Natalie nodded, and as the thought sank in, she realized what was unusual about the salon—she kept meeting people’s eyes as she looked around. “Everyone is looking at everyone else in the mirror,” she breathed.

Magda clapped her hands delightedly. “That is it! Exactly right! The people here, they are not always looking at their phones like New York or themselves like California. Here they look at each other. Because Washington, DC, is a city of who you know. Also, unfortunately a city of very ugly clothes.” Magda shook her head. “But that cannot be helped.”

Natalie laughed. She liked Magda a lot. “What is your secret of survival?”

“My life story is for appointment number three,” Magda teased. “You have already gotten me talking more than I should because you pay attention.” Magda’s eyes moved beyond Natalie and a slow smile spread across her face. “Ah, this is good.”

In the mirror Natalie followed Magda’s gaze to the front desk where a beautiful, cartoonishly thin woman with ink-black hair to her waist was checking in. “Karima,” Magda said in a hushed whisper. “Karima Sahadi. You know who she is?”

Natalie nodded. “Yes.” Everyone knew who Karima Sahadi was. Even people who were not (slightly) obsessed political reporters would have caught the profiles of the DC hostess of record in the New Yorker, Wired, or Vogue. Wife of the ambassador to the Arab League, a coalition of Arab nations, she was the vortex of the social whirlwind around which boldface DC swirled. According to the Vogue piece, Karima’s living room was “the capitol of the Capitol” because it was one of the few places Democrat and Republican, junior staffer and chief of staff could comfortably mingle with one another. According to Wired, you could always find the most important figures on the frontier of tech and policy in Karima’s living room. According to the New Yorker, she occupied a top tier in the hierarchy of access in the city.

“She loves to know all the reports. I will introduce you.” Magda winked. “This will be a very good thing.”

Natalie’s excitement at the opportunity dimmed slightly as she caught sight of her own reflection in the mirror. An introduction to Karima could be invaluable, but with her red-rimmed eyes and toxin-slathered hair, she did not look the part of the smart young reporter on the rise.

“Hello, darling.” Karima leaned in to air-kiss Magda. She had just the slightest British accent. “You look like you just stepped out of a Luc Besson dream, as usual. I wish I had time to chat but I’ve got to be at the Portrait Gallery in an hour and I must have Osman give me a fluff.” She leaned close. “I hear he is in a mood.”