Post by dianahawthorne on May 19, 2008 8:29:48 GMT -5
Come to the Studio Again
Rating: T (for now!)
Summary: What if Jean had gone to pose for Teddy again?
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DISCLAIMER: The dialogue at the beginning of this chapter is taken directly from the movie. I do not own "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie", unfortunately.
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After dismissing his group of “Philistines”, as he supposed Jean would call the group of giggling girls that could not appreciate art, he made his way to her classroom. Peering through the window, he saw her cleaning the chalkboard. He walked inside and sat on a desk. She turned to look at him, and the lonely, pleading expression in her eyes just about broke his heart.
“They flee from me who once did seek me out,” he said, pleased when she walked closer to him, collecting books from the desktops. She stopped as he told her, “I miss you, Jean. Shall I beg you? Please, com back.”
She looked at him with sorrowful eyes. “You have a family. I am a teacher,” she told him.
“I had a family last June. You were a teacher last June,” he said, frustrated. “My God,” he exclaimed, “I wish I had a pound note for every time I’ve heard you say ‘I am a teacher. I am a teacher. First, last, and always.’” She turned away from him, walking to the cabinets at the back of the room to put away the books she collected. He smiled smugly and pulled a postcard from his jacket pocket.
“What a firm reminder your postcard was,” he told her, meeting her eyes for a brief moment before reading the back of the card.
“‘A postcard from romantic Italy,’” he read. “‘The incomparable Giotto frescoes; how triumphantly his figures vibrate with life. Yours truly, J. Brodie.’”
She moved closer to him, almost involuntarily. “That night at the studio,” he whispered in her ear. “That one night at the studio… I was pleased to feel it was I who enjoyed the tutorial position.” She looked at him, eyes filled with tears. “Come back, Jean,” he asked her, “I need you.”
Suddenly her lips were on his, his hands were tangled in her hair, and one of his hands was on her buttocks pulling her closer to him. She opened her mouth, deepening the kiss, and their tongues danced with each other. Just as abruptly, she pushed him away, and he began to protest before he realised that they were no longer alone.
“M-M-M…” Mary McGregor began, stuttering as usual.
Jean pulled herself out of his arms and walked over to her. “Mary McGregor!” she exclaimed. “Mary McGregor, do you know what happened to Peeping Tom?” The poor girl shook her head.
“His eyes were shrivelled into darkness in his head and dropped before him!” An expression of pure terror crossed Mary’s face, and she fled from the room as if there were lions at her heels. Jean closed the door before leaning against the wall, burying her face in her hands.
“Poor old Tom,” Teddy told her, smiling, as he crossed the room to stand in front of her. “Don’t worry, Jean,” he said, one arm around her. “You’ve got your girls well trained. You’re safe enough from that quarter.” She looked up at him, embarrassed. “It’s me you’ve got to worry about,” he finished.
“Come to the studio. Come to pose again,” he begged her, “Only to pose.”
“You should paint one of my girls,” she told him in a trembling voice, “Jenny is the pretty one.”
“Hang your girls. It’s you I want to paint!” he exclaimed angrily.
She looked up at him, his eyes full of passion. “When?” she asked in a timid voice, inwardly cursing herself for not telling him off confidently.
His eyes lit up and he grabbed her hand. “Now,” he said firmly. She followed him out of the building and to the bicycle rack, where she retrieved her bicycle. They walked in companionable silence towards his studio in the heart of old Edinburgh.
They reached the building that housed his studio, and she leaned her bicycle against the wall. He gallantly held the door open for her, showing her that despite the fact that it was 1932, not all chivalry was dead. She acknowledged his gesture with a smile that caused his heart to beat faster in his chest. He lead the way up the narrow staircase to the second floor, where his studio was, and opened the door. She stepped into the room, closing her eyes and inhaling the familiar scent of oil paints and turpentine. Teddy walked over to an easel that had a white sheet draped over it.
“This is the best work I have ever done, Jean,” he told her triumphantly. She felt her heart sink a bit at his words – in her quick glance around the studio, she had not seen her portrait anywhere. She did not think that this was it, either – after all, why would he keep her portrait on the easel for over a year?
He smiled at her sudden sadness, and dramatically pulled the sheet from the portrait. She gasped, her hand at her throat, and took a few steps backwards, stopping when her back hit the wall. He smiled at her and stepped over to her, draping an arm around her shoulders. They stood there quietly for a few moments, looking at his work of art.
It was indeed the portrait he had painted of her over a year ago. She was in awe of the way he had managed to capture the look in her eyes, the sunlight glinting off her hair, her smile… She flung herself into his arms.
“Teddy,” she breathed, looking up at him. “Oh, Teddy, it’s marvellous.” He smiled down at her, wrapping one arm around her waist and moving one hand up to cradle her head gently. Their lips met – and later on, neither one would know if it was Jean who stretched up to him, or Teddy who bent down to her – but it didn’t matter.
