Freaky Friday: Venice/Nyght

[annwfyn.livejournal.com]

It was only when Venice had recovered from the horrific shock of the sudden weight gain that came with waking up in Nyght Star’s body, not to mention the lack of any clothing featuring a designer label, that she began to ask questions.

The first question, admittedly, was ‘why exactly does the phone keeping ringing’ followed up by ‘and why is a hotel receptionist shouting at me’?

One short and acerbic exchange later, in which the receptionist discovered that her boss had apparently developed a new and affectionate manner of addressing her which was strangely even more terrifying than her normal habit of simply growling and in which Venice discovered that Nyght’s throaty tones of voice made the word ‘darling’ sound both sexier, and actually more menacing than her normal bright and slightly squeaky vocals ever did, it became apparent that there was a problem with the Fiddler’s Rest. The exact nature of the problem was not immediately apparent but Venice picked up the words ‘cross dressing’, ‘raw meat’, ‘forsooth’ and ‘Room 421’.

“Well,” Venice said, with some bemusement. “What do you expect me to do about it?”

A burst of hysterical chatter came from the phone at such volume that she had to lift it away from her ears. Was this why Nyght was always in such a bad mood? Was the urge to stab a response to inadequate access to asprin? Suddenly so much was making sense.

“OK!” she exclaimed in exasperation. “I’ll come and...” and she stopped because she really had no idea what she was meant to do. Was she expected to turn up and clothe the cross-dressing manager? In what? Why did Nyght have a cross-dressing manager? And what did the pile of raw meat in Room 412 have to do with transvestitism? She understood that Jean Paul Gautier was very avant guarde and organic and biodegradable was currently the new thing in fashion, but surely things hadn’t gone that far?

She stared at the phone for a moment, trying to process her thoughts, which unfortunately gave the receptionist the opportunity to start talking again.

And where was MacKenzie in all this?

Actually, where was MacKenzie? A dark suspicion floated across Venice’s mind. Currently she seemed to be in an utterly ridiculous situation, completely out of control and was, which was the worst part of all, in Inverness.

This situation stank of MacKenzie. Venice narrowed her eyes and glowered at the phone before snapping sharply into it "I'll be right there. With decent mascara."

The tone of voice, she thought, sounded about right for Nyght. The comment about the mascara didn't really, but from the way in which the receptionist was having kittens over the cross dressing hotel manager she presumed it was necessary.

She hooked a pair of Nyght's nicer shoes onto her feet, and picked up the mobile phone which was sitting on the side. She dialled Mac's number as she was heading out of the door.

"You know," she said in a conversational tone to whoever answered MacKenzie's phone, "one person has always been a constant in almost every single situation which has ended with my waking up in Inverness..."