John chivalrously got the sisters drinks when they arrived at the gallery, which was already teeming with people. Most of them were dressed in bright clothes, which complemented the splashes of color from the paintings on the walls. He was looking forward to spending time with the girls, but was spirited away almost immediately by his publicist to someone he "absolutely had to meet."

John hoped the evening wouldn't turn out to be completely boring, as these events could be. He listened politely to the man he'd been introduced to, trying to figure out what he was selling. He was a business type, dressed in the most conservative suit, boring in the extreme.

"What do you think of the paintings?" John asked once, gesturing to the walls.

"Haven't got a clue," the man answered with a shrug. "I'm no artist, I'm the first to admit."

John politely excused himself as soon as he could, looking around to see who else was there.

There were a few people from the entertainment industry, along with the requisite artists, and John tried to concentrate on the actual art on the walls and not just the people, many of whom had come hoping to meet him and Hyacinth, apparently.

He spotted Clem often, like him, actually perusing the art, and wondered what she thought of the event. He began to make his way to her a few times, but was interrupted every time by someone who wanted to talk to him, to know him, date him, something.

He was approached by a girl in a salmon colored dress that showed a lot of cleavage, a girl who smiled at everything he said and insisted on touching his arm at every opportunity.

John sighed inwardly, steeling himself for being manhandled by the girl, whose name he vaguely remembered as being something like "Bridget." 

"So, what do you think of the turnout?" something like Bridget was asking. "A few of my friends are here, but most of them are still in Europe, you know? October is such a dead month in LA." She stroked his arm. "Still, you're here, that's something, I suppose. You come with Hy?"

John nodded, wondering where Hyacinth was. "We're filming a movie together," he explained.

"Are you an item? You two seeing each other?" something like Bridget queried. "That little tidbit would make coming here tonight worth it, all by itself."

"No no, nothing like that," John replied. "We're just good friends.

"You like the art?" John tried to change the subject. "Anastasia Ruiz is a real up and comer in the modern art world, I believe."

"Couldn't give a shit," something like Bridget responded with a little snort. "You mean you like this stuff?"

Suddenly Clem was in front of him, looking at the painting closest to them, completely unaware of his presence. He smiled again at the sight of her fun jacket.

"Hey you," he said, tapping her on the shoulder.

She turned, quickly brought back to the present.

"Oh, hi," she said, smiling.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Clem nodded. "I mean, obviously I could never afford any of it, but still, it's fun to look, isn't it?"

Something like Bridget stuck her hand out. "Hello, I'm Ridgely, Ridgely Carruthers."

Clem, too, extended her hand uncertainly. "Clem O'Dell."

"O'Dell? Are you related to Hy?" Ridgely released her hand.

"Yes, I'm her twin sister."

"You're her twin sister?" The shock in Ridgely's voice was as offensive as she meant it to be, and John bristled.

"Yes, Clem is Hy's twin sister, and came tonight to support her."

"I see." Ridgely took Clem in from head to toe, from the jacket to the boots. "That's an interesting jacket, I must say. Where'd you get it, at a thrift store?" She ran her hand down her salmon colored dress, emphasizing her curves and the style of the dress.

Clem bit her lips together. "As a matter of fact, I made it," she answered. "I really like the colors and the texture of the suede."

"It's loads of fun, isn't it?" John asked rhetorically. "I happen to love it also." He put an arm around Clem's shoulders, and could feel her shaking a little bit. "Not everyone could pull it off, but on our Clem it works very nicely, I think."

Clem looked at John with gratitude, and he winked at her, leaving Ridgely out of their exchange altogether.

"Well, no offense, but I think it's hideous," Ridgely responded. "Hardly appropriate for an event like tonight's."

"Luckily your opinion doesn't matter to her a fig," John interposed smoothly. "You are damned rude, though, I'll say that for you."

He turned to Clem. "Come on, let's get you another drink and actually look at some of the spectacular pieces on display, what do you say?"

Clem looked at him with gratitude and nodded, and he steered her through the crowd, large hand on her shoulder.

When he turned to her from the bar, he saw her shrugging out of the jacket.

"No no, don't do that!" he admonished, pulling it back over her shoulders. "It's smashing, like I said. Don't let that horrid girl rob you of your joy, hm?"

Clem looked at him uncertainly. "Really? I don't want to reflect badly on Hy, though, you know? I don't want people thinking her sister's a dowdy nobody without any fashion sense."

"Who gives a fuck what other people think?" John asked, handing her a flute of champagne cocktail. "You like it, and I like it, that should be enough."

"Who was that girl, anyway?" Clem asked, sipping her drink.

John shrugged. "I think she's someone's assistant in a publicity department for one of the studios," he responded. "I'd forgotten her name until she introduced herself to you, to be honest.

"Now," he continued, smiling down at her, "let's actually look at some of the lovely work on these walls, what do you say?"

"Sounds like a plan," Clem agreed.

They moved to a wall which displayed a painting of abstract shapes.

"I really like this one, especially the way she's layered on the glaze so you can see down into the colors," Clem said.

"Me too," John exclaimed, pleased. "I love her use of negative space also, it really makes a statement."

They stood in silence, admiring the work for a moment, when someone spoke from behind them.

"You like this one?"

John and Clem turned, and Clem nodded. "Very much. I think it's my favorite in the whole gallery."

"You have good taste," the woman said with a smile. "I happen to know it's the artist's favorite as well."

"Oh my god, are you—" Clem began.

