The Season

“Close your eyes,” says Betty, applying shadow. “You wanna know what the tabs say? They say, you’re almost thirty, you just quit a highly-coveted job as a third assistant, and you’re completely oblivious to the fact that it’s the Season...”

“Mangos?” I ask.

“Parties. Symphonies. Galas.” Betty looks at me like I’m hopeless.

“I’m not gonna let you go home, wash this make-up off, and throw on your grey hoodie. You’re coming with me to the Queen’s Gala tonight. It’s a masquerade ball: Birds of Florida. No one will know you’re there.”

“I’d love to,” I say, “but I’m a little busy right now. And the last time I saw the Queen, I had a gun pointed at my face and a knife at my throat.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” says Betty, “you need to refocus. No more pining after your ex, what was his name? Now Brad’s marrying Eva and you’re pining after him.”

“I’m not pining,” I say, “Brad’s hardly pine-worthy.”

Betty stops applying make-up and opens a drawer. She takes out a photo album. Instead of photos, the album is filled with magazine cut-outs of engagement rings. She flips to a full-page ad for a sparkling diamond solitaire.

“Francie, this is Cartier. You’re never going to meet him if you stay at home, watching reruns of Gossip Girl and eating alligator bars.”

“Hi, Cartier,” I say.

Betty stares at the ad for a moment, then closes the album and gives me a serious look.

“I’m sure Brad likes hanging out with you, but reality check: he’s Miami royalty. He’s got to marry his princess, it’s in his contract. And where does that leave you?”

“Kissing toads,” I say.

“Kissing toads,” affirms Betty.

“Brad’s gonna be at the Gala?” I ask, and Betty nods.

“Be my date,” says Betty, “forget Brad.”

“Okay,” I say, “I’ll make an appearance. But only if you tell me what you know about the Red Coral Society. They're after me, and the bottle, and I need to know what they want.”