Olivia flinched. It was slight; it was the look of very polite people caught in public transport hiccups or when someone has trodden on their foot. It was the small grimace of someone who has something taken or irrevocably altered in some way. Perhaps it was silly (as silly as she permitted herself at weekends, in the hours gathered up determinedly for things unbusinesslike) but the pleasure it had been, faded in the knowledge it had been watched, looked at, thought over long enough to come up and ask afterward.
"No." She was clean, she was crisp. Olivia smiled as if to punctuate it and it was a cold, hard little smile as apologetic about being that way as it was intended to smooth things. "I'm not."
There were other footsteps - an echo of them, the dribs and drabs of gallery-goers as the day passed from 'early' into 'acceptable'. Olivia's head turned towards them, as if quantifying them. "Excuse me." It was polite, but she left as if the silly heels didn't impede progress -- the smart shellac of the businesswoman drawn back over the soft, dark green dress and the heels and all the wonder of the art quite put away.