Chapter Text
“Where’s my white button down?” Lydia asks loudly from the room next door, her tone on the edge of impatience.
“On the hanger,” the violinist replied casually, leaning towards the mirror while doing the finishing touches on her simple, yet meticulous, makeup look, as she swept a faint blush across her slightly prominent cheekbones. In the meantime, Lydia’s clumsy fumbling through the pieces in the closet overlapped the calm jazz tune on the record player. Soon, the sound of the conductor’s stomps making her way to her wife caused the German to roll her eyes in annoyance.
“It isn’t anywhere.”
Goodnow sighed in order to maintain her composure, as Tár stood there, in nothing more than her black tailored pants and black tank top. She placed the makeup tools onto the dressing table with a soft thump and swiftly rose, like many times before. “You know, sometimes I think you’d lose your head if it wasn’t screwed on.” The long skirt of the navy-blue velvet dress she wore swayed in the wind as she walked. “It’s like I’m a mother of a six-year-old.” She murmured, half to herself.
“Not my fault if you don’t know where you put things.” The conductor shot back without looking up.
“If you did your own laundry we wouldn’t be having this discussion.” Her tone sharp, as she flipped through the freshly cleaned and ironed clothes. “Why do you need that one in particular anyway? Just pick anything else.” The strong eyebrows knitted slightly, as the search continued. “You and your superstitions…”
It wasn’t long before the violinist shoved the so-wanted shirt against her husband’s chest, on her strong features now rested an ‘I told you so’ expression, causing the maestro to cringe internally, slightly ashamed of her domestic inabilities.
Sharon always found things. She ruled the household like a ship, and that’s why they managed to get this far together.
“What would I do without you?” Lydia proffered in a murmur, her eyes suddenly softened, tweaking on a passionate glance.
“Get lost, starve, die… Probably all three.” The German replied bluntly. Her gaze betraying a flicker of warmth. Instinctively, Tár leaned in to leave a kiss or two on the taller’s lips, soon finding herself unable to get enough of them as she aspired for more. “We’re late.” Gently pushing her partner away, she proceeded to help the maestro dress up. “Britta will kill us if we ever lose this chance.”
“That’s odd…”
“What? Britta killing us?” The taller asked, too concentrated in the collar and the buttons.
“No,” Lydia said lowly, her voice taking on a teasing tone. “You dressing me. Usually it is the other way around.” As she finished, that earned her an amused smirk from the blonde.
“Hush.” Goodnow cut in, as her deft, long fingers worked the last few buttons. “You’ll have to keep your dick in your pants for at least two hours.”
“It’s like asking me to never play the piano again.”
“Kein Theater.” (No drama.) She said it casually as she caressed the fine fabric, making sure there were no wrinkles in sight. “You’ll just have to practice some self-restraint.” As Sharon’s grip rested on her collar, she stared at her lovingly before pulling her into a quick last kiss.
The Porsche hummed through the Berliner's streets as the maestro drove in full serenity, entirely unfazed by the ten-minute delay. On her side, Sharon sat restless, rummaging through her handbag, disrupting the car’s silence.
She approached the lavish restaurant, one of those places with valet parking, heavy cutlery and a reservation list booked months in advance. Tár glanced rapidly to her wife beside her, witnessing her momentum distress in amusement.
“Where the fuck is it?” She cursed under her breath, digging deeper into her crimson clutch Piccard, Lydia’s latest birthday gift. An emergency sewing kit, a compact, her phone, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, no sight of her go-to deep rose lipstick. “Scheiße!” (Shit!)
With a light, deft and practiced touch, the conductor guided the car and parked with precision. As the engine fell silent, Goodnow settled back onto her seat with a long, defeated sigh.
“You don’t need it.” Lydia reassured while turning to face her. She leaned in, lowering her tone. “I’m the only one you should be impressing, not a rich old fucker who’s spoiling our friday night.” She murmured, their noses almost brushing.
A growing smirk hovered Sharon’s lips, but Lydia closed the distance before it could fully form. As their lips touched, the pianist found herself wanting more the longer the blonde lingered. The conductor’s neverending lust was evident the moment Lydia’s teeth grazed and trapped her lower lip, drawing blood and an almost imperceptible sigh of pleasure from the violinist.
“There’s your lipstick.” Lydia whispered as she retreated.
Stepping out of the car, the maestro met the infamous Berliner breeze, she played with her keys before tucking into one of her pockets, inhaling the professional persona she would perform for the next two hours or so. Sharon followed, composing herself as she towered beside her wife, her dress contributing to the magnetic impression she hoped to leave tonight.
Similar to the snobbish clients that approached the fancy establishment, the couple strutted confidently as they made their way in, earning a few sidelong glances from the white collars who took one look at Sharon’s figure and nearly drooled.
