Saoirse sinks into the plush upholstery. Giles pours her a glass of wine and retreats with an obsequ
Saoirse sinks into the plush upholstery. Giles pours her a glass of wine and retreats with an obsequious murmur. Chantal gives Saoirse a smile framed by frothy clouds of dark hair. Her foundation is matte, her eyeliner like black crayon, her eye shadow emerald, her lips a slick coral. Her lashes are long and curling and coated with thick mascara, her nails encrusted with diamantes. More diamantes hang from her ears, twinkling and spinning in the densely perfumed air. Saoirse’s own face feels naked in comparison, even with the addition of lipstick. “I love your hair,” Saoirse says. Chantal gives another trademark squawk of laughter and reaches for her wine. “Well, you know what they say, hun,” she says.“The bigger the hair, the smaller the hips!” -- source link
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