Amie coughs and glances around to make sure the pickle-up-the-ass trust-fund boys missed my inappropriate vagina talk.
"Sorry." I only sort of mean it. I don't want to embarrass my friend, but it's only since a massive three-carat-diamond-toting man came into her life that she's adopted this somewhat snooty, upper-crust attitude. Vagina jokes used to be our thing. At least in college they were.
She flutters a hand around in the air, the one with the rock, and smiles. "It's fine. I shouldn't even care, but Armstrong's mother will end up with a case of the vapors if she hears anyone say anything pertaining to who-has."
That my best friend is referring to girl parts as "who-ha" is more reason to worry about this engagement. Never have we traded dirty sex-part names for highbrow, approved ones until now.
"Amalie! There you are. I've been looking for you everywhere. I need you for photographs."
Amie turns to address the woman who's approaching. "Oh! I'm so sorry. I didn't realize they were scheduled now."
She looks as if she's probably somewhere in her late fifties, although extensive surgeries keep her skin baby-bottom smooth, at least the skin on her face. Her neck tells another story. I take in the rest of her. She's wearing a black dress that says funeral more than engagement party and around her neck is some kind of animal. "Is that alive?" I reach out, as if I'm about to give her pet a pat, but her recoil has me mirroring her.
"Ha!" she barks out a laugh. "Aren't you a funny one." Her tone seems to imply she doesn't find me funny in the least.
"That's a stole," I say stupidly. "Is that a fox?"
She strokes the dead animal wrapped around her neck, her lip peeling back in distaste. "It's a mink."
At least it's not a baby seal. Who in the world wears fur stoles in this century unless they've been abandoned in the wilderness and need it for survival? And it's May. "Let's hope PETA isn't waiting outside with a bucket of paint, huh?"
She blinks at me.
"Gwendolyn, this is my best friend and maid of honor, Ruby Scott. Ruby, this is Armstrong's mother."
Shit. I've just insulted my best friend's soon-to-be mother-in-law. This is not a good start.
Gwendolyn holds out a hand as if she's expecting me to kiss it. I shake it instead. "Oh, yes. Amalie's told me about your family. Scott Pharmaceuticals, isn't that right?" She tilts her head and arches a brow, or at least I think that's what she's doing. It's hard to tell since very little of her face seems to move.
"Uh, yes." I hate this part. The way people look at me differently the moment they know who my family is and that I come from money. Then there's the judgment that I don't quite belong because I'm "new" money, unlike Amie. I'm third-generation trust fund, but in this circle, that's considered new.
"Your father's new medical laboratory has made some groundbreaking discoveries, hasn't it?" She sounds like she disapproves. Maybe her husband has discovered the wonders of the artificial, never-ending hard-on and her dried out vagina is angry with me.
My father's team created the newest erectile dysfunction medication. It's a real porn-star legacy. I nod and smile, even though my father had absolutely nothing to do with the actual development of the medication. He just struts around making people think he did.
"Ruby is just on her way out. I'll be along in a moment and then we can take some pictures."
"Of course, of course." Gwendolyn waves us off as Amie takes my arm and guides me away. Gwendolyn is already striking up a conversation with someone else.
"I'm sorry about the stole comment," I mutter as we cross the room.
"It's fine. She's drunk, so she probably won't remember anyway."
She seems like a real piece of work. It also explains a lot about Armstrong. I'm still trying to figure out his allure. He seems to walk around with an entire jar of pickles rammed up his ass at all times. I'm also wary about how fast things have moved. They've only been together for a few months, but Amie seems convinced they're a match made in heaven. I guess the scandalous option of divorce down the line is there if necessary.
Not that I'm predicting divorce or anything.
I'm just rather familiar with the way these men trade in wives like cars when the model gets a dent-or the Botox stops erasing the wrinkles. My own father is on wife number three. His current wife is all of twenty-eight. She used to be his secretary-so cliché.
Amie fingers my hair when we reach the door to the ballroom. I used a curling iron to no avail, it's already straightened itself out for me. Amie has this incredible wavy, sandy blond hair, the opposite of mine in color and body. "Should I give you a wake-up call in the morning? Just to make sure you don't sleep through your alarm?"