No one helped me, and I did not wait for anyone to.

I walked, dripping, across the terrace and through the lobby, my head high, past the guests who suddenly could not meet my eyes, and into the restroom off the grand foyer.

And there I did something I had, without quite admitting it to myself, prepared to do.

I peeled off the ruined green dress — the dress chosen to be pretty and unobtrusive, the dress of the daughter who makes her sister look brighter — and I dropped it in the trash, and I took out the black cocktail dress I had packed as a backup, and put it on.

I do not fully know why I had packed a backup.