for your writing, something to participate in during spring break.
In absolutely no manner did you expect to be panicking in front of your bedroom mirror because you had not only placed but won first prize, and now you had to choose an outfit to wear to lunch.
Your free lunch.
With Helena Bonham Carter.
Because, out of all of the poems submitted to the contest, she liked yours the most.
You let out a shaky breath, tossing another dress onto the forming pile on your bed behind you. You know you shouldn't be so nervous, she's just another person, after all - but you've been trying on outfits for an hour, and your window to make the lunch on time was shrinking by the minute.
You pick up the next dress and inspect it. Short, black, corset-style waist, sweetheart neckline... perfect. Not boring or out of your style, but not too bold either - you can't stand the thought of scaring her.
Pairing your outfit with black heeled boots, a silver locket, and a quick brushing of your hair, you touch up with makeup in deep pinks, a rosy shade for your lipstick. You breath a sigh of relief, you feel perfectly naturally like you.
Everything should be just fine.
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The restaurant isn't one you've been to before, but you have driven and walked by. A cute, upscale cafe you've heard good things about - people often praise their soups and desserts in particular. You hope it isn't too expensive with a twinge of guilt (you've never been the best at receiving gifts).
You look up at the building, the decor giving a very 'shabby chic' aesthetic. Taking a deep breath and holding your purse close to your waist, you make your way inside.
The interior is gorgeous, spacious but not too big to be intimidating, the large windows by the entrance providing a lovely amount of natural light that fades into a soothing shadow the further back you look. Each table has a small vase with daisies (though you can't see from the door if they're real or not) and a numbered tag as a centerpiece. Behind the hostess' stand, you can see a counter with baskets of bread, a case full of cakes and tarts, and the door to the kitchen behind it.
"Hi, good day!" The hostess greats you with a smile. She's a blonde woman who looks about your own age, but you don't recall seeing her on your campus. "Just one? Can I get you a table?"
You return her friendliness on instinct. "Yes! Wait, um, no, sorry," you can feel your cheeks pinken as you stumble over your words. "I'm here to meet someone, but I'm not sure if she put her name down or anything... it's just a contest prize, this lunch, I don't really know anything about it other than-"
The host laughs, a happy sound without any malice that calms you from your rambling. "You mean with Miss Bonham Carter?" You avert your eyes and nod with a tight smile, your grip on your bag strap knuckle-whitening. "She told me to expect a contest winner. Don't worry about a thing, just follow me," she says with a reassuring smile.
"Thanks," you exhale, loosening your grip and following the uniformed woman to your table - perfectly in the middle of the lighter and darker sides of the establishment - but what catches your eye long before the lighting is the woman in the second seat.
It's surreal to see her in front of you, brown curls pulled back into a ponytail, sunglasses atop her head, a pink dress with a strawberry pattern cloaking her form that you just find adorable. Her legs are crossed under the table, exposing her pale calves, and despite your anxiety, you smile when you notice the worn pair of black converse sneakers she has on - but your heart jumps into your throat when she turns her gaze from her phone to you.
"Oh hello dear," she greets you as she stands, leaving her phone on the table and offering her hand. "You must be [Y/N L/N], my congratulations on winning the poetry contest! I'm Helena, it's lovely to meet you."
You stammer, frozen for a second, distinctly aware of the host leaving you alone with your lunch 'date.' You find that you're caught off guard by how genuine her smile seems, teeth shining with friendliness you can't remember having directed at you ever before. Her lips are painted a sweet red to match the strawberries on her dress - it gives her an extra layer of softness.
After a beat, you clear your throat, and reach your hand out to shake hers. "Yes, I'm sorry," you apologize quickly, pulling your hand back at the same speed in an attempt to ignore just how soft her own was. "I didn't mean to stare, I was just..." you find yourself trailing off shyly, struggling for a reasoning to admit.
Miss Bonham Carter laughs, a gentle sound that causes every muscle in your body to relax. "It's alright love, it's not the first time I've been stared at. I meet fans all the time who struggle much more to get their words out." She sits back in her chair, placing her phone in her bag before gesturing to the opposite seat. "Come! Sit!"
Jumping out of your head again, you comply. "Thank you for this opportunity, Miss Bonham Carter," you say once you're seated, "and for the prize. It's all very kind of you."
