The restaurant looks much like a normal restaurant. It is, however, serving a good selection, though at inflated prices. Still, perhaps her "uncle" will pay for dinner.
Chelsea takes a seat, examining the inhabitants, half-heartedly making mental improvements in their appearances in her mind.
It would appear that her "uncle" has had similar ideas about coming early, if the man hesitating in the doorway is the gentleman in question. He's clearly middle-aged, but going grey gracefully, and going bald slightly less so. There's something about his manner, his face, which suggests controlled strength and greater size than he actually possesses. He peers around the room.
Chelsea watches him with narrowed eyes, searching for clues in his appearance; what he might be like - and any proof that he might truly be related.
He has no obvious resemblance to her -- at least as far as she can see -- but as she watches him, his eyes fix on her, and he inclines his head in a sharp nod, making his way across the room to her.
He says, "Dr Chelsea Bateman?" as he approaches.
Chelsea stands from her seat, holding out her hand.
He shakes her hand, his grasp firm and dry. "My dear girl, how good to meet you." There is a faint odour of whiskey on his breath. Very faint.
Chelsea gestures to the seat across from him. "Please, take a seat."
He seats himself, neatening his trouser legs. "A drink, before we eat?"
Chelsea says "Certainly."
He signals over a waiter, then turns to Chelsea. "What would you like, my dear?"
Chelsea tells the waiter, "A glass of the sherry, please."
Her "uncle" requests a dry martini, and the waiter vanishes to promptly return with both.
Her "uncle" sips his drink, and studies Chelsea's face. He appears to be mildly satisfied. "Yes. Definitely."
Chelsea says, with unconscious arrogance, "/I/ don't see it."
Her "uncle" says, "Perhaps it's the different gender. You have a strong look of your mother, my dear. She was a sad loss to the family."
Chelsea says "When did she die?"
Her "uncle" drinks from his martini again, eyes clouding. "I think it must have been shortly after your birth. She broke off all contact with us, after she took up with your father. We attempted to find her, but she seemed to have learned some of the family skills... a little too well."
Her "uncle" says, "So, tell me about yourself."
Chelsea says "Is there anything you don't already know?"
He shrugs, and collects a second martini from the convenient waiter. "I know about your career -- the money you make, the prizes you've won, your reputation. I don't know about _you_, my dear. Your personal tastes, your interests, your plans for the future."
Chelsea says "Unless this is a job interview of some sort, I hardly think that an interesting gambit; surely you can narrow down the questioning some?"
He sighs, and studies the table. "It's not an interview, no. And I'm not doing this very well, am I?"
Chelsea says "Why don't you tell me who /you/ are, and what you do."
He rolls his martini glass between his fingers. "I used to be in the judgement business, once. Now? I just freelance. And drink."
Chelsea says "I didn't realize there was such a thing as a freelance judge."
He shakes his head. "Not that way, no. Just ... a bit of keeping track of things on the side. Private inquiries, personal affairs. No actual mandate any longer, my dear."
Chelsea takes a sip of her drink, quiet for a moment. "I don't know how families interact, or what's expected of me, at this point. And I've had a very wearying day. So if you could explain what it is you want, I would appreciate that."
He regards his martini. "I wanted to get to know you, my dear. After your mother -- left, I wondered what I had done wrong, and I wished that matters had been other than they were. I can't say that I regret all my actions. I don't. We held different points of view. But you are family, and I would rather not lose you as well."
He pauses for a moment, then before she can speak again, he adds, "And I want you to know that if anything odd or unusual turns up, anything that worries you, however strange it is, I'm willing to listen."
He says, "And that's all."
Chelsea says "Alright."
He nods, and finishes the martini.
He says, "So, are you -- happy in your work?"
Chelsea looks relieved by this question; she answers, unequivocally, "I love it."
He queries, "Why? Is it because you're good at it?"
The waiter brings over the pre-ordered meal, and starts setting it out quietly.
Chelsea says "There is that. And it is satisfying, to seek perfection and beauty. To see what can be made of human flesh. To see their eyes when they know that something they've always loathed is now an asset." A pause, as she lifts her drink. "And I make a great deal of money."
He raises his own martini glass in salute. "I have to admire the first. Bringing something new to people, helping them find the beauty in themselves... admirable."
Chelsea just smiles.
He starts on his salad. "Is there anything you want to ask me?"
Chelsea says "Where do you live, these days?"
He says, "I actually have a place in New York, but I travel a lot. I'm staying in a motel here, at the moment." He quotes a local address. "I travel quite a lot, actually."
Chelsea says "Do you enjoy it?"
He considers. "I suppose... it's a way of life."
He says, "I suppose I do. But you don't really think all the time about whether you "enjoy" your work, necessarily -- you just do it."
Chelsea says "I suppose not, although as a surgeon there's always the visceral thrill of cutting."
He looks genuinely interested. "Is that how it feels?"
Chelsea says "It's terrifying and satisfying, all at once."
He says, thoughtfully, "And of course, it's your decision, your judgement in the action..."
Chelsea says "Yes."
He nods, as if satisfied on something, and eats some more.
He says, "Will you be in town for a while?"
Chelsea says "It is just a conference."
He nods. "True, true. I was just thinking . . . well, I need to be around for a short while, and I was wondering if we could meet up again at some point, before you leave. There are a couple of matters in town that I need to look into, you see."
He frowns briefly. "Of course, maybe it is just as well that you aren't here for too long. I fear there may be delicate matters afoot."
Chelsea arches a brow. "In this town? How could they possibly effect me, even if I were here."
He shakes his head. "It is a matter of . . . well, the odds are that you'll be gone before it comes to a head. Don't worry about it, my dear." He makes a valiant attempt to discuss the salad.
Chelsea eyes him, slanted, and returns to her meal.
The meal has got to the dessert stage, when he suddenly raises his head, tilting it slightly.
For a moment, Chelsea has the vague impression that she hears a *noise*. There have been moments like that in the past, from time to time, moments that she passed off as tinnitus or excellent hearing, given that nobody around her ever seemed to hear those noises ... but there it was again this time, a *noise* like the blurring of fingers on a glass edge or cymbals being lightly stirred.
Her uncle says, "How annoying. I completely forgot that appointment." With the ease of practice, he scoops up the half-empty wine bottle and corks it. "We'll have to continue this later, my dear."
Chelsea shivers, her eyes blanking a moment. When the noise stops, she puts a hand to her head.
He frowns briefly in what might be concern, but the expression is gone again in a moment. "Yes. We'll definitely need to continue this later. Au revoir, my dear."
Chelsea says "I - I'm sorry. I've been having headaches today, I don't know why. What did you say?"
Her uncle says, "Sorry, can't stay, I'm already late. My dear, we will talk later, I promise this, but I _have_ to go now. Call me. Or I'll call you." He's already waving over the waiter and signing a check. "Very soon."
Chelsea just sits there, uncomfortably.
Her uncle says, very apologetically, "Later, my dear. God bless." And he's already out of the door, wine bottle weighing down one side of his coat, going at a rate of knots.
---