The foaming bubbles of spilled champagne clung to her cheap jersey dress like a neon sign screaming “Look at us! A bottle of us costs more than this entire fake bitch’s outfit!”
She tried to sweep them away, crush them into the fabric, before anyone could see. It only made it worse, turning the turquoise synthetic a dark blue that could be seen from across the room. She crossed her arms over her chest, hoping to hide it, while feeling conscious of how flabby her arms were compared to all the rest in the room.
So this was high society, she thought, taking a ginger sip from the wide-mouthed coupe glass. Soul Cycle instructors and music producers; mothers who hired surrogates to protect their figures and hedge fund managers; falling star comedians looking for serious roles and producers looking for a name to sell a blockbuster. No wonder she hadn’t been to an event like this before Nick came along. She hated everyone here.
“You must be Nick’s—” the voices always trailed off at that part, unsure of what to call her. He was still married, and everyone here knew that, even though they were even more privy to the details of his divorce agreement, still unsigned. She saw the way their eyes all drew like magnets to her ring finger, expecting the first Mrs. Banks’ canary diamond there. She also heard their whispers in the corner, wondering which escort agency had sent her and how much they themselves would be willing to pay for a night with a perfectly average woman.
They ought to be more careful, she thought, looking down at her bare hands and slowly drying dress. They might cost Nick some money tonight.