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konstantyaTitle: While I’m In Your Spell
Fandom: Black Angel (1946)
Genre: Drama, friendship, general.
Characters: Catherine Bennett, Martin Blair (slight Marty/Catherine)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,469
Summary: “Are you sure you’re a musician and not a costume director?” He glanced back and laughed in that short, wry way of his. “Maybe I missed my calling, huh?” (Or, the one where Marty plays fashion consultant.)
If you’d like to leave a comment, please do so on AO3!
“Have you thought about what you’re going to wear?”
In the middle of her living room, Catherine froze. She honestly hadn’t, having previously been too focused on rehearsing and then actually getting the job at Rio’s, but it now seemed like a pathetically obvious oversight on her part; a fancy blouse and a well-ironed skirt was fine for an audition, but would be sorely lacking for a true performance.
Marty must have noticed her anxious expression, for he stepped closer and his voice softened. “Hey, don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.” He pressed his lips together, considering, then said, “Why don’t you at least show me what you’ve got?”
She nodded pensively. “Sure.” It felt a little strange, leading him into the bedroom—the one place in her house he hadn’t yet been in—but Catherine resolutely brushed the feeling off. It was the middle of the day, Marty had been nothing but gentlemanly (barring their first, disastrous meeting that was, but even then, he hadn’t been lecherous, just incredibly irascible), and anyway, this was strictly related to business besides. There was nothing untoward about it at all.
She pushed open her side of the closet, revealing a wide array of day dresses and suits. Tucked off to the left, a much smaller fraction of the overall contents, hung the few evening gowns and cocktail sets she had. They were all perfectly adequate for a night out with one’s husband, but hardly seemed to match the caliber of what a nightclub performer should wear. Nevertheless, Marty started sifting through them. He got all the way to the very back and stopped, pulling out a dusty-pink dress with short, capped sleeves. The fabric—heavily pleated—gathered in the front, right under the bosom.
“Oh, goodness,” she said. “I haven’t worn that in ages. I don’t even know if it still fits.”
“Well, I can step outside and you can try it on,” he offered, with a jerk of his thumb back toward the living room. “If it doesn’t, we still have some time to figure something else out, and if it does, so much the better.”
Catherine opened her mouth, presumably to say something, but ended up merely closing it and nodding once more. It was sensible. It was all very sensible, and Marty hadn’t yet steered her wrong, so she took hold of the dress while he saw himself out and closed the door behind him. Catherine briefly let her hand run over the fabric before she laid the garment out on the bed and reached behind her to start unbuttoning her skirt.
The dress dated back to before her marriage. It was actually one of the ones she’d worn when she and Kirk were first courting—back when their late nights had been spent together at supper clubs and dance halls, instead of alone, at home and the office, respectively.
Though, apparently, not all of those late nights had been spent strictly at the office—but Catherine cut off that train of thought as she slid the dress over her head.
It was difficult to pull up the zipper by herself, but she somehow managed it, tugging the sides straight as she turned to look at herself in the mirror. On the bright side it still fit, but she’d forgotten how low the neckline plunged. Not low enough to be scandalous, especially considering how tasteful the rest of the dress was, but significantly different from the high-collared or square-necked things she normally wore these days. For a self-critical moment, Catherine couldn’t help wondering: If only she’d stuck to wearing sumptuous things like this, maybe Kirk wouldn’t have strayed.
Again, she shook the thought off. There was only sorrow and anger down that road, and she had bigger things to worry about. She swung her hair back over her shoulders, strode purposefully to the door, and threw it open almost vengefully.
Marty looked over at her, hands slung in his pockets, and his eyebrows shot up in impressed surprise. “Not bad,” he said, and Catherine may or may not have flushed at the way his eyes cursorily flicked over her form. He raised his gaze back to her face. “What’s your jewelry like?”
She blinked at the abrupt question. “You…can take a look, if you want. I’ve got it all in a box on the dresser.” She pointed vaguely in the appropriate direction, and Marty proceeded to join her once more in the bedroom. She opened the lid to the box and stepped back, watching bemusedly as he lifted up tiny pearl earrings and a gold cross on a chain, quickly inspecting each item before just as quickly rejecting them. It was only when he reached the bottom drawers that he slowed down, digging out a three-tiered pearl choker and matching cluster earrings—large, heavy pieces that she saved for special occasions, and half the time didn’t wear even then. He held them up in front of her, seemingly comparing the colors to that of the dress, then handed them to her.
