“I’m Judy Tremont. I have a ten o’clock,” she announced to the well-groomed spa attendant.

“Of course, Mrs. Tremont.” The young woman smiled graciously. “Here is your locker key. Make yourself comfortable and your technician will meet you in the waiting room.” Judy appreciated that the attendant had the gift all well-trained service people did of making you think everything was tailor-made just for you. She wished her own staff would work a little harder to acquire the same skill.

While Judy changed into her robe and slippers she carefully examined the other women in the locker room. When it came to female bodies, Judy had the eye of a forensic detective. No liposuction, implant, or peel passed her thorough inspection. She dismissed the chubby women in golf skirts as midwestern CEO wives. Judy knew people lived in major homes in Winnetka and Grosse Point, but she just didn’t feel the need to pay any attention to them. Standing in the center of the room in La Perla bikini briefs were two shiny-haired brunettes with French manicures and Cartier diamond tennis bracelets who Judy catalogued as the expected Temple Emanuel Nursery School mothers. She assumed their noses had been done by Dr. Austin but wouldn’t swear to it.

Her eye finally settled on a woman with terrific cheekbones and taut skin from the C. Z. Guest school who was advising her daughter about her upcoming wedding. Judy envied the ease between the mother and daughter in their matching white terry robes but she envied their arms even more. Judy knew that she had one trouble spot left on her body and it was the eighth inch of dangling flesh below her triceps. She took great pride these days that her tummy issue had been completely solved by a combination of Pilates and a rigorous sit-up regimen. But despite her daily power yoga and weight-lifting routine, she could not get to that eighth of an inch of upper-arm flesh. She considered liposuction, but Judy had contempt for those Third Avenue dentists’ wives who solved all their body issues surgically. She was much more disciplined than that.

When the C. Z. Guest mother erupted in laughter at something her daughter said, Judy decided she would offer to bring her own mother here. Except she would never come. The Christmas Judy bought her mother a leather Coach bag she sent it back because it was too extravagant. Now every year Judy had her assistant send her mother a Tower of Treats from Harry and David’s Fruit-of-the-Month Club.

As Judy slipped into her complimentary slippers, she momentarily flashed on the only family vacation her parents had ever taken her on. It was to Disneyland, and she loathed it. She loathed staying five miles away from the park in an Anaheim motel. She loathed waiting on line for hours to see Mickey Mouse while the special people with special escorts were escorted inside. She loathed that before every ride her father said, “This will bankrupt me,” and then her mother nagged him, “Just do it once for the child.” And most of all, she loathed that she knew from magazines that far away from Anaheim there were grand hotels like The Breakers where beautiful women lounged in ostrich sandals by the pool.