I spent the rest of that evening going over lists of names in my apartment back in Brooklyn. My own little agrarian society come to life. The Dior bag sat untouched on the bed beside me, the only thing I’d removed was the purse. The dress itself had been dumped to the bottom of the bag. In a strange act of contrition, I’d refused to even look.
“A girl for Nicholas, a girl for Nicholas...”
I chanted it under my breath as I scrolled through a list of possible names. I’d cast a wide net and there were a lot to choose from. Actresses. Models. Aristocracy. I’d even thrown in one or two ‘every day trust fund daughters’ just for balance. It was an impressive list.
More importantly, it was a long list. One that was enough to sufficiently distract me from whatever it was that had happened that d
