It was a nice enough shebang, but Griselda had been to better. Having had numerous husbands of varying degrees of wealth, she'd become accustomed to high toned and fancy to-dos, wearing the finest robes and appearing as the philosophically intellectual arm candy of highly influential men. She's tried a woman, once, too, but that hadn't gone very well. Still, it was better than any of the pubs and clubs around town.

Although Griselda hadn't quite heard who was the host/hostess of the shindig, she was pleased with the decor. A kind of 15th century French royals kind of style with splashes of oriental antiquery. Mind, most of it was out of place (having experience in both Paris and Asia) but she had to give them credit for trying. It was amateur, but in good taste.

Her robes were a velvet violet, lines cut out along the sleeves to expose her porcelaine skin, and it was open in the front, held together loosely by a golden cord, glittering jewels all over the overcoat. Underneath, she wore a slink dress of a warm rose, a long necklace blessed with a pink diamond flowing over her torso, the neckline a large, graceful hoop that was generous to her still generous bosom. Her hair was pinned up with a gorgeous gold and purple pin with a dragon on it and a giant feather, her naturally crazy, thick, Christmas Red hair spilling in luscious tendrils about her face. Bright crimson lipstick announced that she was a woman's woman, and unashamed of such.

Griselda smiled and said, "How are you, darling?" to everyone she met, her twinkling eyes judging their status. Lots of social climbers -- she pitied them. She'd gone through the same routine until she'd finally found something to make money with. Mind, it was sappy romance novels, but who was to complain about adoring fans all over the world? She just hoped that she could get back into her real passion:

Exposure.

Yes, call her a gossip columnist, call her a snake, call her a two-faced bitch, whatever you call her, it was still true. She sought the dirty truth that these climbers and temporary royals sought to hide from you. Who was the one with the money, and who was the arm candy? Which one had actually earned their position, and who was stepping on someone else for a chance to be seen? That her smirk seemed dangerous was not untrue -- she had learned how to extract information from anyone... at her own leisure.

As it was, most of these people were small fry. It was nice to be able to see high society back in her homeland (Well... England. Scottland was technically her hometown, but this was where the drama was!), even if they were surrounded by their lessers -- but then, wasn't that how it always was? Light conversation, and snippets of gossip, but nothing juicy. Nothing anywhere near worth writing about. Who cared that someone's fiance was screwing another woman? That was men. They were pigs. But if he were screwing another man...

The thought made her lips curl in delicious delight. That was news. Still, one only had to find a decent story... Or, at least, someone famous enough to lie about. She wondered if the Minister of Magic would show up -- she'd not been here in some time, and one was always sure to find dirt about politicians. Or perhaps some uprising locally? There was always rebellion, small or great. Devious was what she wanted. Devious and dirty and lusty and, if at all possible, with a bit of espionage, intrigue or murder. Murder and lust was always a most wonderful combination. It was why she almost always ended her novels with Gradisel killing off her husband. Mind, in reality, Griselda would be satisifed to castrate some of the bastards she'd been with, but in real life, she was a lot nicer than she liked. Her nastiness was limited to words, unfortunately, but, they had their power...

Spotting an empty table, Griselda discreetly hurried over and snatched it up, smiling cheekily to her neighbors before ordering a Dragon's Martini -- she scoffed when the waiter returned saying the bartender didn't know it, and snappishly wrote a quick recipe. After Hayao -- beloved Hayao... Gaelic Geisha was a joy to write. There were so many wonderful memories to draw from... -- had brought her to Japan, she'd absolutely fallen in love with the strange concoction. Ever since, she'd insisted on the potion, and quickly memorised the recipe for ignorant fools like these. Before long, he returned with her drink and she took with a scowl. Still, she sipped the luscious delight -- although a violent purple, it was made with lychee juice, which was absolutely wonderful... -- and smiled fondly at the wonderful thing. If nothing else, Hayao had given her this, and so, she was grateful.

She made small talk with her neighbors -- an older couple. Probably not more than a little bit older than her, but she of course lied about her age, as did the witch, but eventually a favourite song came on and they left for a dance. The other nearest party guest was a wizard, who she smiled at teasingly, raising an eyebrow and she sucked on her straw temptingly, but he quickly left. With a small humph, she glared at his retreating figure and returned to her drink. Bugger. Probably gay, anyway, she told herself.

"Zimmerman!"

Zimmerman turned to face the one calling him and gave a big grin as his host came towards him.

"Zim, my man, how are ya?" The fellow had recently fallen into a nice inheritance -- that it was quite probably arranged was not his business -- and had used it for a very nice investment. And some very nice suits.

"Excellent! And especially glad to see you wearing my name," he added, gesturing to the host's suit. It was a very fetching suit, and Zimmerman was a little ashamed the weasel shamed his name in such a way, but even scumbags had the right to look absolutely dashing if they could afford it. "The corsage is a nice touch," he added, hoping his grimace would be a convincing enough smile for him. God, it was awful. The silk kercheif that came with the tie would have been perfect, but no. He was wearing a gaudy, pink carnation. Doubtless some kind of gang symbol or something, he pondered bitterly. Damn bastards. Ruining a fine suit like that...

"Ya like it?" the host replied. Zimmerman couldn't remember his name -- meaning he didn't care to. "Tanks! I got it from my garden twenty minutes ago, yeah?" He laughed conversationally.

"Ah..." It was a groan, not a sound of agreement. "That's... that's very unique," he answered. Because no one else is going to steal flowers from your garden for a corsage. If he wanted boisterous, he should have gotten an ivory suit. It would have actually done well, with a subtle shirt and tie the same shade as the flower. But, surely this foul fellow hadn't considered that.

