Parties, Bette Porter decided, furtively plucking at the waist of her dress, were quickly becoming the bane of her existence. That she had to regularly attend and organize so many of them for her own subsistence was something she sometimes regretted. This particular soirée didn’t necessarily demand her attendance, but Bette wanted to be there for Alice. It was her closest friend’s big night, and God only knew that Alice had flown out to hold her hand at enough of her gallery’s various show launches and artists’ dinners when Bette had first started out, so she figured she owed Alice one.

Besides, she missed L.A., and she missed her friends. So, Bette had left her gallery in the hands of her capable assistants – not without a bit of apprehension, cajoling, and threats from both her staff and from Alice herself – and booked a flight for the weekend, ready to support her friend.

Bette scanned the room, hoping to find her, or at least hear her. Always conspicuous, Alice could be heard even when she couldn’t be seen. Failing to locate her friend on the first visual sweep, Bette began to look around the room warily, knowing that a woman standing alone was an easy mark at a gathering like this, sure to pop up on the radar of anyone looking for a little fun. She pondered wading into the crowd to look for Alice, or heading to the bar for a drink, not wanting to be still for any extended period.

Ugh, I waited too long. There was some jowly idiot, in tweed, edging in on her periphery. Bette was not in the mood for even a polite refusal, so she tossed her best “bucket of ice water” look his way. He took two steps back and retreated to a nearby cluster of people, glancing nervously over his shoulder at her.

Bette smirked in victory and looked around again. Alice was nowhere to be found, of course. Alice was rarely where she should be, usually popping up at the most inopportune times, but almost never where she could be the most useful – in this case at Bette’s side so she didn’t have to stand here alone, deflecting unwanted advances like some pathetic, anti-social loser. Enough of this, Bette thought. I’m going to need a drink. She started towards the bar, resigning herself to pressing through the crowd.