whole conversation?"
"This is new?" Jess asked. "You guys all have ears like bobcats. Fucking creepy, is what it is."
"You could have a conversation with me, make out a little,
and
listen in on them, but you can't go meet the florist because you've got a conference call in
Paris at the same time?"
"I think the thing to focus on," Sinclair said, "is what Jessica will wear to the opening."
She was actually jumping from one foot to another. I hadn't seen her so excited since she got her tax bill down to six figures that one time. "I was thinking my black Donna Karan ."
"No, no. First, every woman there will be wearing the
de rigueur
little black dress."
"Good point," I admitted, momentarily distracted.
"Number two, you have wonderful coloring that you simply must play up."
Jess was hanging on his every word. "Really, Eric?"
"Dear, you've got the cheekbones of an Egyptian queen. You're a Tiger Lily. You have to, and shall, stand out among the drab little
Minnesota
daisies."
"Hello!" said one of the daisies.
They ignored me. "Eric, that is
so nice
."
"I'm not nice, dear. Now. Back to the matter at hand." He began to pace. I began to wonder why I'd gotten out of bed that night. "You could get away with, say, the orange Tracey Reese."
"Isn't that one backless? You think that'd be okay for the
Walker?"
"The Kay Unger poppy print, then," he suggested.
"I must say, Sinclair, you are not afraid of color," I commented, trying to affect a Sinclair tone and failing. "Isn't that the one with the green flowers all over it? Head-sized flowers?"
"Not every woman can wear it," he admitted.
"It cost a friggin ' fortune," Jess said, watching him prowl back and forth like a big panther, "so I'd
better
wear it again."
"We must walk a careful line," Sinclair lectured, "between dressing appropriately for your role, but not making Detective Berry feel out of place or inferior. Which, given the disparity in your incomes, will be difficult at best."
I reeled. There were so many things wrong with that statement I hardly knew where to start with the bitching.
"So dress well, but not rich," Jess said, oblivious to the massive wrongness we were in the middle of.
"Exactly."
"Excuse me," I interrupted. "Sinclair, I haven't forgotten about the florist/eavesdropping thing. And you're weirdly interested in Jessica's date, which I've got problems with on about nine different levels. And Jess, I have to say—" What? What the hell was I going to say?
I can't believe Nick asked you out. For someone who was supposedly into me, he sure got over me pretty damned quick. How could you agree to go out with him when you were sure he liked me
? I tried to find a nice way to sum up my weirded-outness in one sentence. It was tough work, being an honest friend. "—I haven't seen you this, uh, excited in a long time."
"I haven't dated since way before you died." She hugged herself and spun in a small circle. "And he's sooooo cute!"
"Exceedingly cute," Sinclair encouraged. "Quite very much cute."
I figured it out right then. Sinclair never did anything without about nine secret agendas. He wanted a cop on the string. Awfully handy. Of course, it was only a first date, but if things went well…
"I thought you didn't go out with white guys," I pointed out. It was a straw, sure, but I was desperate to clutch at anything.
"I thought
you
said that was bigoted, asshole- esque , and twentieth-century."
"Oh, you're going to start listening to me now?" I grumbled. "I'm not saying I wasn't right, but your timing's a little weird."
"Now that that's settled, we have to decide on the appropriate post-gallery activity."
"That's not all we've got to decide on," I muttered and was—surprise—ignored.
"Because Detective Berry did the asking, I think we can assume he will want to treat you to whatever diversion you select."
"Dude.
"This is new?" Jess asked. "You guys all have ears like bobcats. Fucking creepy, is what it is."
"You could have a conversation with me, make out a little,
and
listen in on them, but you can't go meet the florist because you've got a conference call in
Paris at the same time?"
"I think the thing to focus on," Sinclair said, "is what Jessica will wear to the opening."
She was actually jumping from one foot to another. I hadn't seen her so excited since she got her tax bill down to six figures that one time. "I was thinking my black Donna Karan ."
"No, no. First, every woman there will be wearing the
de rigueur
little black dress."
"Good point," I admitted, momentarily distracted.
"Number two, you have wonderful coloring that you simply must play up."
Jess was hanging on his every word. "Really, Eric?"
"Dear, you've got the cheekbones of an Egyptian queen. You're a Tiger Lily. You have to, and shall, stand out among the drab little
Minnesota
daisies."
"Hello!" said one of the daisies.
They ignored me. "Eric, that is
so nice
."
"I'm not nice, dear. Now. Back to the matter at hand." He began to pace. I began to wonder why I'd gotten out of bed that night. "You could get away with, say, the orange Tracey Reese."
"Isn't that one backless? You think that'd be okay for the
Walker?"
"The Kay Unger poppy print, then," he suggested.
"I must say, Sinclair, you are not afraid of color," I commented, trying to affect a Sinclair tone and failing. "Isn't that the one with the green flowers all over it? Head-sized flowers?"
"Not every woman can wear it," he admitted.
"It cost a friggin ' fortune," Jess said, watching him prowl back and forth like a big panther, "so I'd
better
wear it again."
"We must walk a careful line," Sinclair lectured, "between dressing appropriately for your role, but not making Detective Berry feel out of place or inferior. Which, given the disparity in your incomes, will be difficult at best."
I reeled. There were so many things wrong with that statement I hardly knew where to start with the bitching.
"So dress well, but not rich," Jess said, oblivious to the massive wrongness we were in the middle of.
"Exactly."
"Excuse me," I interrupted. "Sinclair, I haven't forgotten about the florist/eavesdropping thing. And you're weirdly interested in Jessica's date, which I've got problems with on about nine different levels. And Jess, I have to say—" What? What the hell was I going to say?
I can't believe Nick asked you out. For someone who was supposedly into me, he sure got over me pretty damned quick. How could you agree to go out with him when you were sure he liked me
? I tried to find a nice way to sum up my weirded-outness in one sentence. It was tough work, being an honest friend. "—I haven't seen you this, uh, excited in a long time."
"I haven't dated since way before you died." She hugged herself and spun in a small circle. "And he's sooooo cute!"
"Exceedingly cute," Sinclair encouraged. "Quite very much cute."
I figured it out right then. Sinclair never did anything without about nine secret agendas. He wanted a cop on the string. Awfully handy. Of course, it was only a first date, but if things went well…
"I thought you didn't go out with white guys," I pointed out. It was a straw, sure, but I was desperate to clutch at anything.
"I thought
you
said that was bigoted, asshole- esque , and twentieth-century."
"Oh, you're going to start listening to me now?" I grumbled. "I'm not saying I wasn't right, but your timing's a little weird."
"Now that that's settled, we have to decide on the appropriate post-gallery activity."
"That's not all we've got to decide on," I muttered and was—surprise—ignored.
"Because Detective Berry did the asking, I think we can assume he will want to treat you to whatever diversion you select."
"Dude.
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