With her infamous possessive nature, Lydia’s hand found her wife’s waist, pulling her closer as a silent, bragging declaration. The violinist slightly squared her shoulders to equal her husband’s aura and smirked in amusement — the lipstick she never applied still visible on her mouth.
“Ladies, glad to see you again.” The host standing on the entrance proffered as they approached. Being regular customers, a single polite nod from both was enough of a greeting. “Please follow me.”
The candlelights arranged on the tables and across the grand walls contributed to the dim lights, as if every guest had been transported to a lavish banquet in Versailles. The hushed conversations of the snobs laid beneath the clinking of the silverware and crystal glasses, as well as the ambient music played by the hired pianist, whose repertoire was severely limited; something Lydia could never cease to complain about.
The host led them to a center round table already occupied by Mr. Richter, a man whose wealth carried the quiet arrogance of someone used to being in charge, pulling the strings and being listened to. “Enjoy the evening.” The host murmured with a nod before leaving them be.
Adjusting the glasses on the bridge of his nose and fixing his well-tailored tuxedo, the old man stood from his chair, reaching to shake the couple’s hands politely. “Maestro.” He started with a strong German accent, a fine grin and a strong grip. “Ms. Goodnow, I’m glad you two could make it.”
“We’re sorry for the inconvenience.” Sharon apologized for the delay as her husband pulled a chair in an act of chivalry. On the other hand, Lydia seemed entirely unbothered, not at all remorseful.
“The traffic was mayhem.” The maestro lied as she drew out her own chair. “Berlin, as you well know...”
Once they were both seated, the magnate waved a dismissive hand. “No worries. My assistant and I only have been long enough to order the wine and the bread.” He dismissed with lightness, reaching for the uncorked bottle of red wine to serve them both.
“And where is he?” Sharon questioned casually, as she placed the napkin over her lap.
“Well, she is in the restroom.” Richter corrected while filling the violinist’s glass just enough before moving to Lydia’s. “The female equivalent of the man’s cave.”
The maestro let out a fake laugh at his antics and attempt at humor, lifting her wine glass and taking a generous sip, the first step of survival to the long night stretching ahead.
“Speaking of her…” He muttered, jutting his chin forward slightly. The couple turned simultaneously, as the assistant made her way back to the table.
Beneath the dim glow of the place, the young woman carried herself with poise and exuded a quiet aura that hid her deception. Her brown locks, though secured in a half-updo, cascaded down her shoulders perfectly, some lighter strands catching the candlelight in auburn tones.
On the plump lips, a shade of lipstick seemingly impossible to recreate. A warm and deep glossy red. Strikingly remarkable.
“Oh, you’re finally here.” She started, her grip on a tiny designer’s clutch pressed against her lower body. Out of warmth and politeness, Sharon rose from her seat and pressed two kisses on each side of the woman’s cheeks. “It’s great to finally meet you, Ms. Goodnow. I’m Clara.”
“Just Sharon, please.”
In the meantime, the second sip of red wine seemed unable to find its way down Lydia’s throat. Her legs failed at the simple task of standing up to greet the young woman. Being the acute observer she was, Clara easily noticed it.
Closing the distance, the assistant made her way towards the conductor, extending her hand for a handshake.
“Maestro.” She proffered low, with a velvety tone. “So we meet again.”
“Ms. Hartmann.” She said dryly, with a handshake quick enough to not raise suspicion.
Clara smoothed the back of her white slip dress with elegance as she eased back into her seat, the hazel eyes lifting up to take a peek at the conductor’s posture, whose distress manifested gradually as her strong eyes became avoidant. A devious smirk grew on the younger’s lips, ever so minimal it went unnoticed by everyone at the table.
“Should we order?” Mr. Richter asked, already raising his hand to get a waiter’s attention before anyone could consent. “No one should ever talk business with an empty stomach.”
He earned nothing more than a head nod from the maestro, whilst the violinist agreed politely with a grin. Sharon’s big blues roamed and landed on the young woman’s figure seated beside the old magnate, watching as she checked the situation of her lipstick with a pocket mirror.
“I like the shade. What’s the lipstick you have on?” Sharon asked, out of the blue. Lydia flinched internally, as she’d never expected to be driven into a tight corner as such.
“Le minou rouge.” Clara casually replied. The French rolled off her tongue with ease as she shut the golden metallic compact mirror with a click.
“What’s a minou?” Tár innocently asked, with knit eyebrows. Slowly turning to face her, Hartmann’s eyes glanced in boldness.
“Pussycat. The red pussycat.” She answered bluntly, her true intentions laying beneath her tone.