At the top of the stairs stands an elegant older woman in a champagne-tulle robe over a silk dinner gown. A long cigarette holder with a wispy plume of smoke rests between her fingers—a partially-consumed cocktail within the grasp of her other hand. Her heavy Jean Harlow makeup and spider-leg-like eyelashes are a feeble attempt to hold on to her youth. Her weathered skin, wiry white hair, and saggy wrinkles overshadow her once-effortless beauty. “Jade, darling, welcome to Blythe House!” she says, greeting us in a transatlantic accent with her arms unfolding.
Love her
