“It’s about bloody time,” I muttered.

I stomped out of the garden and onto the lawn. My stilettos sank into the damp earth, but I yanked up my feet and kept going. Another benefit of having superstrength. Henry, Lulu, and my father followed at a more sedate pace. Most of the male guests had settled down at the tables and were busy stuffing themselves with chicken, spring vegetables, and sourdough rolls baked in the shape of curling vines and flowers. Not so for the women. Every woman under sixty gathered around the wide, long bar, downing glass after glass of champagne. Some stared at nothing in particular. A few snuffled into their crystal flutes, while others dabbed at their runny mascara. They weren’t tears of joy. Quite the contrary. Three hundred women’s dreams of becoming Mrs. Sam Sloane had just been dashed by a lowly society reporter. It was more than enough to make the stoutest society matron weepy, depressed, and drunk as a skunk.

I shoved my way through the crowd, zapped a few people with hot flashes to make them move, and grabbed the biggest champagne glass I could find. Bubbles fizzed up in the golden liquid. I drained the glass and twitched my nose H o t M a m a

17

to ease the sudden tickling sensation. I didn’t need to sneeze flames in front of hundreds of people.

“Fiona! Fiona Fine!”

I turned at the sound of my name and spotted Joanne James fluttering her hand at me. Joanne was a tall, skinny woman with a rather large chest and too-smooth features. Hair blacker than shoe polish brushed her slender shoulders, contrasting with the ropes of pearls that encircled her gaunt neck.

Oh boy. I was going to need something a lot stronger than champagne. I ordered a gin and tonic from one of the bartenders and downed two doubles before Joanne sashayed her way through the crowd to my side.

“Fiona, darling!”

“Joanne, darling!”

We airkissed the way society women are supposed to. My eyes raked over Joanne’s outfit, a gunmetal gray halter dress with a slinky, sequined skirt. Not bad, but it wasn’t one of mine. Joanne also sized me up, her gaze critiquing everything from my shoes to my chandelier earrings. Standard operating procedure among the women in Bigtime. Once that was out of the way, we made polite chitchat about how fabulous and thin we both looked before Joanne got down to business.

“I’m getting married again next month. I was wondering if I could come in and talk to you about another gown.”

I almost choked on my drink. “What will this one be?

Number five?”

Joanne James went through husbands like they were tissues—she used one up and then tossed him aside for another.

“Six actually.”

“Who’s the lucky fellow?” My lips only twitched a little. It was amazing the things you could say with a straight face. 18

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