We finally reached the Turquoise Garden after fifteen long minutes of Jean’s endless chatter, her nonstop fussing with her makeup to make sure it hadn’t smudged, and her constant yelling at the driver to “drive slowly!” so her dress wouldn’t crease.
To say I was irritated was an understatement.
The vehicle pulled up to the main entrance, the red carpet spilling down like a river of velvet, reporters flanking both sides with cameras raised. To my surprise, a lot of guests were still arriving. I reached for the door, desperate to escape the confined torture of that car, when Jean’s hand clamped around my wrist.
“Wait—we need to step out at the perfect time. Can't you see the red carpet is a little crowded now” she whispered dramatically.
I stared at the three people walking down the red
