“Noon!”I called back to her, already running frantically toward the bedroom, where I stripped off last night’s dress, grabbing at the first halfway clean outfit I could see. I ran my fingers through my hair in front of the mirror, trying to make it look more‘artfully tousled’than‘slept on for eight hours and probably drooled on, too.’ “I forgot!”
“Forgot what? Is there more to forget?”Kate had followed me to the bedroom, and began applying my makeup expertly, even though she didn’t know what for yet.“Did you get engaged to another guy? Are you pregnant? Is Grant secretly Batman?”
“My lunch date with my future godmother-in-law!” I said, gently stopping Kate from applying any more eyeliner. I needed it, but I was already late and I could not afford to get any later or I was going to be late, as in, Grant’s godmother was going to kill me.“Portia the Hell Beast, remember? I was supposed to meet her for lunch at noon!”
“Godmother?”Kate said with a roll of her eyes.“What, is she going to take away your glass slippers if you’re late?”
“I should be so lucky,”I muttered, grabbing my purse and making sure it had my wallet, phone, and emergency lipstick. I tossed my keys to Kate.“Lock the door on your way out, love you, chat later, bye!”
The soundtrack of Kate’s protestations grew fainter as I ran out the door and into the street, already hitting the speed dial for a taxi as I speed-walked to the corner.
Maybe if I really rushed, Portia would only slightly eviscerate me.
THREE
“I’ll order for you, shall I?”
Portia’s icy, condescending voice froze the air it passed through and pierced my head like a lance. I suppressed my wince and nodded.
The hangover had been almost gone by the time I got to the address Portia had apparently texted me at 11:45 am—too late for me to have made it on time anyway, so I was feeling slightly less guilty about that, but no less apprehensive—but one look at her narrowed blue eyes and somehow, that headache was right back where it had started.
With a power like that, she should really consider becoming a super-villain.
She already had the whole super-villain look down too; a pale silver circlet holding back her pulled-tight bun, a glimmering shawl of finely spun angora like a cape over her tight steel grey dress. She formed an interesting comparison/contrast to the glittering interior of Cask of Amontillado, a restaurant that looked like someone had turned King Midas loose and told him that for every item he turned to gold, he’d receive a complementary steak dinner with a glass of the famous house red.
There were gold columns, gold tablecloths, gold uniforms for the waiters. The guests weren’t literally wearing gold—other than their designer watches and tennis bracelets, of course—but between the designer labels and obviously hand-tailored tuxedos and gowns, it probably would have been cheaper for all of them to have worn suits and dresses stitched out of hundred dollar bills and garnished in diamonds.
…and somehow I had thought I would be able to squeak by with an orange satin-polyester blend sundress?
Damn, but I had to stop accepting invitations from rich people without checking the dress code first.
Portia surveyed me over the sugar-crusted edge of her glass of pomegranate juice, and then turned to our waiter and declared,“The spring salad for both of us, Jacques. Do make sure you use the French shallots this time. And lightly on the dressing, Miss Newman certainly can’t afford any extra calories.”
She smiled in a way that was less like a human smile than a tiger baring its fangs.
“If I’m going to have to put a wedding photo on my mantel I certainly don’t want to have to look at a walrus stuffed into tulle. And there’s simply nothing more embarrassing than fixing ripped stitches for someone minutes before they walk up the aisle; no one’s ever fooled. Have you booked the fittings yet?”
“No,”I said, not sure I could trust myself to utter words longer than one syllable without them turning into‘No, you unbelievable bitch, please go find some flying monkeys and a girl with a bucket of soapy water to melt you into a puddle of glop, please.’
Portia whipped out her day planner.. “For flowers you’ll need something traditional and classy,” she began, flipping through the day planner and speaking more to its meticulously notated pages than to me.
“Actually, I—”
“We’ll get Silverstein Floral, of course—but you wouldn’t know them, completely out of your price range. Now, venues: the Fairmont is a reliable choice, if a bit predictable; the Presidio or the Jardiniere might be a more original choice. It must look as if Grant is putting someeffort into this.”