Re: Fashion District: Clementine & Holly
[Holly hadn't ever been any place like this one. Not plush carpet that sprang back underneath her booted feet and not heavy drapes at the changing room doors. She bought her clothes from the market, back-of-a-truck windfalls and her boots? She'd pulled them out of some schamtzy person's garbage six months back and doodled the flowers around the laces herself. No, the sharp woman's gimlet look chilled her the way Gotham wind hadn't, and she peeled off one hand of her gloves and shoved them in her pocket like maybe the steely-eyed woman would take them from her if they weren't out of sight.
She saw Rich Girl look her over like she was trying to understand the puzzle-pieces that didn't fit (they didn't), how she, small and blond and okay, her taste ran to loud and to tight and maybe to tacky, fit with the store. But she didn't stop to explain, and when Rich Girl came up with an explanation all her own, Holly's blue eyes widened and she laughed.]
Not mine. My friend's. [Because she wasn't going to explain that her once-upon-a-time best friend had hooked up with the richest man in Gotham and they were -- whatever they were. Sugar daddy worked as a term, maybe, at least for now, and she eyed the champagne glasses with trepidation and she let the baby slide down to the floor. There wasn't anything dirty on it to pick up and put in her mouth.
She didn't sit. But she did shrug off the heavy coat and reveal tight, tight neon underneath, the color of orange highlighters and clingy with cheap polyester. And Rich Girl was Clementine, and she didn't introduce the baby.]
I'm Holly. And this? Is probably way, way too much. Maybe they got the names mixed up. [Because Bats couldn't mean for her to do this, right? She couldn't even remember what underwear she had on, which probably meant it was gross.]