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Cassandra? She coming to the Christmas party?”
    “Doubtful. She seems to have a phobia of drunken camels.” “That’s a shame. Only kind of camel I like. Course, she’s got that nosenseofhumor thing going on.” LaToya vigorously rubbed lotion into her hands, then sprayed perfume with a cir cular flourish. “I was hoping for a knockdown, dragout fight between the two of them. Maybe a food fight. A girl can dream, right?”
    “And get us kicked out of the National Press Club? Please! I was rather hoping for a quiet evening.” Lacey closed her eyes for a moment and thought about her date, Vic Donovan. She was hoping to get him in a quiet corner somewhere in the course of the evening. Mmmmm.
     
    “I’m talking live entertainment. And who better? Felicity Pickles and Cassandra Wentworth? Two humorless white girls tearing it up in front of the Christmas tree? Front page news.”
    “Make sure Hansen’s there to get it all on film.”
    “Film is so lastcentury, Lacey,” LaToya said, slipping a tiny camera from her shiny gold purse. “I got my digital. Smile, honey, you look gorgeous.” She took a picture of the two of them grinning into the mirror.
    Meg Chong, a general news reporter, swept through the ladies’ room door and cheerfully plopped down at the counter between them. She peered into the mirror and applied her mas cara. Meg was tiny and stylish and wore her long black hair in a high ponytail decorated with sparkling jewelry. Her silver spaghetti strap dress left nothing to the imagination and the back dipped well below her waist. Lacey felt chilly just looking at her.
    “Quite a dress, Meg! Won’t you get cold in that?”
    “How can I get cold when I look so hot?” Meg smiled. “Be sides, I’ll be warm enough with one of our hot sportswriters draped over my shoulders all night.”
    “Which one?” LaToya asked, her eyes wide in the mirror. “Does it matter? They are all hot!” Meg laughed and the oth ers joined her.
    Lacey’s cell phone rang. She retrieved it from the pocket of her suit jacket hanging in the garment bag. The number on the screen made Lacey groan again. Cassandra Wentworth’s cell phone. “Yikes! It’s her again!”
    “Who her?” LaToya leaned over her shoulder and glanced at the number. “Oh, that her! The ecowitch. Don’t answer it. Let her grinch someone else tonight. Later, baby.”
    LaToya gathered up her things and she and petite Meg Chong, freshly mascaraed, swept out of the ladies’ room chat tering, leaving Lacey alone to face the wrath of Wentworth.
    Lacey stuck her tongue out at her phone. She pressed the button to reject the call. No doubt Cassandra had recovered her wits and thought of something new and wicked to say to her. Most people, Lacey thought, when they came up with a snappy comeback a minute too late, would simply call it old business and forget about it. Not Cassandra. She was the mistress of the driveby insult, and no insult was too stale to deliver. And she
     
    would back up over you on her fattired mountain bike just to make sure you got it.
    The phone rang again. Lacey sighed. What insult could pos sibly be so perfect that Cassandra simply couldn’t wait to say it? Lacey was curious; her fatal flaw. She narrowed her eyes at the phone. Bracing herself, she clicked the answer button. Lacey gazed at her reflection in the mirror and thought she struck just the right note of cool disdain, her right eyebrow raised imperiously.
    “Merry Christmas, Cassandra, it’s been simply ages.”
    “You have to come!” A high voice pleaded urgently. “The lady is hurt.” The voice sounded young and upset. This is defi nitely not Cassandra, Lacey thought. Is this a child? Did I read the number wrong? Lacey glanced again at the screen to make sure it really was Cassandra’s cell phone calling her. It was.
    “Who is this?”
    “You have to come now! She’s hurt bad. Please.” “Who’s hurt?”
    “The lady!”
    “I don’t understand. Who are you?