“It’s so good to see you!” Cally piped in a bright, cheerful generic Chicago accent, noting from the woman’s eyes that she was probably too blitzed to even notice that Cally wasn’t this “Gail,” whoever she was.

“God, I almost didn’t recognize you, but I said from across the room, no two girls could walk like that. Blonde really suits you. A bit dated, perhaps.” She plumped her own fashionably chestnut curls into place. “But I always say you should wear what looks good on you and to hell with little things like fashion. I’m never daring enough to do it, though. Anyway, you look marvelous! Oh, is that Lucienne Taylor-Jones? I just must speak to her! Kiss kiss, must run!” The woman weaved off in the direction of an eighteen-year-old looking, red silk-clad grande dame on the arm of an apparently sixteen-year-old uniformed man with a pair of stars on his collar.

Cally grinned privately at her “friend’s” back. There’s always one. But it makes it easier to get to the door.

Another female hand, this one with an electric blue and white French manicure, rested lightly on her arm as she wove towards the door at an oblique angle. “Love the dress, darling. It reminds me of something from Giori’s Fall collection. Did you by any chance notice where they’ve hidden the Ladies’?”

Cally hadn’t, but she had memorized the floorplan of strategic parts of the hotel and business center. “Right over there behind the Birdwell sculpture.” She pointed across the room to a gaudy confection of Galplas and cobalt blue glass, formed to resemble yards of lace draped over a Shaker chair.

“Ah, I see the sign now. Good eye for art, by the way, and thank you.” The woman left her, hurrying as much as the crowd would permit.