She’s referring to a blond with her tongue hanging out and her right hand giving the finger to the camera. Classy.

I move to the next picture.

“Bulimic Bitch. Everyone thinks she’s cured, but there’s not a meal that passes through those lips that doesn’t come back up. Rotted her teeth out. Those dentures are as fake as her tits.”

They’re all bitches, according to Franny. Illegitimate Bitch (“the butler’s child, don’t you know”), Bald Bitch (“anxiety disorder, compulsively pulls her hair out”), Itchy-twat Bitch (“I’m going to do her a favor and send her a crate of Vagisil for Christmas”). Apparently, even the guys are Bitches: Rancid Bitch (“flatulence—spend too much time in close proximity and your nose hairs will be singed”), Microscopic Bitch (“But he’s a big guy,” I say. Franny wiggles her pinky finger. “Not all of him”).

I toss the phone on the cushion beside me and drop my head to the arm of the couch. “Why are we doing this, again?”

“Because this is how it’s done. They hate you—even the ones you haven’t met yet. If there’s a chance you’re going to stay, you need ammunition.”

“But it’s not like I’m going to walk up to Illegitimate Bitch and tell her I know who her father is, Darth Vader style.”

Franny’s rosy lips slide into a smile. “And that’s why Nicholas adores you. Because you’re not like any other woman he’s known.” She pats my knee. “You’re nice.

“But,” she goes on, “using this information isn’t the point. It’s enough that they know you know—their bitchy-senses will tell them the moment they see you. It’ll be in how you carry yourself, how you look them in the eyes. Perception is reality. If you can control perception, you control the world. That’s how things are here. That’s what Nicholas was trying to do today.”

I take a drink of the warm liquor as her words sink in.

Then, just for shits and giggles, I wonder, “What kind of bitch would I be? Poor Bitch?”

“Definitely.”

“And my sister would be Tiny Bitch—” I pinch my fingers “—because she’s this big.”

“Now you’ve got it.”

I look at Franny’s profile—her perfect skin, adorable nose, shining, exotic eyes with thick lashes that go on for days. She really is breathtaking.

“What would you be?”

Franny laughs—it’s a throaty, boisterous sound. “I’d be Ugly Bitch.”

“Uh…you mean Opposite Bitch?”

It takes her half a minute before she answers me. She lifts the sleeve of her silk blouse, checking the diamond-encrusted watch around her delicate wrist. “All right, dearie, settle in and Franny will tell you a bedtime story. Once upon a time there was a girl—the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world. Everyone told her so. Her mother, her father, strangers on the street…her uncle. He told her each time he came to visit, which was horrifically often. His ‘pretty princess,’ he would say.”

My stomach drops and the brandy feels too sickly sweet in my gut, nauseating.

“I’ve always loved animals,” Franny says, smiling suddenly. “They have a sixth sense about people, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I think so. I don’t trust anyone my dog doesn’t like.”

“Yes, exactly.” Then she turns her eyes back to the fireplace. “The girl’s uncle was killed in a riding accident. Thrown from his horse and trampled—his head was crushed like a melon beneath the hoof.”

Good.

“By then, the girl was dreaming about carving her face up, so it would match how ugly she felt inside. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it.” Franny goes silent for a moment, lost to the memories playing out behind her pretty, dark eyes. “So instead, she acted ugly. Cruel. A venomous little thing. She was very good at it. And she became the ugliest beautiful girl in the whole wide world.”

Franny drinks her brandy.

“Until, one day, she met a boy. And he was silly and awkward and the kindest, sweetest man she’d ever known. The girl was sure she could never be with him—because once he knew how ugly she was inside, he would leave and she would fall apart. So she was heartless to him. Tried to chase him off every way she knew how. She even tried to seduce his friend, but nothing worked. The boy…waited. Not in a weak way, but with patience. How a parent lets a tantrumming child scream and cry and beat the ground, until the child is spent. And one night, that’s what happened. The girl wailed and kicked and sobbed…and told him everything. All the ugliness.”

“And he didn’t just love her anyway…he loved her even more. He told her it wasn’t her face that made him love her—he said he would love her even if he was blind, because it was the spark inside her that had captured him the moment they met. And she finally started to believe him. With him she felt safe…and good…and maybe just a little bit beautiful.”

I reach up and hug Franny tightly, stroking her soft, dark hair.

Then I sit back and look up at her. “Why did you tell me that?”

“Because this place, Olivia, it’s a pretty little shitheap—with a thousand bloodthirsty flies. But there is goodness here. I’ve felt it. I’ve found it.” She covers my hand, squeezing. “And my Simon loves Nicholas like a brother. So if he loves him, I know he is one of the good ones.”