The incense smouldering in a brass holder on the dresser didn’t help, filling the room with a sweet sickly odour that Ginny presumed was faux frankincense. It’s only redeeming quality was that it masked the smell of the Turkish Delight that Phoebe had set down in front of her table setting. She waited for a chance to pass it on.
Scott Joplin played in the background. She listened, following the notes, until the commotion of voices drowned them out. She knocked back her champagne and reached for more. She could see that her mother was already tipsy. She had become demonstrative, trying to hold court with rambling vignettes that no one wished to listen to, mostly because they never reached their destination.
After a lengthy period of polite attention, Phoebe attempted to afford the rest of
