Worth

Chapter 11 (cont.)

As Violet suspected, when heavyweight designers do semi-formal, it's a nightmare for the unprepared. On first glance at the glamorous crowd, Violet felt she stuck out like carrots in banana bread. It wasn't long after curious looks had moved on that the hostess found them. James made introductions and Judith Lundtz wasted no time in explaining the party scheme, a layout of several buffet style stations, not to mention, (and Judith didn't), one chair for every five guests.

"We're rotating," Judith said. She was a deeply lined, expressive woman with short silver hair and sloppy lipstick. "I came up with the basic menu and let three of the best chefs in their ethnic specialties interpret it. James, you look dashing, as usual. Leave it to you to combine work and pleasure. What paper are you interviewing for, Ms. March? We have a few of you fellow writers here tonight."

"Violet is just my date," James corrected her.

"Oh, of course."

They were strong armed into Japanese bruschetta. Something pickled was involved.

"We arrived late, Judith. Maybe we should start with French."

"As you like," their hostess said, already disengaging. "Let me know which you prefer. I'm auditioning caterers."

James made no mention of Violet's real profession. Violet had second thoughts about handing Judith a business card, and then the opportunity was gone. One of her hands was busy anyway holding the poisonous hors d'oeuvre. James plucked it from her napkin and folded it away with his own where it could no longer offend.

"No, let me eat it," she said. "I want to end it all now."

"Save suicide for Wayne Rube. He just got back from Tibet. Spiritual enlightenment in five-star accommodations at the tax payers' expense. He'll be insufferable."

"Is he the one with the gold prayer beads?"

"Probably." The smile on James' face dropped quickly. "Pick up the poison. Here comes Bob Fellows."

"Who's Bob Fellows?"

"President of the Bob Fellows Fan Club. He's a tree hugger."

"What's wrong with that?"

"He thinks he's an eco-warrior when, really, he makes a fortune designing buildings and galleries which are bio-degradable or free range or whatever. Driving a hybrid isn't exactly like running a scooter on potato juice is it? Hel-lo Bob!"

"James!" Fellows greeted him heartily. He had a startling head of curly orange frizz with a slightly darker goatee, all the appearance of James' modified hippie description. He shook Violet's hand with a meaty paw.

"Bob, this is Violet March."

"You look very familiar. I admit that's why I crossed the room. No offense, James."

"I don't think we've ever met," Violet said. "Ever been to an event at the Grand?"

"Maybe. Ever been to Borneo?"

"No."

"Don't tell me," said James. "Is that the next food interpretation station?"

"Nope. That's Moroccan. So what do you say, Violet? Borneo, is it a date?"

"As a matter of fact, it is," James said, a small smirk of amusement showing.

"Oh-oh," Bob said. "He's sharpening his antlers." He had a cackling laugh like a kid with a mouse under his collar. "Come on, James. Look at me! I have to ask. I know what they say about red-headed men."