Chapter Text
2023 | Victoria Station, City of Westminster, London, United Kingdom
Maeve was finally starting to understand why people complained about working. Having her first full-time job at the age of 26 was absolute rubbish. Now, one who thinks kindly on the woes of strangers might assume that Maeve was a victim of the post-Covid job crisis and had finally transitioned from irregular shift work. But one would be mistaken.
See, Maeve, also known as Alexandra Maeve Dashwood, happened to be the only granddaughter of the late 7th Earl of Dashwood. The adored niece of the current 8th Earl of Dashwood, and daughter of the Honourable Henry Dashwood and his wife, the Honourable Justice Isobel Sommers. Her family had given her everything – except the drive to find her own path.
This was Maeve’s very first job, ever. She had never had to work, budget, or really sacrifice anything, let alone her recreational time. She tried the uni thing but it hadn’t exactly worked out. Lacking in a career path, she’d been content to just live the good life that was funded by her inheritance.
Unfortunate for that plan, it had been high time to grow up. It was hard to keep doing nothing when friends were starting businesses, taking over financial estates or getting married and having babies. Even her equally frivolous mates were doing something; whether that was a lazy nepotistic mid-level job or being an influencer.
She knew it was time she focused on her future. Well…she hadn’t really decided it was time, more like it had been decided for her in the form of an intervention. The demand for her to get her shit together had occurred three years ago, organised by her mother and backed with the entire family, Nana included.
She’d just come back from two weeks in Majorca with her girlfriends, doing mountains of drugs and being absolute tarts. The trip had spiralled out of control, ending with mild alcohol poisoning and a night in the hospital getting her stomach pumped. The hospital bill, along with the cost of a trashed hotel suite, was forwarded to her parents after her card maxed out. Maeve knew she wouldn't receive a warm welcome home.
Regardless, she fronted up to her parents’ Surrey property looking for sympathy and attention and let out a pathetic groan at the sight of her family positioned like they were about to take the annual Dashwood Family Portrait with the theme of ‘Disappointed in Maeve’.
“Maeve, come in here, please.” Her mother called as she came into view of the front tea room. Maeve smiled weakly, one foot in the doorway, one foot out.
“Hiya, I’ll just be a sec, I’ve got to pop to the loo.” Maeve was not going to the loo, she was going straight back to her car.
“Sit. Down.” Maeve wouldn’t be surprised if her mum whipped out her wig and robe because Justice Sommers was present and court was in session. “We are in need of a serious chat.”
She walked over to the Chesterfield sofa where her father sat, choosing it over the lonely club chair they’d obviously placed for her. Slumping into her dad with a miserable moan, she acted none of her 23 years, hoping to find some refuge in his presence.
“Daddy, I feel dreadful. Can’t we do this another time?” she whispered, her voice laced with desperation. hoping to find a glimmer of compassion in her father’s eyes. He sighed deeply, torn between his love for his daughter and the firm resolve to support his wife’s decision.
Her Nana snapped her fingers, drawing both their attention. Maeve felt her resolve crumble. The sternness in her grandmother’s eyes left no room for escape, and she realised with a sinking heart that she couldn’t charm her way out of this.”
“Young lady, cease this behaviour at once and listen to your mother. Henry, you are as spineless as your father! It’s high time you stopped enabling her and started parenting your daughter properly.”
Never had Maeve seen both her mother and grandmother on the same side of an argument before. Longstanding enemies, Isobel Sommers and Dowager Countess Alexandra Dashwood had been. Family functions were never complete without their biting remarks at each other. Her grandmother’s general classism and disdain towards her mother’s lifestyle choices that didn’t fit with her traditional expectations (keeping her maiden name was a HUGE one) against Isobel’s aggressive feminism and underlying disdain for titled peers created a permanent battlefield. It was one of the concrete certainties of Maeve’s life; that her equally stubborn mother and grandmother would never ever agree on anything. To have the cosmic truth shattered in front of her instilled a genuine terror inside of her. Separately, these two women could socially eviscerate a person with ease, but to put their collective efforts into the same cause…Armageddon. In a desperate attempt to escape the oncoming storm, she tried her luck with her pleading to her Nana’s affections. Attempting to look as pathetic as possible, she demurred to the matriarch.
“Nana, I just got back! I’ve been away for ages. Can’t I please have a nap first?” Wrinkled eyelids enclosed further on hawkish eyes that peered at her with the warmth of an operating theatre. ABORT! Abort!
“Don’t you ‘Nana’ me. Are you simple-minded, Alexandra? Do you not understand the gravity of this meeting? Sit up straight and act like the lady I raised you to be.” After a decade of learning the ‘courtly behaviours expected of the peerage’ from the dowager, Maeve’s own namesake, her self-preservation and genuine terror took control and she felt her posture go rigid. She could feel the phantom crack of a wooden spoon on her bum under her paralysing glare.
“No, Grandmother. I remember. I apologise.” Maeve replied with precise control of her words and tone. Cowed as she was, mumbling and avoiding eye contact was just going to get her further in the shitter. Her mother cleared her throat, looking mildly irritated by her mother-in-law claiming to solely raise her grand-daughter.
