As I walked to Amber tonight to obtain information on my next top-secret fashion mafia assignment, I ran into Fiona. Actually, it was more like she ran into me. She wanted to accompany me to wherever I was going and buy me a drink. She said she wanted to make amends. She seemed sincere.

She was lying.

She wanted membership into the Fashion Mafia and would do anything to get it.

I had to throw her off my trail, but how? As I ran through options, I received a text message from Tracee Smithers:

We cannot have Fiona Newsome snooping around, so we set up a top-secret sample sale to throw her off track. She will receive details in a moment and you will continue to your destination.

Not a moment passed when Fiona received a text message. She checked it and said, “Ooops! We’ve got to reschedule this amends-making. Just got myself a hot date. Ta-ta!”

Well, I never! She received information about a sample sale and refused to dish the details? That is low. No wonder she is no longer my friend. Nevertheless, I was able to proceed to Amber.

I walked into the lounge and over to the bar, where I promptly ordered a bottle of Dom Peringon. The bartender eyed me up and down, then led me into a back room I did not know existed.

Sitting on a banquette was an extraordinarily beautiful, statuesque woman with a diamond-studded eyepatch. She was – no she wasn’t – wait, was it true? She was…

She beckoned me closer to her and handed me a glass of champagne.

Yes it was.

She was one of the original eighties glamazon supermodels. All leg, all attitude, all symmetry, but for the missing eye.

“Lucinda, darling,” she purred. “Come closer. I have something to tell you.”

I sat. I sipped. I listened. I had my assignment, though I did not know what to make of it.