And you sip your Napoleon brandy but you never get your lips wet, no, you don't
*Rose doesn't really want to be here. She doesn't like clubs like this and she doesn't like Damien, and the fact that Evan Rosier is the highlight of the evening is really saying something. At least he's smart enough to hold up a conversation. Still, the place is classy, she has to give it that. It's the most exclusive wizarding club in London, and it's all crystal and marble and the help is in purple sequins (cocktail dresses or dinner jackets). The plush carpet is purple. The velvet chaises are purple. The lights are even tinged slightly purple.
Still. Rose looks damned good, even if she hates the bass-heavy music that's blaring. She's done up to the nines in a plunging silk wiggle dress that could've walked out of the 1950s (scarlet of course), and her five-inch peep-toes and lipstick and handbag match perfectly. Her hair's done up in flawless curls reminiscent of old Hollywood, and she's well aware that people are looking her over as they stand in the doorway. She's got her arm through Damien's and a cigarette between her lips, surveying the place with just a little distaste showing. Why couldn't they have just gone to a jazz club?*
I feel like I'm in a wine vat.
Still. Rose looks damned good, even if she hates the bass-heavy music that's blaring. She's done up to the nines in a plunging silk wiggle dress that could've walked out of the 1950s (scarlet of course), and her five-inch peep-toes and lipstick and handbag match perfectly. Her hair's done up in flawless curls reminiscent of old Hollywood, and she's well aware that people are looking her over as they stand in the doorway. She's got her arm through Damien's and a cigarette between her lips, surveying the place with just a little distaste showing. Why couldn't they have just gone to a jazz club?*
I feel like I'm in a wine vat.