Rating: T (for now!)
Summary: What if Jean had gone to pose for Teddy again?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
DISCLAIMER: The dialogue at the beginning of this chapter is taken directly from the movie. I do not own "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie", unfortunately.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After dismissing his group of “Philistines”, as he supposed Jean would call the group of giggling girls that could not appreciate art, he made his way to her classroom. Peering through the window, he saw her cleaning the chalkboard. He walked inside and sat on a desk. She turned to look at him, and the lonely, pleading expression in her eyes just about broke his heart.
“They flee from me who once did seek me out,” he said, pleased when she walked closer to him, collecting books from the desktops. She stopped as he told her, “I miss you, Jean. Shall I beg you? Please, com back.”
She looked at him with sorrowful eyes. “You have a family. I am a teacher,” she told him.
“I had a family last June. You were a teacher last June,” he said, frustrated. “My God,” he exclaimed, “I wish I had a pound note for every time I’ve heard you say ‘I am a teacher. I am a teacher. First, last, and always.’” She turned away from him, walking to the cabinets at the back of the room to put away the books she collected. He smiled smugly and pulled a postcard from his jacket pocket.
“What a firm reminder your postcard was,” he told her, meeting her eyes for a brief moment before reading the back of the card.
“‘A postcard from romantic Italy,’” he read. “‘The incomparable Giotto frescoes; how triumphantly his figures vibrate with life. Yours truly, J. Brodie.’”
She moved closer to him, almost involuntarily. “That night at the studio,” he whispered in her ear. “That one night at the studio… I was pleased to feel it was I who enjoyed the tutorial position.” She looked at him, eyes filled with tears. “Come back, Jean,” he asked her, “I need you.”
Suddenly her lips were on his, his hands were tangled in her hair, and one of his hands was on her buttocks pulling her closer to him. She opened her mouth, deepening the kiss, and their tongues danced with each other. Just as abruptly, she pushed him away, and he began to protest before he realised that they were no longer alone.
“M-M-M…” Mary McGregor began, stuttering as usual.
Jean pulled herself out of his arms and walked over to her. “Mary McGregor!” she exclaimed. “Mary McGregor, do you know what happened to Peeping Tom?” The poor girl shook her head.
“His eyes were shrivelled into darkness in his head and dropped before him!” An expression of pure terror crossed Mary’s face, and she fled from the room as if there were lions at her heels. Jean closed the door before leaning against the wall, burying her face in her hands.
“Poor old Tom,” Teddy told her, smiling, as he crossed the room to stand in front of her. “Don’t worry, Jean,” he said, one arm around her. “You’ve got your girls well trained. You’re safe enough from that quarter.” She looked up at him, embarrassed. “It’s me you’ve got to worry about,” he finished.
“Come to the studio. Come to pose again,” he begged her, “Only to pose.”
“You should paint one of my girls,” she told him in a trembling voice, “Jenny is the pretty one.”
“Hang your girls. It’s you I want to paint!” he exclaimed angrily.
She looked up at him, his eyes full of passion. “When?” she asked in a timid voice, inwardly cursing herself for not telling him off confidently.
His eyes lit up and he grabbed her hand. “Now,” he said firmly. She followed him out of the building and to the bicycle rack, where she retrieved her bicycle. They walked in companionable silence towards his studio in the heart of old Edinburgh.
They reached the building that housed his studio, and she leaned her bicycle against the wall. He gallantly held the door open for her, showing her that despite the fact that it was 1932, not all chivalry was dead. She acknowledged his gesture with a smile that caused his heart to beat faster in his chest. He lead the way up the narrow staircase to the second floor, where his studio was, and opened the door. She stepped into the room, closing her eyes and inhaling the familiar scent of oil paints and turpentine. Teddy walked over to an easel that had a white sheet draped over it.
“This is the best work I have ever done, Jean,” he told her triumphantly. She felt her heart sink a bit at his words – in her quick glance around the studio, she had not seen her portrait anywhere. She did not think that this was it, either – after all, why would he keep her portrait on the easel for over a year?
He smiled at her sudden sadness, and dramatically pulled the sheet from the portrait. She gasped, her hand at her throat, and took a few steps backwards, stopping when her back hit the wall. He smiled at her and stepped over to her, draping an arm around her shoulders. They stood there quietly for a few moments, looking at his work of art.
It was indeed the portrait he had painted of her over a year ago. She was in awe of the way he had managed to capture the look in her eyes, the sunlight glinting off her hair, her smile… She flung herself into his arms.
“Teddy,” she breathed, looking up at him. “Oh, Teddy, it’s marvellous.” He smiled down at her, wrapping one arm around her waist and moving one hand up to cradle her head gently. Their lips met – and later on, neither one would know if it was Jean who stretched up to him, or Teddy who bent down to her – but it didn’t matter.
