Wendy Clarke rocked back and forth in her expensive, ergonomically correct, springy, gold metal and white leather swivel chair and tapped her manicured nails against the white Italian marble desktop. She clicked her way chronologically through The Brookliner links, grimacing as the gruesome story unfolded. She read The Brookliner religiously, hoping it would make her feel more Brooklyn-y. Nothing this morbid ever happened in England. England was full of thieves, not murderers. They cleared out your house while you were eating dinner in a restaurant. Wendy’s closed office door rattled and she reduced the page, returning to the article she was supposed to write about the history of the French perfume industry. Tanners in Grasse. Catherine de’ Medici. Dior. Chanel. The May rose. It was an amalgamation of pieces she’d written before. She reached across her keyboard and squirted two pumps of $130 La Mer hand serum into her palms, as if that would help.

Wendy occupied the coveted southwest-facing office on the thirty-first floor of a five-year-old office tower near the World Trade Center, home to Fleurt, one of the few fashion magazines still in print. It had been her idea to move to New York, and she’d courted this job for eight months until she got it, sending witty, erudite emails to Lucy Fleur, its glamorously absent founder—who wore only pale yellow and seemed to exist exclusively at fashion shows—and completely abusing the privilege of being married to a well-known author. Roy had no idea, but he’d basically gotten Wendy the job. Finally, Lucy Fleur had caved, just as Wendy hoped she would. Lucy Fleur just had to have the features editor with the famous author husband, the editor who had once compiled the now infamous Brexit Suppers, a series of snarky, irreverent vignettes and alcohol-heavy recipes using only British ingredients, like “Gin and Ewe” and “English Sherry with One French Strawberry Found on the Floor of the Ferry.” Never mind that Wendy had always been freelance, with no office at all. Now she was a senior editor.

An excruciatingly uninspired senior editor.

A whole year had gone by. Wendy hid in her office, reading The Brookliner and shopping online, pretending to be extremely busy and acting overly curt and officious toward the assistants. Lucy Fleur hadn’t introduced herself to Wendy even once. Their communications had been reduced to Lucy Fleur’s cryptic, condescending emails: Cutoffs, cutouts, cowgirls. Take me to Texas. Or, Perfume. Grasse. Chanel. Roses. You know the drill. Make me smell it.