“Here. Try those.”
She took them, and as she set about to putting them on, Catherine jokingly said, “Are you sure you’re a musician and not a costume director?”
Marty was still searching through the jewelry box, but glanced back and laughed in that short, wry way of his. “Maybe I missed my calling, huh?” Thoughtfully, he picked up a brooch—a sterling silver sprig of leaves with pink enameled petals—then set it down again. “No,” he went on, “just been in show-business for too long. Too used to what audiences want and expect.” He lifted another pin—a gaudy, circular thing that matched the necklace and earrings fairly well, that she’d once worn for Kirk at a company banquet, but hadn’t touched since—and held it experimentally up to her gown, right where the pleats and gathers convened. “There. That should do it.”
Catherine once again took the piece, though skeptically this time. “Don’t you think the brooch is a bit much?”
“For the average woman about town, sure. For a leading lady, hardly. You’re supposed to be attention-grabbing,” he pointed out. “Important as I am to the overall production, no one ever looks at the pianist.”
She scoffed fondly at the self-deprecating remark, wanting to refute it, but she had the sneaking suspicion he was right. Even Marko had barely paid him any mind when they’d gone up to his office—not until Marty had forcibly injected himself into the conversation, that was. If Catherine had been able to carry the business negotiations herself, Marko might not have even realized he was there.
Dutifully, she fastened the brooch to the front of her dress, then moved to regard herself once more in the mirror. The effect of the jewelry was glamorous, to say the least, and her hair suddenly looked dreadfully out of place. She swept it back, twisted it into some semblance of an up-do at the base of her neck, then secured it with a few pins. It wasn’t perfect, but was enough to provide a general impression—enough to let her know that if she worked with her rollers and put the extra time in, she could probably come up with something that would pass muster. Lord knew she couldn’t justify a full salon visit, not with the way she’d been reliant on savings ever since Kirk’s arrest.
Marty came up behind her, also regarding her in the mirror. “Pretty good, Miss Carver,” he drawled with genuine admiration. The stage name—her maiden name—slipped out of his mouth with ease. “I feel positively drab and dowdy next to you now.”
Catherine laughed, dropping her eyes from his reflection as a blush stained her cheeks. But then she suddenly grew sober, fidgeting her fingers together before she turned and looked up at him very sincerely.
“Marty… Thanks for all your help. And I don’t just mean with…” She gestured to her attire.
He, too, sobered, and his voice lowered gently. “Yeah, well…you’re not the only one with a horse in this race, you know?” For a moment, a shadow crossed his face, and he was back to being the heartbroken man she’d met that first day—the one who’d lost his wife, first to alienated affection and then to murder. “And besides,” he added, “we’re partners now—we’ve got to look out for each other. Which means that if my collar’s ever turned the wrong way or my bow-tie is crooked, you have to tell me, okay? My pride can handle it, trust me.”
Catherine laughed again, despite herself. “Okay,” she promised. And with that, she turned back to give herself one last once-over, trying to ignore how natural the two of them looked, standing together in the mirror.
-----
A/N:sovay has described Catherine and Marty’s relationship in the film as a “ghost marriage,” which is a wonderfully accurate and evocative description, I feel. It’s not quite fake dating (as it is, in fact, a fake business partnership), but the end result is still forced proximity, where they’re sharing all this time together and even these domestic moments—echoes of interactions they presumably had with their own spouses at one point or another. It’s really fascinating (if inevitably doomed as a romance due to the film’s nature as a noir).
Anyway, also of interest to me (though I don’t know if I’ll write a fic explicitly about it) is when their first paycheck comes in, and Catherine’s suddenly like, “Oh, shit, that’s right, we’re actually getting paid! And, like…a lot!” ($200 in 1946 comes out to about $2,800 today, so assuming she and Marty split it 50/50, girlfriend would be earning the equivalent of $1,400 a week.) The fact that she goes from being a woman (presumably) reliant on her husband’s salary to one who actually earns her own money is never really addressed, and I think that’s a shame.
This was the inspiration for Catherine’s dress (just imagine it with shorter sleeves and a slightly wider, more open neck). Good enough until she can afford to level up her wardrobe, yeah?
Title taken from the song “Time Will Tell,” that was featured in the film. Ostensibly it refers to the Catherine/Marty relationship, but I like how it could just as easily refer to Catherine/Kirk, or even Marty/Mavis. (“Will I love wisely or too well,” indeed.)
All other fics can be found here.
