“Thirty minutes,” she said. “Then press. Then meet-and-greet. Then the label dinner.”
“I thought we cancelled the label dinner.”
“You asked if we could cancel it.”
“And?”
“And I admired your optimism.”
Behind me, the zipper finally moved.
I inhaled.
The rhinestone pants tightened around my ribs.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
The wardrobe assistant stood and smoothed the back of my silver jacket.
“You look incredible.”
“I look like a disco ball with a mortgage.”
“You look like Savannah Brooks,” Sophie Grant said from the doorway.
Our publicist entered with a tablet tucked beneath one arm and two phones in her other hand. Sophie was blond, polished,and physically incapable of entering a room without bringing at least one potential headline with her.
She looked me over from boots to hair.
“Perfect.”
“That word has lost all meaning in this room.”
“It means the clothes fit and you’re not visibly bleeding.”
“The night is young.”
Sophie ignored me and passed her tablet to Rachel.
“The pre-show interview wants one question about the rumors.”
“No,” Rachel said.
“I already told them no.”
“Then why are you telling me?”
“So you can appreciate me.”
“I appreciate you every second you prevent Savannah from answering spontaneous questions.”
“I’m excellent at that.”
I reached for the tablet.
“What rumors?”
Both women moved it away from me at the same time.
