“No, I have to get going. I’ve got a breakfast meeting. Barry Shriner.” She is presenting a portfolio of costume sketches for a musical version of Dr. Zhivago. Maureen is dying to get this job. The play has both ballroom dresses and the rough clothing of the revolutionaries. By her own estimation, she is a master of peasant fashion. She can tatter and sully a shirt like nobody else. Pencil shavings are her trade secret; she rubs them into the fabric. They add the most believable dusting of historic urban dirt. There are a lot of tricks like this to her trade, and of course to her entire life. The way she borrows clothes from Saks and Neiman Marcus, and a small rotation of Near North shops. Tomorrow night she’s going to a Jeff Awards benefit. Which means today she will find the perfect dress, then wear it to the cocktail party very carefully (drinking only white wine or vodka). At home afterward, she will steam the dress, refold it inside the store tissue, refasten the price tag, if she’s been able to get it off. Later this week, she’ll return it with a limp excuse. It didn’t match the shoes she had in mind. Or maybe when she sat down, it felt a little too snug at the hips. When she explained this little routine to Cate, it wasn’t with any shame. She was showing off. Maureen sees herself as crafty and savvy. Her justifications are collapsible and expandable. The implication in this matter is that women who actually buy fancy clothes for this or that occasion are spendthrifts supporting shops that she can then use to her own small advantage. When Cate misses the beat where she’s supposed to nod and laugh or come up with a similar anecdote of her own, Maureen sidesteps. “You know, the store usually gets a dress back in better condition than when they sold it to me.”