She staggered across the stage, double vodka in one hand, the other steadying herself as best she could. Disheveled is the best word I can find to describe her – yet everything about her spoke of class. She was wearing an elegant white dress – one that would have suited Jacqueline Kennedy – and her pearl necklace showed off her long, aristocratic neck. Her bag, earlier across her – for security more than anything I presumed – had somehow got twisted, and now hung, oddly, down the her back. It was that more than anything that caught my eye, that made me want to discover her story. But instinct caused me to hold back, to drop my gaze and pick up the crossword, surreptitiously keeping her under observation.
Although unsteady on her feet, she walked across the foyer as if she belonged – no owned – it, and slammed her palm onto the bell demanding attention.