“But I owe you anyway.” I tried unsuccessfully to thank Kaye for several minutes, and then told her I needed to go. If I didn’t enter the boutique soon, in the flush of my victory, I’d get practical and self-deprecating and change my mind. The rumble and rush of the city rose around me as I slid out of the car, conscious of my sandals on the sidewalk, the steps to my next career. As much as I loved the Rocque, as bad as I felt for Brenae Brasil, I needed this chance. And I needed the right suit, the Tom Wolfe suit, the Gay Talese suit, the snappy, refined costume that said you knew what you were doing, that people paid you well to tell their stories.

My reflection rose across the window of the boutique, my eager face layering over the immobile features of the mannequins. No living person could lean back at their angles, but their clothes were gorgeous. Even through the storefront glass, the cut and the fabric made a laughingstock of ordinary brands.

I stepped inside, breathing in the sharp, clean air. It tasted as if someone had polished it, lovingly, molecule by molecule. The racks were few, and the eyes of the clerks roved over me, their smiles judging. They were twenty percent prettier than the prettiest girl I’d known in high school, and almost twice as old. I stepped toward the suits. My hands flicked through a couple of unmarked ones before a clerk appeared behind my shoulder.

“We usually find options for you,” she said smoothly. “You like this style?”

I said yes and meekly gave her my size. She nodded as if she already knew it and pointed to a dressing room. There were no price tags, and apparently there was no private shopping. I chose a curtained room with a velvet couch, and there I sat, cradling my car keys, heart racing, wondering how much the garments really cost here. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. I had to be impressive tomorrow.

Beyond the curtain, shadowy forms moved to and fro across the vaulting space of the boutique. I heard the soft jangle of hangers.

“Try these,” said a voice, and a pink-manicured claw extended three suits through the opening. I took them. They weighed so little. The soft, melty fabric of the first—olive green—glided against my knuckles. I opened the jacket, button by button, the plastic slipping against the threaded hole. The pants were on when my phone vibrated. Yegina.

“So?” she said in my ear. “How did it go at lunch?”

“Hang on,” I said, zipping. “Guess who I’m meeting tomorrow for an interview?”

“Way to go!” Yegina said when I told her the name. “That’s incredible.”