fabulous—what did you do to it?”
“Washed and combed it.”
“Hmm. If you tell me it’s naturally curly, I’m going to kill you.”
“Trust me, curly hair is much more trouble than it’s worth.”
Carlotta sighed in obvious disagreement. “Let’s go in before all the booze is gone.”
Jolie took a deep breath and followed the woman up theramp. Carlotta had not adhered to her own advice to wear a black dress—her zebra-striped coatdress fairly glowed, and would have been almost loud, except it was overshadowed by her strappy pink and rhinestone shoes.
Jolie gaped. “Those are the shoes kept under glass by the register.”
Carlotta looked down. “Oh, right—the Manolos. Limited edition. Aren’t they amazing?”
“Yes,” Jolie murmured, stunned that star sales consultant or no, the woman could afford a two-thousand-dollar pair of shoes. Then she remembered that Carlotta had inferred that she’d grown up with money. Maybe she had a trust fund. Jolie trailed her to the entrance, where a woman in a staid suit eyed Carlotta suspiciously. “Tickets?”
“Of course,” Carlotta said, producing two long tickets and extending them with a glib smile.
The woman frowned and lowered her reading glasses from her forehead to her nose. “Those aren’t the right tickets.”
Carlotta laughed, then took the tickets back and opened her purse—which was quite “biggish,” Jolie noticed. “I’m so sorry,” Carlotta said, reaching into her bag. “I simply have too much on my calendar this week. Are the tickets blue?”
“Yes,” the woman said.
“Ah. Here they are.” Carlotta withdrew another pair of tickets, this time pale blue.
The woman glanced at them, then nodded and dropped the tickets through a slit into a wooden box. “Have a nice time, Ms. Holcomb,” she said with a magnanimous smile.
“Oh, we will,” Carlotta said, then clasped Jolie by the arm and pulled her forward.
“Are the Holcombs friends of yours?” Jolie asked.
“Hmm? Oh…I guess you could say that.”
They walked down the narrow foyer, which made an abrupt left turn and opened into an extensive atrium, open to the top story of the museum. Suited men and decked-out women mixed and mingled on a shiny white marble floor. The room whispered money . The hum of voices and low, sporadic laughter were background to a quartet playing cymbal-brushing jazz. Wine and perfume wafted on the air, tickling Jolie’s nose. In the presence of so much privilege, her pulse picked up. Tanned, glowing skin abounded—as well as severe, highlighted hair, waxed and gelled into individual little works of art. Everyone was trying hard—trying to jockey for a good position to be seen while casting furtive glances over their wineglasses in search of better people. Jolie noticed that she didn’t garner more than a glance, but almost everyone stopped to consider Carlotta in her outrageous designer outfit and platinum blonde wig, although more than one mouth twitched downward.
“All I see are stiffs,” Carlotta murmured. “Let’s get some wine and find out where the interesting people are hanging out.”
Jolie started to take a step toward the bar when Carlotta ducked into an alcove next to a bronze sculpture. At a loss, Jolie followed.
“Isn’t this a stunning piece?” Carlotta asked, stepping in front of the sculpture with her back to the corridor.
Jolie looked at the stack of cubes seemingly melting into one another. “I’m not an art connoisseur, but yes, it’s interesting.”
“Step closer,” Carlotta urged, and Jolie obliged.
“Keep talking as if we’re having a conversation,” Carlotta said out of the corner of her mouth.
“I thought we were having a conversation,” Jolie said, then noticed that Carlotta had opened her purse.
“Don’t stare at my purse,” Carlotta hissed. “Keep talking.”
Bewildered, Jolie jerked her gaze back to the sculpture. “Y—you don’t have a gun in there, do you?”
“What are you,
“Washed and combed it.”
“Hmm. If you tell me it’s naturally curly, I’m going to kill you.”
“Trust me, curly hair is much more trouble than it’s worth.”
Carlotta sighed in obvious disagreement. “Let’s go in before all the booze is gone.”
Jolie took a deep breath and followed the woman up theramp. Carlotta had not adhered to her own advice to wear a black dress—her zebra-striped coatdress fairly glowed, and would have been almost loud, except it was overshadowed by her strappy pink and rhinestone shoes.
Jolie gaped. “Those are the shoes kept under glass by the register.”
Carlotta looked down. “Oh, right—the Manolos. Limited edition. Aren’t they amazing?”
“Yes,” Jolie murmured, stunned that star sales consultant or no, the woman could afford a two-thousand-dollar pair of shoes. Then she remembered that Carlotta had inferred that she’d grown up with money. Maybe she had a trust fund. Jolie trailed her to the entrance, where a woman in a staid suit eyed Carlotta suspiciously. “Tickets?”
“Of course,” Carlotta said, producing two long tickets and extending them with a glib smile.
The woman frowned and lowered her reading glasses from her forehead to her nose. “Those aren’t the right tickets.”
Carlotta laughed, then took the tickets back and opened her purse—which was quite “biggish,” Jolie noticed. “I’m so sorry,” Carlotta said, reaching into her bag. “I simply have too much on my calendar this week. Are the tickets blue?”
“Yes,” the woman said.
“Ah. Here they are.” Carlotta withdrew another pair of tickets, this time pale blue.
The woman glanced at them, then nodded and dropped the tickets through a slit into a wooden box. “Have a nice time, Ms. Holcomb,” she said with a magnanimous smile.
“Oh, we will,” Carlotta said, then clasped Jolie by the arm and pulled her forward.
“Are the Holcombs friends of yours?” Jolie asked.
“Hmm? Oh…I guess you could say that.”
They walked down the narrow foyer, which made an abrupt left turn and opened into an extensive atrium, open to the top story of the museum. Suited men and decked-out women mixed and mingled on a shiny white marble floor. The room whispered money . The hum of voices and low, sporadic laughter were background to a quartet playing cymbal-brushing jazz. Wine and perfume wafted on the air, tickling Jolie’s nose. In the presence of so much privilege, her pulse picked up. Tanned, glowing skin abounded—as well as severe, highlighted hair, waxed and gelled into individual little works of art. Everyone was trying hard—trying to jockey for a good position to be seen while casting furtive glances over their wineglasses in search of better people. Jolie noticed that she didn’t garner more than a glance, but almost everyone stopped to consider Carlotta in her outrageous designer outfit and platinum blonde wig, although more than one mouth twitched downward.
“All I see are stiffs,” Carlotta murmured. “Let’s get some wine and find out where the interesting people are hanging out.”
Jolie started to take a step toward the bar when Carlotta ducked into an alcove next to a bronze sculpture. At a loss, Jolie followed.
“Isn’t this a stunning piece?” Carlotta asked, stepping in front of the sculpture with her back to the corridor.
Jolie looked at the stack of cubes seemingly melting into one another. “I’m not an art connoisseur, but yes, it’s interesting.”
“Step closer,” Carlotta urged, and Jolie obliged.
“Keep talking as if we’re having a conversation,” Carlotta said out of the corner of her mouth.
“I thought we were having a conversation,” Jolie said, then noticed that Carlotta had opened her purse.
“Don’t stare at my purse,” Carlotta hissed. “Keep talking.”
Bewildered, Jolie jerked her gaze back to the sculpture. “Y—you don’t have a gun in there, do you?”
“What are you,
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