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That's what she means.
He arrives with someone who looks like you.
The woman beside her makes a tiny sound that might be a laugh. Or embarrassment. Either way, this snake of a woman hears encouragement.
“I suppose I was just wondering what the joke was.”
“Well, miss?”
“I’m Celeste Turner.”
She says it like I’m supposed to know who she is.
I don’t.
Not her in particular, anyway. But the Turner name rings a few bells.
Hello, I’m a reporter.
“Well, Miss Turner, maybe you're just not funny enough to get it.”
Her eyes flash.
“Oh, I think I'm beginning to, Miss?”
I ignore the question there.
“Glad I could help.”
I try to walk away but she blocks my path and takes a slow sip of champagne.
“Are you really here with Mitchell Knight?”
I blink. Okay. Wasn't expecting that one.
“Excuse me?”
“Are you actually his date?”
Her voice rises a little more. Not accidentally. She wants everyone nearby to hear this.
“Or is that some desperate lie told by a nobody who doesn't belong here?”
The couple beside us goes very still. So do I.
“What exactly are you accusing me of?”
“I'm not accusing you of anything.”
“Bullshit.”
Her eyebrows shoot up at the profanity. Good. Because I'm done pretending this is polite conversation.
“You just suggested I'm lying about being here with the man I walked in with. So either say what you mean or go find someone else to harass with your spite and petty jealousy.”
“Jealous?” She actually laughs. “Of you?”
Her eyes sweep over me again.
