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The Hellfire Club is one of the most posh and upscale clubs in the world. Few people know what goes on behind the swanky, upscale lounge— the back rooms where all manner of indulgent behaviour is encouraged.
Fewer still know about the BACK back rooms, where the GDP of an entire small nation can be exchanged over a few drinks and hushed words.
For Roberto da Costa, it's simply a swell place to do business that pours generous drinks, has plenty of eye candy, and lets him leave a tab open. So when his answering service gave him a call from Marie, he'd hailed her, and arranged a meeting downtown at one of the side rooms of the club, a place where informal meetings can be conducted outside the melee of the music and the dance floor. Leaving instructions with the waitress to have Marie brought, Roberto is taking a few idle moments to catch up on all things, financial reports from home, scattered on the table in front of him, and with some of that ultramodern rock and roll from Britain playing on the record player in the corner.
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There's one thing that Marie's finding to be universal; allowing others to make the decisions, whether the others in question be the cards, or in this case Roberto… it takes her to the most interesting places. She's never been to a proper lounge before, so the environment is definitely something to take in — at least while she's being directed to one of those rooms to meet back up with her friend properly.
Today, Marie's keeping her comfy coat on — the days are getting colder and the chill tends to /last/ with her more often than it did in days past, so it takes longer to warm back up as a result.
"<Hello, 'Berto! How are you?>" comes the cheery greeting from Marie once she makes her way in; if he raises to greet her? she's going to move in to try and give him a friendly hug. Otherwise, she's going slip into a seat opposite of the man, smiling all the while.
*
Roberto looks up at that urbane French, and flashes a brilliant, pleased grin at Marie's arrival. "<Hello, my dear! I'm wonderful— yourself?>" Cheek kisses are exchanged and the hug reciprocated, and Roberto invites Marie to seat herself on the sofa. He sweeps up the papers and stashes them carelessly in a satchel, which he sets just out of sight.
"<I was so pleased to get your message. Can I offer you a drink?>" he invites, gesturing at the lounge area down the hall. "<Perhaps a cocktail, or a glass of wine? They have a tremendous Coates du Rhone '52 that I think you'd find quite robust,>" he suggests.
*
"<Quite well, things seem to be… settling down,>" Which is definitely a good thing for Marie; too much excitement of the kind that she's seen in the recent weeks is, well, just plain too much. Especially when the excitement has been echoes upon echoes of bad news; good news comes rarely in days like those, and it almost seems like it's hard to breathe.
"<If I drink here, I may never find my way home.>" she admits, laughing softly. Directions still aren't /quite/ her forte, although she's improving with every night out into the city, and she's been making nightly excursions which have definitely helped with that. But… "<Perhaps just one glass.>" Because that can't be /too/ bad, right?
*
"<Done.> Roberto rises and moves to the intercom, toggling it. "<Yes, this is De Costa in 4. Please send a bottle of the '52 Coates du Rhone, and two glasses.>"
He moves to the sofa and takes his seat again, crossing one leg towards Marie and his arm resting on the cushion behind her shoulder. "<It pleases me you're seeing some calm,>" Roberto says, in the smooth maturity to which French lends itself— a language that creates poise by virtue of being spoken aloud. "<It's been tumultuous for all of us.>"
"<So! To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?>" he inquires, eyes dancing. "<You were less than forthcoming over the phone, and if this is a birthday surprise, you're some months too early.>"
*
There's a somber nod to that thought, "<Yes; especially with… those… people out on the streets. Even in this most wonderful of times, it truly makes me wish to sit inside my apartment and never leave its warmth.>" The people in question? The Friends of Humanity. The thought of running into /them/ terrifies her. It's one reason that she's very, very grateful to not have one of the more obvious mutations she's seen — if infact she /is/ a mutant. She's not even sure of that. She's hardly sure it would matter either way.
As for the reason behind the visit? That brightens her right back up. "<I spoke to my friend; we have decided to accept your offer of escape on holiday.>" Marie replies, sounding pretty happy about it, too. Perhaps there's no horrible people on the beach. "<You… are sure that bringing an extra person will be no trouble, yes?>"
*
"<No problem at all,>" Roberto assures Marie, in his lazy, languid French with the heavy Latin accent. "<I look forward to meeting your friend! Can you tell me something about her? Not too much—>" he cautions her with a flicker of his fingers, grinning roguishly. "<I look forward to being surprised. But is she American? French? Dare I hope, Brazilian?>" He clearly means no insult there, but who doesn't love seeing a countryman while abroad?
"<A holiday from the winter would be sublime. I'm going about everywhere in six layers and dashing from car to bar to car again— the cold is just draining me,>" Roberto complains. Quite literally, in fact, as there's much less ambient heat from the pyrokinetic to absorb when it's cold out. "<I'd die if it weren't for my chauffer.>"
*
Roberto means no insult, and Marie takes none; it's hard for a friend to insult her. She just tends to think the best of people, it's her way! "<Of course, I feel I know her quite well. After all, we have lived together for… nearly a month, I think?>" She's so grateful for that, too. Being off the streets - especially in this cold - is wonderful. Having good company (better than that, if one believes the cards!) is even better. "<I /believe/ she is American; she speaks French nearly as well as I, but her English is far better.> Another thing that's a plus, for her. Especially when she messes up on words or sayings.
