T.P.’s closet was even bigger, with easily twice the ingredients, many items — boots and jackets, especially — still bearing price tags.
“Beautiful!” said the photographer, upon Peter-Anne’s return.
“Gorgeous!” said the makeup artist.
“Stunning!” said I, because someone had to, and I could, because, as was often the case when I was on House Duty, I had nothing else to do. Peter-Anne scanned my post-stunning! facial expression for signs of facetiousness, his brow knitting into meaty ridges of disgust to match his permanent frown. But he didn’t know that I was a trained professional, a licensed deadpan artist, and I showed blank. So for a moment, for a change, it was almost quiet. Only the fireplace roared as everyone stared at Peter-Anne, as Peter-Anne stared at me and I at him. And somewhere both near and far, in a shallow but ancient cavern of sophomoric glee, I basked in the rarefied luxury of being a snotty little fuck, undercover and undetectable, at large in the Master’s house.
“Thank you, David,” said Peter-Anne at last, unlocking our eyes and taking his place between wifechild and a quarter-million bucks in pillows. “I’m so terribly glad you approve.”
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