Dancing with Dior

Oh my God, I love your dress!

The girl smiles, champagne in hand, and runs gloved fingers over satin green.

Thanks! Last season’s Dior, she confesses.

I offer a wry smile, leaning in with a conspiratorial gleam in my eye as I gesture to my own body.

Last year’s Chanel.

Her eyes widen and she titters behind the back of her hand, raising her glass to mine in a small chink of commerarderie.

There’s a knock on my elbow; I barely have time to register that I’m stumbling before the girl in the green dress catches me.

Oops, I giggle and brush the hair from my forehead before excusing myself to sit down.

On the way, I place my glass on a waiter's tray and politely decline an offer to dance, waving the young man’s hand away when he attempts to take my arm again.

So pushy, I drawl, and splay my hand over his chest in a flirtatious way that lets him know I can feel how fast his heart is beating.

But, I make my way to the exit and slip on my coat. No one notices that I’m wearing far more jewellery than what I arrived in.