“Were you actually a huge bitch in high school? In your work life?” Page says suddenly, her words tinctured by the smallest slur. “That’s what they all said about you. I mean the lowliest of the press. On Twitter, too. That you were mean, conniving, always expecting to get what you want. But you don’t seem that way to me at all. Of course, this past year has changed you, I’m sure.”

I finish off my wine before answering. I’m not taken aback by her comment. I like Page’s direct, almost aggressive, approach to this question. She’s not trying to force me to admit that I was the bad guy, which many others had tried to do. She’s simply asking, point-blank. “I was popular. I’ve always known my worth. I’ve always wanted to get ahead, and I’ll do anything to get there. Then I worked in fashion for years, which is famously cutthroat and bitchy. I don’t like mediocrity. I’m not going to hand out favors or have interest in people whose ideas I don’t think are worth my time. So, sure, I can be harsh. But say that to a man and see how he responds.”

Page nods, as if this settles her question. “I never understood that angle of all of this. Why should your actions at seventeen, even your actions in your work life, mean anything in the context of my sister?” The waiter comes back, saving us from answering. Page orders another gin and tonic and I follow her lead, get a cranberry-vodka with a dash of lime for myself. Fuck it. This conversation requires it.