Fandom: Black Angel (1946)
Genre: Drama, friendship, general.
Characters: Catherine Bennett, Martin Blair (slight Marty/Catherine)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,469
Summary: “Are you sure you’re a musician and not a costume director?” He glanced back and laughed in that short, wry way of his. “Maybe I missed my calling, huh?” (Or, the one where Marty plays fashion consultant.)
If you’d like to leave a comment, please do so on AO3!
- While I’m In Your Spell -
“Have you thought about what you’re going to wear?”
In the middle of her living room, Catherine froze. She honestly hadn’t, having previously been too focused on rehearsing and then actually getting the job at Rio’s, but it now seemed like a pathetically obvious oversight on her part; a fancy blouse and a well-ironed skirt was fine for an audition, but would be sorely lacking for a true performance.
Marty must have noticed her anxious expression, for he stepped closer and his voice softened. “Hey, don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.” He pressed his lips together, considering, then said, “Why don’t you at least show me what you’ve got?”
She nodded pensively. “Sure.” It felt a little strange, leading him into the bedroom—the one place in her house he hadn’t yet been in—but Catherine resolutely brushed the feeling off. It was the middle of the day, Marty had been nothing but gentlemanly (barring their first, disastrous meeting that was, but even then, he hadn’t been lecherous, just incredibly irascible), and anyway, this was strictly related to business besides. There was nothing untoward about it at all.
She pushed open her side of the closet, revealing a wide array of day dresses and suits. Tucked off to the left, a much smaller fraction of the overall contents, hung the few evening gowns and cocktail sets she had. They were all perfectly adequate for a night out with one’s husband, but hardly seemed to match the caliber of what a nightclub performer should wear. Nevertheless, Marty started sifting through them. He got all the way to the very back and stopped, pulling out a dusty-pink dress with short, capped sleeves. The fabric—heavily pleated—gathered in the front, right under the bosom.
“Oh, goodness,” she said. “I haven’t worn that in ages. I don’t even know if it still fits.”
“Well, I can step outside and you can try it on,” he offered, with a jerk of his thumb back toward the living room. “If it doesn’t, we still have some time to figure something else out, and if it does, so much the better.”
Catherine opened her mouth, presumably to say something, but ended up merely closing it and nodding once more. It was sensible. It was all very sensible, and Marty hadn’t yet steered her wrong, so she took hold of the dress while he saw himself out and closed the door behind him. Catherine briefly let her hand run over the fabric before she laid the garment out on the bed and reached behind her to start unbuttoning her skirt.
The dress dated back to before her marriage. It was actually one of the ones she’d worn when she and Kirk were first courting—back when their late nights had been spent together at supper clubs and dance halls, instead of alone, at home and the office, respectively.
Though, apparently, not all of those late nights had been spent strictly at the office—but Catherine cut off that train of thought as she slid the dress over her head.
It was difficult to pull up the zipper by herself, but she somehow managed it, tugging the sides straight as she turned to look at herself in the mirror. On the bright side it still fit, but she’d forgotten how low the neckline plunged. Not low enough to be scandalous, especially considering how tasteful the rest of the dress was, but significantly different from the high-collared or square-necked things she normally wore these days. For a self-critical moment, Catherine couldn’t help wondering: If only she’d stuck to wearing sumptuous things like this, maybe Kirk wouldn’t have strayed.
Again, she shook the thought off. There was only sorrow and anger down that road, and she had bigger things to worry about. She swung her hair back over her shoulders, strode purposefully to the door, and threw it open almost vengefully.
Marty looked over at her, hands slung in his pockets, and his eyebrows shot up in impressed surprise. “Not bad,” he said, and Catherine may or may not have flushed at the way his eyes cursorily flicked over her form. He raised his gaze back to her face. “What’s your jewelry like?”
She blinked at the abrupt question. “You…can take a look, if you want. I’ve got it all in a box on the dresser.” She pointed vaguely in the appropriate direction, and Marty proceeded to join her once more in the bedroom. She opened the lid to the box and stepped back, watching bemusedly as he lifted up tiny pearl earrings and a gold cross on a chain, quickly inspecting each item before just as quickly rejecting them. It was only when he reached the bottom drawers that he slowed down, digging out a three-tiered pearl choker and matching cluster earrings—large, heavy pieces that she saved for special occasions, and half the time didn’t wear even then. He held them up in front of her, seemingly comparing the colors to that of the dress, then handed them to her.