The older woman shakes her head, waving her hand. "Please, call me Helena. That title makes me sound like I'm my mother." She laughs again, "And you're very welcome, you have a remarkable talent for writing poetry. Your work was divine and I'm excited to have it framed for the library."
You're surprised at how much you're blushing at the compliment. "Th... thank you, Helena," you beam under her praise, "I never expected to win a prize at all. It was just something to do."
"For a meager hobby, your work is exquisite," she says, and you find your gaze following her pale hands as she brushes some stray curls from her face. "Each stanza has such depth, I couldn't help but select it - you have immense skill for invoking emotion in your audience."
Your cheeks darken further, and you shift nervously in your seat as you watch her teeth shine against her contrasting lips, stretched into a smile. "Thank you, that means so much, really," you reply, and it's true - for years you've found Helena to be an indirect creative inspiration for you. Both in your writing, your fashion, and your confidence as well.
A waiter comes over now, asking politely for your drink orders. You order a water (you didn't expect it to be this hot in the cafe...), and Helena orders an iced tea with lemon. The waiter leaves you both each a menu and leaves to get your beverages.
"So, Miss [Y/N]," After a beat, you look up from your menu to find Helena giving you a playful look over hers, "See anything you like?"
Flustered and with a dry throat, you stupidly say: "What?"
She giggles, the lightness of the sound causing your heart to flutter. "On the menu, my dear?" She replies with a bat of her eyelashes.
Humiliated, you look back down to your menu to hide your red face. "Oh! Yes- I mean, not yet," you stammer out. Your eyes scan the soup selections but you can't focus. Fuck, you've always thought she was pretty, beautiful even, but you had worked up your nerves to just be that - you're nervous because she's famous and the president of the London Library. The shaking of your hands seem to indicate otherwise, however, as you didn't expect her to be so... forward.
Fucking hell, I'm so gay.
"I've heard good things about their soups," you reply quickly, as you try to keep your flustered state under wraps. "I'm considering that."
Helena hums, and you can feel her watching you before she looks down to her own menu. "Ooh, good idea. This place is my favorite, that's why I chose it for my winner. I wanted to share some of my joys with you."
"That's so sweet," you start to say, just as the waiter returns with your drinks and asks if you're ready to order. He turns to you first and you order a bowl of tomato and basil soup, which to your surprise, Helena orders as well.
The waiter leaves with your menus, leaving you with nothing to hide behind. You quickly take a sip of your water to calm your nerves, the cold liquid burning in your flushed chest.
"I love your dress," Helena smiles, her chin in her hand and her eyes flicking from your locket to your face.
The compliment causes your cheeks to pinken again. She's making such an effort to be friendly, and knowing how awkward you're seeming, you greatly appreciate it. "Thank you, I felt the gothic aesthetic today," you reply, "I even almost wore fishnet stockings today..." your words fade when you notice the other woman's eyebrow quirk up in curiosity. "But I decided against it. It took hours for me to find something in my closet I was sure wouldn't put you off."
You grimace - you didn't mean to share that much.
Helena lets out a short laugh, leaning up from the table and giving you a perfect view of her neck as it flexes. You swallow. "Sweetheart, please. If you're familiar with me, then you've seen my own sense of style. There's not a single outfit on Earth that could 'put me off.'" She chuckles at the last few words.
You chuckle too, though softer than hers. "I am, I know, I just... wanted to seem normal enough to be comfortable for you, you know? I imagine you meet so many people, and so many fans, and fans can be really strange..."
She nods, eyeing the ceiling and seemingly remembering encounters she's had. "Yes, but everyone is different. Everyone is strange. That's part of what makes life so interesting."
The honesty she fills her words with have you sharing her smile. "I feel that way all the time."
Helena nods, smirking slightly. "I thought so, when I was reading your poem. It's part of what drew me to choose you."
You smile shyly, causing some hair to fall in front of your face. You clear your throat as you push it back. "Thank you, Helena."
There's a pause, intense while she searches your face, as if trying to read you. Then she smiles warmly, and asks, "You're American, aren't you? What brings you to London?"
You nod. You can't believe you forgot about your own accent, you've been in London for the whole school year already, you've gotten used to everyone else's. Helena's words echo in your mind, and you're focused on every melodic syllable. You blush.
"Oh! Sorry," you stammer and rush to answer, "I'm here for university. It's my first year. It's spring break now and my friend recommended your poetry contest to me as a fun activity."
I must have just looked so stupid, you groan internally, thrown off by her voice, of all things. Though it is... hot.
