Post by Fiona McFly on Jul 7, 2017 2:33:36 GMT
Interlude #2 ~ "In Which Jack Realises That It's Fiona Who Wears the Pants"
5 July 2017 + 1330 GMT
The day started out peaceful enough.
We find Jack Gaither sitting on a chair in a small waiting lobby outside the entrance to Millennium Studios' recording studio No. 47 whilst his wife, Fiona McFly, calmly hums a tune, pacing around with her hands behind her back. On this warm and sunny Thursday, their mentor Regina Kimble was busy recording her "Fly High" sonnet, with the very notion that it might turn into a full-fledged tune at some point in the process of making the Open Book album.
Yet as Jack looked down at his iPhone, nobody in the hallway could have ever predicted that this day wasn't going to be as peaceful as predicted.
JACK GAITHER:
I dunno 'bout ya hun, but wonder how she's doin' in there...
FIONA MCFLY:
Me too lovely, but we've got to let her do her work.
JACK:
Well, I still don't think it's a good idea. I mean, shit....havin' Miss Kimble record somethin' that doesn't make any--
Fiona politely cut off her husband mid-sentence, trying to get him to understand that the proud former educator wasn't working her tune for her own sake, but rather for a world mired in chaos and strife at every corner.
FIONA:
This *isn't* about the music. This is about a woman who only wants to bless the children of the world once more, in the manner even you yourself recalled rather fondly.
Jack didn't say a word. Instead he cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He seemed, in Fiona's eyes, to be very disillusioned about being away from his own home.
JACK:
Ya know...we coulda spent our first 4th of July at home, watchin' the Rangers get their asses whupped with a fireworks show at the end, over burgers and fries. But nooooo...we had to spend it here in London so I can help *you* pimp out some album that's goin' as slow as molasses.
The Northern Irishwoman spoke up, annoyed that her hubby would make such an off-the-cuff remark.
FIONA:
Oh really?! You expect me to believe that I can just...
She clapped her hands once, mimicking a magician's classic "rabbit out of a hat" trick.
FIONA:
...POOF! Create a work of art in nothing flat!?! No lovely, it don't work that way! Making music is a slow, often painstaking process that requires a lot of trial and error. When you finish one track, you realise you've got twelve more to go yet you haven't a clue as to where you want to go next! Then you've finished two songs...you see where I'm going?!
Jack scoffed, shrugging his shoulders as Fiona kept walking, peering her eyes upon a small Gold record plaque hanging on a wall.
JACK:
Oh yeahhhh, patience I get. Time? There's a woman in that recordin' booth, livin' on borrowed time, yet ya wanna drag her through the mud just to sell your stuff, just like you've been draggin' Imperial down with ONE busted play after another.
She stopped in her tracks, clomping her stilettos against the tile floor before turning around, eking out a sinister scowl at the accusation.
FIONA:
How...fucking DARE you insinuate that! You REALLY believe what those girls in the "other" gig are saying about me?!?
Jack perked up both brows, shocked at his wife's increasingly confrontational tone.
JACK:
I-I-I...I swear to Christ didn't mean to say it--
FIONA:
(cuts him off, screaming in his face)
That's what it FUCKING SOUNDS LIKE! You think I can't work on a side project, huh?! You think I've got to spend the rest of me FUCKING life being told what I can and can't do, that I have to stay in the same fucking routine or something like that?! You think you're the ONLY one who knows what Miss Kimble is or isn't capable of doing in HER life?! newsflash you're wrong--DEAD WRONG!! I KNOW DAMN WELL WHAT SHE CAN DO, AND SO DOES LUKE!!!
Fiona stood firm over Jack, placing her hands firmly on her hips a la an angry parent whose teenage son had flunked out of school.
FIONA:
I understand that she is, indeed, living with a death sentence and that you're worried about her well-being. But I also understand that she's a fighter, and she will fight that horrific disease she's got 'til she can't anymore, 'cos it's not how youse die that matters, it's how youse LIVE. That's how LEGACIES are born, or didn't youse forget that after taking too many blows to the fucking skull?! 'Cos to be blunt...to hear you insinuate that I'm using the woman that's CARED FOR THE BOTH OF US FOR YEARS for the sake of publicity is so...fucking...DEGRADING!!! God...
Fiona, eyes wide open, face beet red, stared daggers into her husband's eyes before taking her right hand and swiftly slapping his left cheekbone, leaving him flabbergasted beyond any capacity for rational thinking.
FIONA:
...DAMN you, John Wayne Mathias Gaither! I've heard some overtly convoluted whoppers in my lifetime but to hear a notion like that from you is so FUCKING INSULTING to me, her, AND her son!
She gritted her teeth, speaking to him using a very terse vocal registry.
FIONA:
All youse coulda said is that I shouldn't even make this music album in the first place, but now that doesn't matter anymore 'cos I've about HAD to hear of your shit! Don't even BOTHER ringing me for a while, don't even waste ME CUNT-FUCKING TIME, not 'til youse LEARN a thing or two about the meaning of dignity, humility, and self-sacrifice!
Fiona turned around, angrily storming off towards the exit, huffing along the way as Jack is left speechless, covering his cheek as Nigel Richards stepped out of the door to the main recording studio, followed by Miss Kimble in her specially-crafted power-scooter chair.
NIGEL RICHARDS:
Bloody hell, are you alright sir?
Jack didn't say a word, but in the minds of Regina and the record producer, all was not well. They looked around, wondering where Fiona was at first, before turning their gazes on Jack, who could only muster a deep, resigned sigh.
MISS KIMBLE:
What in the name of God happened...?!
Not even bothering to ask how the recording session went, Jack would only bow his head solemnly.
JACK:
I dunno. I just...I just don't know no more.
~TO BE CONTINUED~
Well howdy there pardner.