Fleur had been watching the race between Harper’s and Adelaide Abrams, and she didn’t know whether she was relieved or not to see Adelaide winning. The columnist was a shrewd old bird, and it wouldn’t be easy to put her off with half-truths and vague answers. On the other hand, Fleur needed her.
“Fleur my God it really is you I can’t believe what I see with my very own eyes my God you look wonderful!”
“So do you, Adelaide.” Fleur had a vaguely Midwestern accent, pleasant and slightly musical. No one listening would have guessed that English wasn’t her first language. The bottom of her chin met the top of Adelaide’s hennaed hair, and she had to lean down for their air kiss. Adelaide pulled her toward the back corner of the room, effectively cutting her off from the other members of the press.
“Nineteen seventy-six was a bad year for me, Fleur,” she said. “I went through menopause. God forbid you should ever go through the hell I did. It would have lifted my spirits if you’d given me the story. But I guess you had too much on your mind to spare me a thought. Then, when you finally show up again in New York…” She shook her finger at Fleur’s chin. “Let’s just say you’ve disappointed me.”
“Everything in its proper time.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
Fleur gave what she hoped was an inscrutable smile and took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
Adelaide grabbed a glass of her own. “I’ll never forget your first Vogue cover if I live to be a hundred. Those bones of yours…and those great, big hands. No rings, no nail polish. They shot you in furs and a Harry Winston diamond choker that had to cost a quarter of a million.”