It wasn’t even a full hour after Maeve Glasgow told me to pack my bags that I found myself crumpled like human luggage in a gold-trimmed Bentley with fur rugs and a ceiling mirror. The seatbelt had fur too. I didn’t know fur could itch and suffocate at the same time but apparently in the Glasgow universe anything was possible. She was on her third glass of whatever neon pink fluid was in that Dom Pérignon bottle and Jack was in the passenger seat looking like he was trying very hard to suppress his laughter every time she yelled out the window at traffic for being “too pedestrian.” She said that like it was a crime. Like the air around her should part like the Red Sea.
“We’re going on a tour,” she said, slapping on another layer of lipstick in the rearview mirror that wasn’t hers. “And by
