Bidding War

It took me a minute to reconcile the image of this fashionably dressed and impeccably made-up woman with that of a shy, helpless girl from Graceville. Erin’s black silk dress had a plunging neckline that left nothing to the imagination, held up by spaghetti straps whose width must be measured in nanometres. When she shifted in her seat, I saw that the dress was entirely backless. Jewellery sparkled on her earlobes, neck, fingers and wrists. She looked like a walking advertisement for Tiffany & Co.. Erin was shorter than me and seated, but managed to look down her nose at me. ‘Amiyah, I’m surprised to see you here. How are you doing?’ She had taken on some kind of weird, plummy accent that was vaguely British. ‘I’m fine.’ ‘I was worried when the article came out. A lot of people in your position would have been…distressed.’ She tried for a concerned look but it came off as constipated. I ignored her. She was nothing more than a foot soldier, embroiled in a war she wasn’t even aware of.