"<Yes! I know precisely what you mean. Going out… in this,>" she waves her hands in a bit of exasperation at the cold outside. "<It is a struggle to get out of bed in the morning with the cold. The snow is pretty, but being somewhere that it /isn't/ would be quite wonderful.>"
*
"<Bahamas, Bora Bora, or the Seychelles; take your pick,>" Roberto says with a flashing grin. "<A compelling argument for Hawaii would be acceptable, but that might be quite a longer journey than your friend has in mind!>" The wine arrives, born on white-gloved servants' hands, and is poured for each— Roberto offers Marie a glass as the server departs, and clinks his against her with a soft chime of ringing crystal.
"<Or simply toss a dart at a map of the Carribean, and we'll see where we snowbirds alight,>" he grins. "<I could certainly stand to warm myself on warm sand for a few days, at least.>"
*
Decisions don't come easily to Marie. They don't come from /her/ without the cards. That's why it might be a surprise that without missing a beat, she says… "<Bora Bora, if you please! I am told they speak French there, and being somewhere new where I can be understood clearly would be most delightful.>" the French girl offers, with a quick 'Thank you' offered to the servant before she's taking the glass and clinking it easily with Roberto's — her knowledge of certain things may lack, but she /does/ know that particular tradition.
"<I admit… I am excited to see a true /beach/ in person. The ocean I have seen, but it was at a pier, and did not look anything like the pictures.>" When she got snuck aboard a cargo ship in order to be transported into the US, that is. The girl didn't know any better, and still doesn't!
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"<Bora Bora it is,>" Roberto confirms, without missing a beat. "<I am shocked you have never seen a beach! Even Calais has a beach, though it's rarely a treat to visit except during the boldest of summer months,>" Roberto concedes. "<But there are beaches, and /beaches/. White sands, crushed shells, the sun at your back and the wind in your face. The Channel smells of salt and seaweed and propriety, but the beachs of the Carribean— well, I can say they smell like freedom, like nowhere else in the world,>" he says, with a longing sigh, before throwing more wine back.
*
While Roberto speaks, Marie sips — the girl has a definite taste for wine, evidenced by the blissful lip that crosses her lips as she savors the drink. Exquisite indeed. "<Never…>" Not that she remembers, anyways. "<…the sisters were never ones for such… frivolity. Our time best devoted to studies, or chores, or…>" there's a shake of her head to that. One of the many things that she didn't agree with at the convent that she grew up in; but the description of the beach has her smiling once more. "<It sounds like what paradise must truly be like.>"
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"<I like to think so. Anyway!>" Roberto claps his leg softly. "<When shall we go? This week? Next month?>" he inquires, settling comfortably into the embrace of the old leather of the sofa. The material creaks a little, but it's so well broken in that the leather, broken and lined like the color of old camel hide, barely whispers. It's an old piece of furniture but so lovingly and rigorosuly maintained that the wear just makes it fit better, like an old but supremely well-made and well-broken-in glove.
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"<Myself, I'd be ready today.>" Besides; the perfect Christmas gift might just be somewhere out on the beaches. "<…but we /do/ have another to consider, now… perhaps I should have you over to the apartment so that you may meet Scarlett and we can make our plans?>" It's as much of an offer as anything, and allowed to be thought while she has another taste of the wine. Pale fingers of her free hand moving gently along the sofa; the lap of luxury is all but foreign to her, but that doesn't mean she can't enjoy it while it's there!
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"<Perfectamente,>" Roberto says, nodding at the suggestion. He fishes for a pen and paper in his pocket, and passes both to Marie. "<If you'd be so kind as to scribble your information down? I'll call on you two when it's convenient,>" he offers the exquisite French woman. "<Shall we plan on dinner, then? In three days?>" he suggests. "<That gives you girls some time to consider your plans, and then we can confirm some of the particulars and settle on a flight date.>" The proposal seems perfectly accommodating on all ends, so Roberto hoists his glass, again, and takes a quick sip.
"<I assume it might be a challenge for Scarlett to slip away from her own responsibilities for overlong, so, let's let her requirements determine the day we depart.>"
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"<Of course.>" It's something that's less decision and more reaction. Or manners. Or just common sense. Still, Marie doesn't hesitate to take paper and pen, and write out her details. Her script flows like her movements, carrying a sort of elegance to the movements that follows into the lines. Her full name, phone number, and address are jotted down in turn. "<This sounds like a most acceptable plan.>" Marie's never one to turn down food, and with her metabolism? She doesn't have to.
Then there's a long look at the remaining wine in the glass — truth be told? She's already /starting/ to feel a bit of lightheadedness coming on — she's a most extreme lightweight — and decides setting it down would be prudent. "<Speaking of responsibilities… I have mine to return to.>" They may have a third redhead and her partner moving in, so further cleaning is a must! "<It was a pleasure to see you as always, 'Berto… we will speak again soon.>"
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