"Yeah..." He beamed, glad to be complimented. Dolt. "Well, enjoy the party. Bar's open. Help yourself." Then he spotted someone else. "Marky! Come here you old louse!" As the fellow left Zimmerman shook his head. Horrible loud mouth. Still, he had a fashion for good suits, even if his accessories stunk.

After mingling a little bit -- five more customers, all of them looking much better than their host, seeing as how they actually listened to his recommendations -- Zimmerman made his way to the bar, feeling rather pleased with having his creations on display like this.

"I'll have a double, please." The bartender made his drink, and as he did, Zimmerman looked about. Not too far from the bar, he spotted a witch sitting by herself -- a witch with Christmas red hair and one of the most glittered jackets he'd ever seen. He recognised that design -- that was a Parisian Zimmerman. One of his aunts owned a lady's gown shop not too far from the Eiffel Tower. It was a purely Magical establishment, but rather successful. It wasn't that often that people actually did buy brand name fashions from Paris, regardless of what they said. Curious, he took his drink and headed towards her.

"Excuse, miss. Is that a Zimmerman's you're wearing?" he greeted after catching her eye.

Bloody horrible party. Old couples, social climbers, and buggers. She downed the last of her martini and sighed at it, wondering if she ought to order a second.

"Excuse, miss..."

She froze, wondering if she ought to risk answering in case it wasn't for her. Deciding it was only foolish if they spotted her, she turned to the voice with a flirty smile.

Bless the gods! They were. Her eyes lit up in delight at the actually rather handsome fellow. His hair was a sandy gold and his eyes a bright hazel, with just a stroke of gray at the temples. And a particularly lovely suit. Someone with money. And very handsome. She discreetly looked to his hand, and her lips curved delightfully at the lack of a ring. "Yes?"

"Is that a Zimmerman's you're wearing?" he asked, a smile on his lips.

She blinked. A what? She looked down at the purple coat and pondered for a quick moment. She'd gotten it in Paris. Right after hearing a most spectacular review on Gaelic Geisha. It was the most flamboyant thing she could find -- the necklace, pin, and bag had been purchased with it as well, although most of that was the saleswitch's doing. As it was, it was less trouble for her, and did honestly look quite fabulous. "Ah..." Crap, what the hell was the name of the shop? She remembered a long, obscure name under the very frilly font, but she supposed it could well have been a Z-thing. "I think so," she answered. God, she hoped so. He seemed to know. She grinned. Either way... a man of fashion. That could be interesting. "Do you like it?" He was probably a fop, but fops were better than nothing.

She had a very pretty smile.

"Ah... I think so."

She beamed up at him, her bright red lips echoing the mess of Christmas red hair that dominated her head. Now that he was closer, he was sure of it. He'd been assigned to make a few of those damn pins during his Zimmerman World Tour. As it was, he didn't have the patience for feathers. And the jewelry was definitely a Zimmerman's. He could see his cousin Marvin's signature curl right where the strings attached. Mind, Marvin was in... Africa? Or was that Asia? Hell, it could have been South America. It was hot, he knew that much.

"Do you like it?"

"Oh, yes. It's very stunning. I, er..." he chuckled. "I know the lady who makes those hair pins," he explained. "I'm a Zimmerman myself. I own a suit shop. In Wickliff District. Do you mind if I join you?"

His eyes drifted over her, and she felt her bosom swell with pride. Who said she was old? She was still in her prime, and she knew it. She curled her lips sensuously.

"Oh, yes. It's very stunning."

Stunning? Oh my! She absolutely beamed. Stunning, he said! Well, this man certainly had style, and he agreed that she did, too. Even if he was a bit older than her usual prey, perhaps he would make her look younger? As if I need it, she thought nervously to herself...

I, er..." he chuckled. "I know the lady who makes those hair pins."

Griselda felt her grin twist into a grimace. What? He was just complimenting the pins? Well, he did use 'it', but she'd assumed he meant her entire look -- that he'd meant her...

"I'm a Zimmerman myself," he explained.

And it clicked. "Oh, really?" Well, that changed things. Poof or not, that meant that he was wealthy... She could compromise on age if he was wealthy. She gave her most dazzling smile. "You don't say." It did explain the handsome suit.

"Yes, I own a suit shop. In Wickliff District."

And a Muggle lover. Well. At least he wasn't a Death Eater or something equally atrocious. But, he owned his own business. So, he was a good businessman. "Well, that's lovely," she replied, trying to express genuine interest. It was interesting -- say, what if he had things she could get as a token of their friendship? That would be interesting. And it would make him worth talking to, for sure.

Not to mention one's tailor was among the number of people that some exposed themselves in front of -- both physically and spiritually. Who knows what secrets he might divulge if given the right... incentive?

"Do you mind if I join you?"

"Oh, not at all," she replied, gesturing kindly to the seat beside her.

Zimmerman happily sat down grinning at the pretty lady beside him. "So, do you often go to Zimmerman shops, or..." he shrugged. "Is this just a coincidence?" He grinned. It was always a pleasure to see something with his family's name on it, whether it was his suit or his aunt's dresses.

She was very pretty, and the purple went wonderfully with that dark auburn hair. Probably his cousin Megan -- she had a thing for purples.

"So, do you often go to Zimmerman shops, or is this just a coincidence?"

She grinned. "Actually, I became quite fond of Zimmerman's, while in Paris." She folded one leg over the other, letting the long slip fall apart to reveal her pearlescent limbs, should Zimmerman be looking...

"Do you sell dresses in your shop, or... just suits?" She leaned forward a bit, leaning on a casual hand, letting her eyes droop temptingly.