Helena's intrigued sound pulls you from your inner monologue. "Ooh, studying abroad, that's always fun! May I ask what you're studying?"
Her eyes sparkle with genuine interest, the sunlight shining through the windows perfectly to add a ring of gold to her brown irises. Strands of her hair receive the same effect, the brown and the grey, giving her a rainbow tiara atop her head.
"I..." you know you're staring, but you can't seem to tear your gaze away. She's so beautiful. "Creative writing," you say simply.
You watch her eyes soften, and her lips part to say something, but the universe curses you with the waiter bringing your lunches - the curse of the most delicious tomato soup you've ever smelled.
Helena seems to catch herself rather quickly, beaming a bright smile and saying, "Ah! Here we are," as the waiter places each dish in front of you. The white porcelain of the bowl brings focus to the creamy red soup, garnished with basil leaves in the center, with a slice of baguette on the side. "Thank you, this looks stunning," Helena thanks him, and you follow her words before he leaves you be.
When you glance back up at Helena while you take your first spoonful, you think you see a bit more pink in her cheeks than there was before.
But once the soup touches your tongue, it's all you can do to keep yourself from saying-
"Oh my god," you moan before you can stop yourself, flushing in embarrassment afterwards. "I'm sorry," you laugh while Helena is giggling across from you.
"No, don't be. It's so good, right?" She smiles before eating her own spoonful. You're nodding in agreement before you're distracted by the sound that comes from her - a moan like yours, but smoother, and softer. It has you frozen in your seat, heat pooling in your belly. Oh fuck.
It was dramatic, her eyes fluttering shut, almost deliberate. You quickly serve yourself another spoonful to hide your flustered state.
"You must try the bread too," she hums, picking up her piece and pulling it apart to dip in her soup. "It's divine."
You can see her eyes following your movements as you mimic hers, nodding in agreement when you place the soft bread on your tongue. When you look back at her, she's smiling at you with slightly hooded eyes. "I love baguettes, though I'm more partial to brioche buns," you say, and her eyebrows raise in surprise.
"You're a bread connoisseur then?" Helena asks with a playful smile as she eats, her tongue catching a stray drop of soup on her lip.
You blush, avoiding eye contact, but more particularly, staring at her mouth. "Not really," you shrug before looking down at your lunch, "I'm more of a general foodie. I like to cook, it's a hobby, but baking is my favorite."
Her smile is full of awe. "Have you made your own baguette before? Or brioche?"
You nod, filled with pride. "Yes! Though they never come out as neat as I would like, they make great sides, or snacks even."
"You're a woman of many talents then," she chuckles, popping another piece of bread into her mouth. "Is there anything else you enjoy doing?"
To your immense shame, 'fucking' is the first thing that comes to your mind. You blush furiously, cursing your ridiculous brain. "Oh... I, I paint sometimes, and I love fashion," you clear your throat, "but I usually just write. Horror, mostly, but sometimes I branch out."
Helena's smile grows into a grin. "Horror, hm? I was thinking of hosting another contest for the Library this autumn, one for spooky short stories. I'd love if you participated." She smirks, "No bias of course, but if your stories are as excellent as your poetry, I'm sure the judge will be over the moon."
Your blush deepens under her praise, and more as you recall your previous stories. "T-thank you, Helena, I'll definitely consider it," you hum in thought as you finish up your soup. "I think I'd have to tone my writing down if I submitted it, though. It can be... graphic."
The older woman looks at you curiously as she finishes her own meal, before smiling. "Well, what good is a scary story without some sort of gore?" She says softly with a wink.
You giggle, butterflies doing summersaults in your stomach. "I know, right?"
The waiter comes back to take your dishes, thanking you both as the meal was already prepaid. Helena reaches for her purse, but you beat her to yours, tipping the waiter yourself. He thanks you and wishes you both a good rest of your day.
"You didn't have to do that sweetheart," Helena says softly, "This is a prize lunch, after all. You earned it."
You shake your head with pink cheeks. "You're sweet enough to do this just for a poetry contest. I wanted to repay you."
"Just a poetry contest?" She gives an astonished laugh, "There's nothing simple about poetry. It's the art of expression."
"It is," you hum thoughtfully, watching her smile grow. "That's why I love it."
Helena grins before leaning forward, her chin in her palm against the table. "Well, Miss [Y/N], we have the whole afternoon together. What would you like to do next?"