"Anastasia Ruiz, in the flesh," the woman confessed, holding out a hand. "Everyone seems to like my bigger pieces, but I really like this little canvas, you know?" She turned to Clem. "And speaking of really liking, I absolutely love the jacket you're wearing! Where did you get it? Or did you make it yourself?"

John smiled at Clem's joy, watching as she explained how she'd found the original jacket and repurposed it for herself. Hyacinth joined them for the end of the discussion, looking as stunning as when she'd walked in. John had to admit she was very easy on the eyes. He also had to admit, however, that he much preferred her sister's company to hers. His eyes were drawn over and over to Clem's vivacious face as she explained how she'd cut up the jacket and crocheted the pieces together. Her smile was infectious, and he was beginning to not be able to look away from her large, expressive brown eyes.

He told himself that he needed to stop this, that Hy was the one he was supposed to date, but he couldn't help himself.

He was falling for Clem.

Great.

He knew, from when they were in the car, that Hyacinth smelled expensively of some perfume, but that Clem merely smelled like soap; however, he found himself stepping closer to Clem whenever he could, just to catch her clean, wholesome scent.

He was sick of the smell of perfume.

Clem was now modeling the jacket, showing off its lines as Anastasia admired the crochet work. Her brown hair lay over one shoulder as she turned her head to look at the back of the jacket, trying to explain something to Anastasia.

Hyacinth saw someone she knew and stepped away to speak to her, while Anastasia, John and Clem continued to talk art.

"What do you do? Are you an artist, too?" Anastasia was asking Clem.

"Oh no, I'm a lowly lit major at UCLA," Clem responded.

"Well, you're very creative, that's all I have to say. Do you think if I gave you an old jacket, you could do something similar with it?" Anastasia asked. "For me, I mean, to fit me."

"Of course." Clem was obviously a little starstruck, pleased at the question. "These work up fast, only the crocheting takes time."

"Wonderful. Give me your phone number, and I'll be in touch, then." Anastasia handed over her phone and Clem put her number into the contacts.

John merely watched, grinning.

"Told you that jacket was cool," was all he said after Anastasia had left to talk to some potential buyers.

Just then someone bumped into Clem, causing her to splash her drink all over the front of John's shirt.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" she gasped, making ineffectual attempts to swipe at the front of his shirt.

John could feel the champagne dripping down his front, plastering his shirt to his body.

"John, please, I'm so sorry." Clem was saying now, still attempting to pat him down with a couple of cocktail napkins.

"Shh, shh, it's okay, it wasn't even your fault," he comforted her. "I'll just step into the gents and see what I can do, yeah?"

Clem could only nod.

People were beginning to stare, and John felt bad for Clem. He knew that he could've run into her and poured her drink on himself, and it still would've been considered her fault. John had reached that level of stardom where nothing was his fault, ever, which kind of disgusted him.

He entered the men's room and took his jacket and shirt off, surveying the damage. He knew from experience that the champagne would wash out of the pale pink shirt without leaving a stain; the problem was getting the shirt dry.

He was gratified to see that the bathroom had little hand dryers, and he quickly rinsed the shirt under the tap, letting it drip instead of wringing out the excess water in order to minimize wrinkling. Then the shirt went under the hand dryer, but he was having a hard time holding the shirt out and keeping the dryer going long enough, as it kept shutting off.

"Bollocks," he muttered to himself as he tried to maneuver the shirt to a better angle.

"Can I help?" came a timid voice from the door. It was Clem, of course, looking positively terrified.

"Yeah, actually, another set of hands would be very useful," he called.

She approached him and held her hand on the button for the dryer while he turned the shirt this way and that for maximum drying.

John could see that Clem was very nervous, and couldn't figure out why. Surely not from simply being inside a men's room? Then her hand brushed against his chest, and she nearly jumped away from him.

"I'm so sorry," she said for about the hundredth time, and John realized her nervousness was because he wasn't wearing a shirt. This thought nearly made him laugh out loud. If only she knew how comfortable he was in his own skin, having been photographed shirtless countless times over the last few years.

He saw Clem swallow and carefully avert her eyes from his torso, blinking rapidly.

How cute.

"That should do," he finally said, feeling the fabric.

"No, it's still damp, it will feel awful against your skin," Clem protested, shaking her head and making her ponytail swing back and forth. She didn't seem to want to make eye contact with him, keeping her gaze carefully over his left shoulder.

"Okay, a bit more, then," he acquiesced, holding the shirt up once more.

"There, does this pass the Clem dryness test?" he asked after a few more minutes.

She nodded, and he slipped it on, again leaving the top few buttons undone. He reached around and tucked it in, while Clem again kept her eyes everywhere but on his toned torso.

"Hand me my jacket?" he requested, and Clem grabbed it from the counter and handed it to him.

"How do I look?" he asked, turning to Clem, who had spent the last few minutes going interesting shades of pink.

"You look lovely," she said without thinking. She heard her own words and looked horrified. "I mean you look fine," she amended, her words falling all over themselves as she tried to correct her original statement.

"Ta," he said with a grin. "I'll take lovely and fine, both are marvelous adjectives, I think."

"Okay," Clem said, rolling her eyes in embarrassment.

On impulse, John leaned forward and kissed Clem on the cheek, again getting a whiff of freshly washed girl and some sort of floral shampoo.

Clem's hand stole up to her cheek, touching the spot he'd kissed.

"Thanks for helping, Clem O'Dell," John said, laughing easily. "It really was no big deal, and honestly not your fault, please don't feel bad."

Clem only shook her head.

"Shall we rejoin the party?" he asked, proffering his arm.

She looked up at him and smiled, taking his arm as they left the men's room together.