The event was a brand preview evening at a gallery in the arts district — the kind of thing where the brand paid for good wine and better lighting and invited a carefully selected mix of industry professionals, press, and people who were interesting to be photographed next to.
Carla had added Lina's name to the guest list at the last moment.
"You need to be visible," Carla had said, over the phone, in a tone that left no room for the question *do I have to?* "Not working. Just present. Wear something that isn't sportswear. Talk to two people you don't know. Have one glass of sparkling water in a champagne flute so no one asks why you're not drinking. Leave by nine."
Lina had worn the cream silk blouse and the black trousers — her leaving-the-Cole-estate outfit, which she had come to think of as her armour — and arrived at seven thirty with her composure fully assembled.
She knew he was there before she saw him.
