Nory had landed a good job with an advertising company, and she was constantly out of her depth. There was a lot of schmoozing involved, a lot of afternoon and evening drinking with clients, and Nory found it easier to be the person she was expected to be after a couple of drinks. It gave her the confidence she needed to close the deals; it took the edge off. Shy, nervous, sober Nory was less efficient than Nory after three glasses of wine. But this only conspired to make her feel even more of a fraud: If she was only good at her job after a dose of Pinot Grigio, did it even count?

“What’s going on with you? Where’s the old Nory?” Tristan had asked, after she’d necked another shot. “This isn’t you.”

“I’m trying to be more dynamic.”

“I liked you as you were before.”

“I just needed a change, you know? I’ve always been so small-town country bumpkin compared to the rest of you.”

“Why are you comparing yourself to anybody else? It was never a competition.”

“Not to you lot, no, but you didn’t have anything to compete with, you already had it all!”

“There were plenty of things that you had that we didn’t.”

“Are you giving me the ‘more to life than money’ speech?”

Tristan had laughed. “I think I am, yes.”

“Okay, that’s fair. But it isn’t a money thing. Which is just as well, as I still don’t have any. You’ve all got your shit together and I’m still doing the doggy paddle.”

Tristan laughed again. “Is that what it looks like to you? I’ll let you into a secret: We’re all just making it up as we go along. We’re just better at faking it.”

“But you were born to it.”

“What?”

“Success!” said Nory. “It’s in your genes. You’re all children of super-high achievers, trained from birth to one day yourselves become high achievers. I’m just not up to it.”

She downed another shot.

“We just had a head start, that’s all. Nory, are you happy?” He was looking at her in that earnest way he had, which instantly dissolved all bullshit. Tristan had these big brown eyes that saw everything, even the stuff you didn’t want him to, and a smile so reassuring you would trust him with your life. That probably made him a good doctor. He had thick brown hair that looked as though it had been cut with a knife and fork, and a frame so long and gangly he rarely found shirtsleeves that reached his wrists. But somehow these things added to his easy charm.

“I hate my job, and my job hates me,” Nory said, and laughed mirthlessly. “It takes a lot of Dutch courage for me to be the person they think they hired.”

“Are you drinking on the job?”