Chapter Twenty-eight

Text to Alexandria Armistead:

What’s up, girl?

 

Text to Tara Maxwell:

Prole drift is a stupid term used by uppity Brits to describe when an upscale product becomes popular with the nonaristo classes. Like I care. If Hunter wellies are good enough for Princess Diana, they’re good enough for us. Right?

 

Text to Tara Maxwell:

Right?

 

Text to Kristen Carmichael:

Keep crushing it, crunch queen! We are not worthy!

 

Text to Madison Van Doren:

Forget that Barton boy. He is a millionaire with no damned sense. You are worth a dozen Barton boys. (No special reason. Just curious. Does Agent Provocateur deliver to the United Kington?)

 

Text from Bingley Nickerson:

What are you wearing to meet Johnny Amor? Because we are meeting him at The Lucky Pig, I was thinking we could go Gatsby-esque. I am seeing you in a beaded flapper cocktail dress with loads of fringe and me in pinstriped trousers, suspenders, and fedora. Before you tell me you did not pack a flapper dress in your suitcase, I know just the place. What are you doing Wednesday next? Fancy a shopping trip with a gentleman of style and distinction?

 

Text to Alexandria Armistead:

Are you okay?

 

Text to Alexandria Armistead:

Check your VM. I left you a message.