“Maeve, it’s time you got a job.”
“What?”
“At 23, you’re no longer a young adult. You’ve achieved nothing significant and have no direction. You need to either find a job, regardless of your qualifications, or commit to a degree and actually complete it without any further distractions.” The not so subtle dig at her three abandoned uni degrees stung. “We’ve been too lenient with you. Lady Dashwood has decided to lessen your access to your trust until you gain some independence and life experience.”
Maeve felt a mix of outrage and helplessness bubble up inside her. It felt unfair to have her life summarised as such. There was context to everything! She didn’t drop out because she was bored or partying too much! Maeve thought her parents knew her better than that. She wanted to argue, to defend herself, but all she could manage was a strangled noise.
Her distressed gurgle stole a laugh from her brother. The sound of it cut through the tension, but it only deepened her frustration. She glared at him, her eyes burning with a mixture of anger and humiliation. The only thing keeping her from bursting into tears was the thought of giving him more ammunition.
“Mum and Dad are embarrassed whenever your name comes up. Oh, how is your daughter? Oh, Maeve? Well, last week, The Daily Mail showed her completely blitzed and flashing her bits at the V&A’s Exhibition Late Night." Anthony mocked her.
Poncy twat. So what if her bits were on show? She looked fit in those photos once you cropped them.
“Face it, Maeve, you’re a spoiled fucking club rat who does nothing useful. You had to know this was coming.” His classically handsome face was hideously distorted as he sneered at his younger sister, who rolled her eyes. He had to be enjoying this whole charade, being the perfect heir to their childless bachelor uncle, the current Earl.
“Anthony! Do not curse, it’s unbecoming.”
“Apologies, Grandmother,” he said with a saccharine smile. Maeve felt a wave of disgust at his sycophantic act.
Her father took one of her hands in his, redirecting her attention. His normally jovial face was sympathetic, but his eyes told her he was not going to be moved on this decision.
“Mae, darling. You’re so intelligent, so bloody intelligent, and it kills me to see how you waste your potential. Watching you grow and learn, I knew you were meant to do amazing things, inspire people, change the world. You’ve been so privileged to have every opportunity, but the only hindrance is yourself. You’ve got no drive, nothing pushing you to try…so we need to push you. It’s out of love, not embarrassment, that we do this. We’re not expecting you to go to law school like your parents or become a doctor, but for you to find your passion or purpose.” He finished his heart-destroying statement with a kiss on the forehead. Her dad had always encouraged any and every little thing she was interested in, but to hear she was worrying him, disappointing him, was gutting. He wiped away the traitorous tear that slipped from her eye while the other members of the family stayed silent.
“I don’t even know what I want to do.” She sniffled before her Nana stood up and approached her with an old but familiar rosewood box. Maeve traced her fingers over the mounted embroidered lid before opening it. Underneath abandoned samplers and silk bobbins was her overflowing binder of needlepoint projects and fashion illustrations. The artist who created such intricate needlework might have been assumed to be a genteel adult, had the folder not been titled quite embarrassingly; Mae’s Super Awesome Fashion Designs For Totally Cool Babes. The holographic Groovy Chick and Sailor Moon stickers really tied it all together. Yikes.
Her Nana gave a gentle pat on her head, smiling down at the box. throwing Maeve back into her memories of school holidays learning how to embroider with her Nana. She flicked through the folder, looking through her detailed designs and swatches of embroidery panels. God, she used to love embroidering but could not for the life of her recall the last time she’d picked up a needle and thread.
“You’ve always had a lot of talent in the textile arts, pet. Why don’t you start there?”
Lacking any other ideas, she did as she was told.
Three years later saw her with a completed Bachelor with Honours of Hand Embroidery from the Royal School of Needlework. Going to school everyday at Hampton Court Palace was a little strange for her peers but growing up in her own bit of historical architecture, she felt at home. Finally, she’d found a tertiary course she could finish. Her classmates were a unique sort, much more different from her regular group of friends. Different university degrees attracted specific types of people. Art majors were mean and snobby. Finance students partied hard. But needlework student? The gentlest bunch. The first time she’d been invited out by a classmate to celebrate their birthday, they’d had a picnic. Maeve had never had a picnic with anyone but her family. It was wholesome and she liked it but her usual friends had thought it completely insane when she mentioned it had been a dry event. So did she until she’d gone and actually had a lovely time.
Perhaps it was the lack of drinking and having group projects with people who didn’t make her feel like an idiot but she came out of her course with a range of prestigious recommendations and awards. Which is how she landed her job at the OGs of British Needlework, Hand & Lock.
She’d been there a couple of months now, and while she knew her coworkers thought she was talented, she was sure at least half of them didn’t actually like her. They were not as nice as her classmates, that’s for sure.
Maeve could understand their frustrations, as this was her very first job. There were bound to be hiccups. It’s not like she’d gotten all her first-time kinks worked out at a Tesco part-time stint. She was still developing her ‘work ethic’ and may have whinged quite a bit when she realised how shit actually working 9-5 was, but she was getting better!
