She laughed. I smiled, more out of nerves than anything else, and she noticed. “Sorry, not you.” She laughed again and kept typing. “Just go make sure all the computers are on and unlock the door. I’ll be up in a few minutes to help.”

As I passed the dispensary, I could hear Brittany complaining about me to another technician. “And then this moron slams into me, practically breaks my tailbone, and it all goes splat, everywhere …”

“I don’t know where they’re getting these receptionists,” the other woman said. “These girls just fuck everything up. You should see my books for the next two weeks. Disastrous.”

I wanted to scream, I went to Vassar! I’ve sold art to buyers in sixteen countries! But I knew the inevitable question would be: How did you screw all that up?

I stepped behind the desk and had the feeling that I had been left to man a ship, steering the prow into a day I knew nothing about, with instruments I didn’t understand how to use. The day before I had been so relieved to know I would have a few hours free from Deidre, her all-seeing gaze, but now I missed having directions, having rules. What if a guest came? What if someone had a question? What did I say if the phone rang? All that, and I was still feeling weak and disoriented from my hangover. I wished I could step out of my body for a few hours. I’d had that feeling often lately. I couldn’t stand being in my own skin.

As I waited for Carrie to come train me, I watched a woman wearing what looked like a safari guide outfit—bucket hat, khaki shorts, hiking boots, khaki vest with lots of pockets—make her way through the Swim Club. She climbed into the bank of plants that ran along the edge of the dome and starting snipping leaves and branches, other times misting a plant with a spray bottle, cupping a leaf tenderly in her hand. I was so engaged watching her that I didn’t see the woman approaching the spa until she had her hand on the door.

As she entered, I said, “Good morning,” sounding girlish, a little shrill.

The woman was petite, smaller than me, with thin blonde hair that was nearly translucent. “I have a wax appointment,” she said.

“Sure, the last name, please?”

“Greer. First name is Ellen.”