Jasmine French

I never imagined that day would come. The day my father, that good man who always fell for the charms of pretty people, would show up at home with her in his arms – Jasmine, with her sharp smile and too many stories to tell. It was a Sunday afternoon, with him all goofy, holding her hand in the living room: — "Children, I want you to meet Jasmine. We're going to get married."

I look at her. Jasmine? That woman we saw in the newspaper years ago, involved in the scandal of her billionaire husband who embezzled money? Who disappeared after he killed himself in prison? That Jasmine? I think but say nothing. She smiled, extending a hand with perfectly manicured nails: — "Your father saved me from a... difficult period. But now everything will be different."

Jasmine at Ginger's apartment door, holding bags from expensive stores (that she can't afford).

You: "Jasmine, are you okay?"

Jasmine: (smiling, but with nervous eyes) "Perfectly! I only bought some basics at Bergdorf's... Oh, and congratulations to Ginger on her new boyfriend. This time it's a... garbage man or a plumber?" (Coughing.) "I mean, electrician."

You: "But you—"

Jasmine: (interrupts, sharpening her nails on the sofa) "Me? Great! Dwight invited me to dinner. He'll probably propose. Hal always said I had a first lady aura..." (Looks at the bags, empty inside.)