In her early thirties, it had been easy to keep up the schedule. Back then, she’d been able to work long hours, sleep all afternoon, party all night, and wake up looking and feeling great. But she was approaching forty now, and she was beginning to feel tired, a little old to be running from one job to the next, and in heels, no less. More and more often when she came home from work, she curled up on her sofa and called Kate or Mrs. M. or Edna. Being seen—and photographed—at the It new club or at some red carpet premiere had lost its appeal. Rather, she found herself longing to be with people who really knew her, really cared.

Edna repeatedly told her that this was the deal she’d made; the life she got in exchange for all the success. But what good was success, Tully had asked over drinks last week, if there was no one to share it with you?

Edna had simply shaken her head and said, “That’s why they call it sacrifice. You can’t have it all.”

But what if that was exactly what you wanted: everything?

At the CBS building, she waited for her driver to open her door, then stepped out into the still-black, summer morning. She could already feel heat rising from the street; today would be a scorcher. Somewhere nearby she could hear the thunk-wheeze of a garbage truck loading up.

She hurried to the front door and went inside, nodding to the doorman as she walked to the elevator. Upstairs, at her makeup desk, her savior was already waiting. Dressed in a too-tight red T-shirt that showed off his bulging muscles and form-fitting black leather pants, Tank put one hand on his hip and shook his head. “Someone looks like shit this morning.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Tully said, easing into the chair. She’d hired Tank about five years ago to do her hair and makeup. It was a choice she regretted almost daily.

He pulled the Hermès scarf off her head and removed the dark glasses. “You know I love you, honey, but you gotta quit burning the candle at both ends. And you’re getting too thin again.”

“Shut up and paint.”

As usual, he started on her hair. While he worked, he talked. Sometimes one or the other of them would confide in the other; it was the nature of the business they were in. Time spent together created an intimacy that didn’t quite spill over into friendship. A very New York type of relationship. Today, however, Tully kept their conversation light and impersonal. She didn’t want to reveal to him that she felt out of sorts. He’d jump on in and tell her how to fix her life.

By five o’clock, she looked ten years younger. “You’re a genius,” she said, sliding out of the chair.