It made sense at the time. Roy was floundering. He hadn’t published a book in years. The older girls were almost finished at Oxford and Shy was only one year into high school. Wendy had been hosting the same dinner parties and game nights for the parents from her girls’ schools, cooking the same meals, complaining about the English winters, writing the same tiredly trendy copy for the same tiredly trendy magazine supplements for newspapers that no one cared about anymore. Roy’s longtime agent had died. Two of the couples they were friendliest with had moved away from their London suburb to South Africa and Australia. They needed a fresh start, she’d decided, in New York, where she’d grown up. And once she’d decided, she became fixated, spending all her time searching online for real estate, magazine jobs, and schools. She was going home, where she belonged. Where no one said “prawns and avos” when they meant shrimp and avocados, where virtually no one drank instant coffee, and where she wouldn’t have to take a bus to get a fresh bagel. The move had taken up all her time and planning and organizational skills. The new house had five bathrooms! But now that they’d actually moved and had lived in the city for a whole year, Wendy felt more restless and exasperated than ever. Roy still hadn’t written anything. Shy was struggling at school and hadn’t made any friends. There were no dinner parties or game nights to plan and host. And Wendy’s job, despite its title and salary and shiny trimmings, was painfully dull. Over the course of a year, all three of them seemed to have retreated into their discomfort and were more lonely and isolated than they had ever been before. Wendy had always maintained a certain bravado. She was Wendy Clarke. Editor of her Upper East Side girls’ school newspaper and NYU’s Washington Square News. Editor of Brexit Suppers. Mrs. Roy Clarke. Her bravado was what had gotten them here. But now that she was here, she didn’t know who she was anymore.

There was a light knock and Manfred poked their head into Wendy’s office.

“How’s it going?”

Manfred was new, one of several gender-fluid editorial assistants at the magazine, but by far the most gorgeous. Incredible legs, perfectly shaped shaved head, beige skin, and wonderful greenish-gold eyes. They were also extremely efficient. The perfume story was due today.

“I’m all right, thank you.”

“I’m getting coffee. You know you want some,” Manfred offered. “Lucy’s not back from Italy until tomorrow.”

Not that anyone ever actually saw Lucy when Lucy was “in,” but the office got very quiet. The rest of the time, when the assistants ran the place, it smelled like pad thai and squealing was rampant.

“Sure,” Wendy agreed. “Coffee would be nice, thank you.”