Maggie Fletcher and the Art of the Imaginary

Chapter Two

"So, why is it you left Ruri McLaughlin bluer balled than Papa Smurf in December?" Bronwyn Alexi asked a sallow faced Maggie the following morning. Feigning nonchalance, Bron eyed the remains of her rolled cigarette between her silver ringed fingers in one hand and swirled a cooling black coffee in the other. "Tell me this one didn't float your abstinent lady boat and I'll have to give up on you. I mean Jesus Christ Mags, he asked if he could get into your pants instead of assuming it was his God given right to drive straight in."

Taking a final drag between her purple lips, Bronwyn dropped her cigarette stub and ground it below a turquoise boot.

"You should have screwed him and taken him home to meet your mother."

Normally, Bronwyn was just the right person to confide in about all things hauntingly supernatural and yet, not for the first time, Maggie failed to summon the excuse of him. What that left was a festering secret between herself and Bronwyn and the knowledge it would come back to haunt her and painfully so.

"Heed my warning Maggie Fletcher, one sad day you're going to realise that all you needed to live your best life was a good, old-fashioned screwing but find you're ninety years old with cobwebs the only thing between your legs and I'd hate to think you'll come crying to me." Bronwyn took a measured swig of her coffee and then peered at Maggie once more from behind her brash spectacles. "No Maggie dearest, not even I will be your shoulder to cry on."

Maggie snorted, righting her battered portfolio case on her shoulder.

"I pity the spiders," she muttered, failing to ignore Bronwyn's melodramatic, blue glower. "If you must know, he just wasn't it, Bron. Whatever it is." Bronwyn returned the poor justification with an eye roll, checking her phone whilst Maggie wrestled with an unfortunate headache and the offensive winter sunlight.

"Nicholas is cutting it fine, again. I swear to God he doesn't emerge from that cave of his until the last minute on purpose."

No sooner had she said it, the devil himself came careening down the quad path with his portfolio case catching the wind behind him.

"So, Nicky," Bronwyn said upon Nicholas' suddenly suitably wary approach. "You're spending an awful lot of time at The Rabbit Hole these days; one can only ask – late night of work inspired animating or fornicating?" Her meticulously stencilled eyebrows wiggled, and she handed Nicholas her coffee cup in a sinful communion offering. Nicholas hid his scowl behind the plastic rim and shrunk into his upturned collar.

"No comment," he murmured. Bronwyn's eyes brightened, devilry in her smile.

"Leaving it to my imagination? How generous of you."

Nicholas hinted at Maggie from behind his thick spectacles that her interference would have been much appreciated but Maggie knew better than to place herself back into Bronwyn's firing line. She'd already had her fair share of Bronwyn's lecturing as it was for one morning.

"You wake up late and arrive here with mere seconds to spare on purpose, knowing that I can't interrogate you because if I'm late to class I'll get it in the neck," Bronwyn hypothesised, partaking in a mint. "Gods, I'm a glutton for gossip and punishment. Still, don't think this is over Nicky. I will uncover whatever dirty little secret you're hiding from us." She glowered at the animator before turning back on Maggie. "And don't think we're done yet either Margaret Florence Fletcher. I will have a genuine explanation for last night's antics, or the gods help you both." Picking up her own portfolio case, Bronwyn shot a final glare over her shoulder and then flounced into the Lauriston Building.

"If I didn't know her any better, I would say she could do with getting high or getting laid," Nicholas muttered, downing the dregs of Bron's coffee before regarding Maggie with a dry sense of amusement.