The gut feeling of revulsion came in response to his first glance, and Vicki attempted to ignore the prickling sensation in her skin that often accompanied extreme discomfort. When the man finally spoke, however, there was no doubt that the response had been well-placed: of all the people Vicki could have selected for a fake date, she was now practically on the arm of Victor Sage, by far one of the most revolting personalities she'd ever had the displeasure to meet on the journalism circuit -- if the trashy piece of gossip he worked for could even be painted with the prestigious "journalism" brush.
A hopeful glance over her shoulder informed her that the likelihood of finding another single man in the crowd was discouragingly slim, however, so she boldly stepped closer to the tabloid reporter in question, slipping an uninvited arm through his. "I didn't get your call," she explained for the sake of those listening, turning a smile up at the man who stood a few inches taller. "Are we still on for the Square later?" He wouldn't reveal her -- not unless he wanted her to reveal him -- and so here they were, two potential party-crashers, standing together in a charming atmospheric mix of disparagement and barely-suppressed disgust.
They may have looked like a couple, but Vicki again took advantage of everyone else's distracted manner to lean closer, enough to prop one stiletto heel onto his shoe and press her weight onto it. The sensation was enough to communicate a warning, but probably not enough to leave a bruise. "Never," she murmured, "remark on my body. Not verbally, not through visual appraisal." The foot was removed. "Going to publish another thrilling expose on Bruce Wayne? What need could you possibly have for doing research?" Her tone was doubtful. "I thought tabloid journalists drew story ideas at random from a hat."