It still did bum her out a bit but not today, no ma’am! Because today was her bestie’s birthday. It had magically coincided with her renewed access to her money earlier that week. Maeve had already spent £800 on a new sequinned mini dress from STAUD, just over £1000 on a pair of gorgeous black suede knee-high boots from Stuart Weitzman, and easily another grand on getting her platinum bob refreshed and a few other cheeky beauty treatments. This used to be her usual monthly splurge, a freedom she had truly missed it, but she was a big girl now so she had to show restraint.
Though, probably not the smartest idea to encourage your luxury fashion-addicted daughter to pursue a career that aligned with couture. Kind of like feeding the beast, that was. No matter. Maeve was ready to make a serious dent in her bank account tonight and celebrate her best gal. So with her Saint Laurent holdall packed with a bottle of Dom Pérignon, a small bump of coke (only a small one because she’s responsible now) and her Valentino clutch for the club, she was sorted for the evening. Only needing to chuck in a few minimal necessities for her post party sleepover since she kept all her regular toiletries and jim-jams at Katie’s already. A last fit check in the lift mirror and she was ready to head out. A two minute walk down the street found her strutting down South Kensington’s hallways to catch a tube to Katie’s place for pre-drinks.
“This is Victoria. Change here for Victoria and District lines, National Rail services, and Victoria coach station. Mind the gap between the train and the platform.”
Jumping out at her much-despised Victoria station, Maeve elbowed her way out of the platform to change over to the Victoria line northbound. It was absolutely sweltering in the crushing crowds and borderline painful from the noise of some completely rubbish busker with a microphone and an electric guitar hooked up to an amp, butchering Paranoid Android by Radiohead.
“Off with his head, man, off with his head, man. Why don't you remember my name? I guess he does!” Maeve winced at the high-pitched shriek of the busker’s fingers sliding up the strings.
Regardless of the time, it always felt like peak hour at this station, being so close to Buckingham Palace. She felt a bit of resentment at Katie wanting to buy a place in Islington instead of around Chelsea like the rest of their friends. She could hear her voice in her head, ‘But Maevey-Baby, Islington is so trendy and it’s not completely gentrified from all the posh wankers who come in and ruin it’. Nothing made Maeve laugh more when Katie talked like she wasn’t also a posh wanker being the absolute toff she was. They’d been friends since prep and if you’d gathered anything from Maeve’s family, it might be obvious that they weren’t sending her to a local public school. Katie had always been the outdoorsy type; horse riding, hunting, trekking, doing a gap year volunteering in third-world countries. She was like if Bear Grylls and Made in Chelsea had a bizarre crossover. Though she was still as much of a party girl as Maeve, or their friendship wouldn’t have lasted this long.
“Customers are reminded to mind the gap between the train and platform edge when boarding. Mind the gap.”
Pulling out her phone to send an update to said birthday girl about her ETA, she stumbled over the yellow line as another group of people pushed their way onto the already crowded platform. Maeve looked around for a platform attendant, wondering why people weren’t being held back from the area for safety. Grumbling to herself, she sent a cute text to Katie, telling her she was about 20 minutes away. Before she could read Katie’s response, she was shoved again and dropped her phone while flailing for her balance.
“Rain down, rain down. Come on, rain down on me. From a great height. From a great height, height.”
“Bloody hell,” Maeve muttered, fumbling to hoist her expensive lambswool coat from the filthy floor while keeping her bag secure. She squatted awkwardly, trying to retrieve her phone amidst the chaos.
“Victoria Line. The train now approaching is to Waltham Central. Please stand back from the platform edge.”
Her heel felt unbalanced on the tactile platform line as she grasped her now cracked phone, which didn’t help as the eager crowd shuffled forward at the approaching train, bumping into her.
Her heel slipped out from under her, coat billowing over her head and obstructing her view as she fell headfirst over the platform edge. The ignorant singing. People screaming. A frantic horn blowing. The loud screeching of braking wheels grinding against the track. It all blended into a deafening cacophony of noise, which silenced upon crushing impact.
That's it, sir, you're leaving The crackle of pigskin ~ rain down The dust and the screaming ~ come on rain down
"Mind the gap.”
Yeah. Bit late for that.
REFERENCES
General
- Groovy Chick | The only Y2K IT Girl that mattered to me
- The Dashwood Earldom is inspired by the extinct Dashwood Baronets
- Royal School of Needlework | A very real place and if you’re into embroidery, they host the Royal School of Needlework Stitch Bank which has a page on each type of stitch ad contains information about its history, use and structure as well as a step-by-step method with photographs, illustrations and video.
- Hand & Lock Studio | One of the most prestigious embroidery ateliers in England established in 1727. They do a lot of work for the royal family and most recently worked on King Charles’ coronation get-up
- Fit Check for the STAUD lovers | Le Sable dress in the Starry Night
- Bear Grylls | British former SAS trooper who is a survival expert, adventurer, and television presenter. (Dude who drank his own pee)
- Made in Chelsea | chronicles the lives of affluent young people in the West London
- Tactile platform line | this is the bumpy surface for visually impaired people who use canes but can still be felt underfoot.
Songs
- Paranoid Android by Radiohead (Ooooh not the busker foreshadowing ooooOOOoo)