𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝙾𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚁𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚜 | ONC 2024

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚂𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗

“She looks quite baffled, doesn't she?” Penelope accused. “Downright dumbfounded that she's being photographed, booked, and processed.”

“I think she looks lovely,” Gloria remarked. “Like she's had a bit of a shock, certainly, but what a stylish ensemble to be arrested in!”

“I do agree with you about that,” Gigi said as she studied the black and white photograph of Camilla Otis on the front page of the New York Times. “Even with her hair down and disheveled, she looks like a film star. Lauren Bacall, perhaps.”

“But by now I'm sure she's wearing that hideous black and white striped uniform! Like all the jailbirds do!” Darla cried, shaking her head in dismay. “Horizontal stripes… Ugh. A true fashion tragedy.”

The others nodded, equally nonplussed.

Penelope Fitzgerald, Gloria Davenport, and Darla Vanderbilt were gathered around the table in Gigi Contini's very modern and chic breakfast nook, sipping mimosas and exclaiming over the Times article that detailed Camilla's arrest. It seemed nothing made a late breakfast more delicious than gossip-worthy scandal.

Though Gigi's excitement was not quite as candid as that of the other Book Club ladies.

After the shocking events of the previous day, Gigi had come home from the police station a bundle of nerves. She'd planned to speak with her husband immediately, but Guido had not returned to the manor until late. Upon his arrival he'd explained that he was having his bi-weekly meeting with none other than Antonio Castellano. The mobster father of Mario Castellano. Mario, who was dead by the hand of Camilla Otis.

Looking down at the newspaper image of Camilla's confounded face, a shiver of unease rippled across Gigi's skin. Her conversation with Guido the night before rang in her ears.

“You're sure?” he had asked. “No one knows? No one except Antonio?”

“I'm sure,” Gigi had replied, feigning a confidence she hadn't felt. “No one except Antonio knows that I introduced Mario to Camilla at our garden party. No one.”

But, of course, she wasn't sure. Especially after her strong reaction to hearing the news of Mario's death from Marcella yesterday at the police station. Fret ambushed Gigi's stomach as the events of the garden party played over and over in her mind. The moment Camilla had asked her about the ‘handsome young Italian man’ chatting with his father. The moment she had received permission to introduce them. The moment she'd led a coy Camilla over to a grinning Mario and said, “I think you two will get along famously.”

What had she done?

The anxiety was too much. And anxiety aged women in the most unflattering of ways, creating a physical proof of guilt. That would never do.

A distraction was in order. A temporary remedy. Therefore, Gigi had invited her friends for breakfast. As much to gauge their reactions to the Times article as to find reprieve in their chatty presence.

“I do hope they're feeding Camilla alright in that dungeon,” Darla said as she poured herself another beverage. “I almost feel guilty indulging in such a delectable breakfast, but it'd be a shame to let these frittatas and mimosas go to waste.”

“Darla, a ‘mimosa’ is fifty percent champagne to fifty percent orange juice,” Penelope educated her friend. She pointed to the cream-colored concoction in Darla's glass. “What you have there is champagne. Period.”

Darla laughed and took a long pull from the flute. “Well, I'm no expert in measurements. I simply poured! But the result is certainly tasty.”

“Scrumptious frittatas, as well!” Gloria praised. “The peppers add such a zing!”