The muscles in my shoulders stiffen as Sinclair stops rummaging through her bag and flicks her gaze over to us. “Do what you like together, I really couldn’t give a shit.”
Theodora raises both brows at me. “That sounded like an invitation to me.” She grabs a pen from the table next to us and gestures to my arm.
I stare at her.
“For God’s sake, just let her give you her number. Then we can get out of here,” Sinclair snaps as she continues the assault on her bag, turning it upside down and shaking out the contents.
My eyes are glued to the fraught lines marring her brow as her search grows more frantic and she curses.
“Here you go.” Theodora grabs my hand and starts scrawling a number on the back of it.
“Oh my god,” Sinclair whispers. “No, no, no! Where is it?”
I rise from my seat, causing Theodora’s final digit to end in a jerk. I stride over to Sinclair.
“What are you looking for?”
Her eyes meet mine, and she blinks, shaking her head in a panic.
“It was here. I always put it in this pocket inside. See?” She wrenches her bag open and shows me the empty inner pocket.
“Your necklace?” I ask. I’ve seen her take it off before every shoot and runway we’ve gone to. And it’s the first thing she takes out of her bag once she’s done.
She makes a strange sound like she’s about to cry. I take the bag from her hands gently and run a hand around the inside, feeling around the silk lining.
“What are you doing?”
“Seeing if it’s fallen through,” I say.
Sinclair watches me, holding her breath, but her shoulders sag the second I come up empty.
“It’s got to be here.” Her eyes dart around, and she starts lifting the other models’ bags, searching under them. “Everyone, get everything out of your bags! We have to find it,” she screeches.
“Sorry, Honey, I have a cab waiting.” Another model grabs her bag and starts to walk away.
“It’ll take you one minute!” Sinclair yells at her.
“You lost it, not me. Just get another one.” The model shrugs like she couldn’t care less.
“It’s irreplaceable!”
Sinclair’s eyes have taken on a wild sheen as she steps closer to the other model.
“Not my problem. You should take better care of your shit.”
Sinclair steps toe-to-toe with her. “Empty. Your. Ugly. Fake. Chanel. Now!” she spits.
The other model tilts her head to one side. “What you going to do if I don’t? Call Daddy Beaufort to throw his money around and make me?”
“Quit being a bitch and just do it.” Sinclair seethes.
“What did you call me?” the other model snaps.
“I called you a bitch. Need me to say it louder?” Sinclair says.
“Why you—!” The other model advances on Sinclair, but Sinclair launches herself at her before she can take the first swing.
“And you can thank me when I rip those god-awful extensions out of your hair, bitch!” Sinclair screams.