“Here. Try those.”
She took them, and as she set about to putting them on, Catherine jokingly said, “Are you sure you’re a musician and not a costume director?”
Marty was still searching through the jewelry box, but glanced back and laughed in that short, wry way of his. “Maybe I missed my calling, huh?” Thoughtfully, he picked up a brooch—a sterling silver sprig of leaves with pink enameled petals—then set it down again. “No,” he went on, “just been in show-business for too long. Too used to what audiences want and expect.” He lifted another pin—a gaudy, circular thing that matched the necklace and earrings fairly well, that she’d once worn for Kirk at a company banquet, but hadn’t touched since—and held it experimentally up to her gown, right where the pleats and gathers convened. “There. That should do it.”
Catherine once again took the piece, though skeptically this time. “Don’t you think the brooch is a bit much?”
“For the average woman about town, sure. For a leading lady, hardly. You’re supposed to be attention-grabbing,” he pointed out. “Important as I am to the overall production, no one ever looks at the pianist.”
She scoffed fondly at the self-deprecating remark, wanting to refute it, but she had the sneaking suspicion he was right. Even Marko had barely paid him any mind when they’d gone up to his office—not until Marty had forcibly injected himself into the conversation, that was. If Catherine had been able to carry the business negotiations herself, Marko might not have even realized he was there.
Dutifully, she fastened the brooch to the front of her dress, then moved to regard herself once more in the mirror. The effect of the jewelry was glamorous, to say the least, and her hair suddenly looked dreadfully out of place. She swept it back, twisted it into some semblance of an up-do at the base of her neck, then secured it with a few pins. It wasn’t perfect, but was enough to provide a general impression—enough to let her know that if she worked with her rollers and put the extra time in, she could probably come up with something that would pass muster. Lord knew she couldn’t justify a full salon visit, not with the way she’d been reliant on savings ever since Kirk’s arrest.
Marty came up behind her, also regarding her in the mirror. “Pretty good, Miss Carver,” he drawled with genuine admiration. The stage name—her maiden name—slipped out of his mouth with ease. “I feel positively drab and dowdy next to you now.”
Catherine laughed, dropping her eyes from his reflection as a blush stained her cheeks. But then she suddenly grew sober, fidgeting her fingers together before she turned and looked up at him very sincerely.
“Marty… Thanks for all your help. And I don’t just mean with…” She gestured to her attire.
He, too, sobered, and his voice lowered gently. “Yeah, well…you’re not the only one with a horse in this race, you know?” For a moment, a shadow crossed his face, and he was back to being the heartbroken man she’d met that first day—the one who’d lost his wife, first to alienated affection and then to murder. “And besides,” he added, “we’re partners now—we’ve got to look out for each other. Which means that if my collar’s ever turned the wrong way or my bow-tie is crooked, you have to tell me, okay? My pride can handle it, trust me.”
Catherine laughed again, despite herself. “Okay,” she promised. And with that, she turned back to give herself one last once-over, trying to ignore how natural the two of them looked, standing together in the mirror.
-----
A/N:
sovay has described Catherine and Marty’s relationship in the film as a “ghost marriage,” which is a wonderfully accurate and evocative description, I feel. It’s not quite fake dating (as it is, in fact, a fake business partnership), but the end result is still forced proximity, where they’re sharing all this time together and even these domestic moments—echoes of interactions they presumably had with their own spouses at one point or another. It’s really fascinating (if inevitably doomed as a romance due to the film’s nature as a noir).Anyway, also of interest to me (though I don’t know if I’ll write a fic explicitly about it) is when their first paycheck comes in, and Catherine’s suddenly like, “Oh, shit, that’s right, we’re actually getting paid! And, like…a lot!” ($200 in 1946 comes out to about $2,800 today, so assuming she and Marty split it 50/50, girlfriend would be earning the equivalent of $1,400 a week.) The fact that she goes from being a woman (presumably) reliant on her husband’s salary to one who actually earns her own money is never really addressed, and I think that’s a shame.
This was the inspiration for Catherine’s dress (just imagine it with shorter sleeves and a slightly wider, more open neck). Good enough until she can afford to level up her wardrobe, yeah?
Title taken from the song “Time Will Tell,” that was featured in the film. Ostensibly it refers to the Catherine/Marty relationship, but I like how it could just as easily refer to Catherine/Kirk, or even Marty/Mavis. (“Will I love wisely or too well,” indeed.)
All other fics can be found here.
