And she is hungry, come to think of it. Ravenous. Apparently being mugged and then concussed is hungry work. It doesn't take long after that for an impossibly elegant woman wearing what looked like a haute couture version of a maid's uniform to knock on the door holding a garment bag. "With regards from Mr. Borgia," she says, and for a minute Imogen thinks it's her jeans and Bob Dylan t-shirt but--holy shit, no it isn't. Inside is a tasteful black turtleneck sheath dress that looks simple enough but the label says fucking Dior.
Maybe she ought to get mugged more often.
And the maid doesn't leave with the clothes, either. In a matter of minutes Imogen finds herself in full Pretty Woman montage mode. Her hair is styled in a tasteful chignon that partially hides the frizz and bad dye job, and it's odd to see herself looking so, well, classy after spending the last five years in raccoon eyes and badly matched foundation. There are shoes, too, shoes that have distinctive red soles.
Whoever her mysterious benefactor is, he doesn't fuck around.
Half an hour later, Imogen finds herself tottering on unfamiliar heels towards a tall, elegant man in the most expensive-looking restaurant she's ever seen.
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And she is hungry, come to think of it. Ravenous. Apparently being mugged and then concussed is hungry work. It doesn't take long after that for an impossibly elegant woman wearing what looked like a haute couture version of a maid's uniform to knock on the door holding a garment bag. "With regards from Mr. Borgia," she says, and for a minute Imogen thinks it's her jeans and Bob Dylan t-shirt but--holy shit, no it isn't. Inside is a tasteful black turtleneck sheath dress that looks simple enough but the label says fucking Dior.
Maybe she ought to get mugged more often.
And the maid doesn't leave with the clothes, either. In a matter of minutes Imogen finds herself in full Pretty Woman montage mode. Her hair is styled in a tasteful chignon that partially hides the frizz and bad dye job, and it's odd to see herself looking so, well, classy after spending the last five years in raccoon eyes and badly matched foundation. There are shoes, too, shoes that have distinctive red soles.
Whoever her mysterious benefactor is, he doesn't fuck around.
Half an hour later, Imogen finds herself tottering on unfamiliar heels towards a tall, elegant man in the most expensive-looking restaurant she's ever seen.
"...Hello," she says again, awkward.