The conundrum of Geraldine Persnickety

I, Geraldine Persnickety ask myself how I will make this string of green stones belong in the wardrobe of my fashion shoot. I look a the mottled faceted peas strung together escaped from their pods in exasperation. No clasp.
I green myself into a silk shift and tie the tasseled  low waist ribbon so it falls to the gossamer hanky hem and stare into the mirror. Is this not a perfect portrait of England's green and pleasant land. Inspiration strikes, I can wear the stones as a choker. I wrap them about my pale knock leaving the ends to hang low at the front and check the impression in the mirror again. Am I not beautiful? I will dazzle in the clam shell lights of the catwalk. They green and smoke a little from their pits of anonymity but they glimmer none the less.
Jaque enters the room again to check the final running order, the turnout of the models, as if we were horses in his stable. He is looking flustered, unsure of whether he is coming or going. He has been worse since his cigarette break and I wonder what he saw as he trod the path through the woods. He has greened about the gills and I am not sure if the slick of sweat is nerves over the arrival of the audience or opiate.
They are all out there, the Great and the Good, arriving in their chauffeured Rollers and Bentleys, stepping out of their darkened interiors into the partially lit auditorium, rolls of money held tightly banded in pods at their pockets ready to honour their bets.
I prepare to step out onto the stage, visualising my shield of white light to protect me from the stripping gaze of those in the audience who would wish to see me laid bare on the central plinth,  repeating my mantra with every facet-glint from my green choker 'I am beautiful'. But then I see her,there in the audience, the woman who would make the devil panic. Could I get a message backstage with a flutter of my fan and spread the word like the disciples, like a carrier pigeon?
She is here.