On Thursday, Gabe sent Oleg to collect her for their date on Broadway. She’d spent an hour getting ready, making sure she looked appropriate for a night at the theater with a distinguished man. She’d gone shopping, purchasing three little black dresses and a pair of quality stilettos that would work for dates with Gabe. She did her hair and applied her makeup, using Ava’s expert techniques. Looking good for him, making him proud of the woman on his arm, was all part of their arrangement.

Gabe would meet her at the theater. The show started at seven thirty, so he would come straight from the office. He worked late most nights, he’d told her, getting home at ten, even eleven o’clock. His long days worked for Nat, allowing her time to study and do homework before joining him for a late dinner. But that night, he was knocking off early to take her to the show.

When the car pulled up near the theater, Gabe was there, waiting. He was still in the suit he’d worn to the office, looking professional, sophisticated. He opened the door for Nat, helping her exit the car in her tight dress and heels. “You look beautiful,” he said, kissing her cheek. He waved Oleg away, and then, taking her arm, he escorted her past the line and into the opulent theater.

As they crossed the carpeted lobby, Nat was chagrined to see that many of the patrons were dressed casually: tourists, given their comfortable running shoes, Big Apple sweatshirts, and plastic bags full of souvenirs. She felt conspicuous and overdressed in her LBD and heels, until she looked at the man beside her. Her ensemble was a match for her date’s. And Gabe had told her she looked beautiful. His opinion was all that mattered.

Inside, the theater was even more spectacular: glittering chandeliers, ornate cornices, pillars, and porticoes. Gabe led them to excellent seats, fourth row in the orchestra section. “This place was built in the twenties,” Gabe said, leaning in close, his breath warm in her ear. “It was built for the composer Irving Berlin.” Nat raised her eyebrows, impressed, though the name meant nothing to her. She made a mental note to google this Irving guy when she got home.

The show was a musical comedy, smart, witty, expertly performed. As a spectator, Nat was awed. As a creative person, she was filled up, energized by the talent it took to craft such a production. Gabe held her hand in the darkened theater, their shoulders pressing against each other. She felt grateful, shy, and infatuated, all at the same time.

Halfway through the show, the lights went up for intermission. “Champagne?” Gabe asked.

“Yes, please.”

They moved with the crowd to the lobby. “I need to use the restroom,” she called over the buzz of the other patrons.

“I’ll get us a drink and meet you back here.”

In the bathroom, she waited in a queue of women—tourists and locals—all chattering about the show, about New York, about the weather. Nat peed, washed her hands, freshened her lip gloss. She paused, staring at her reflection. Who was this confident girl with the contoured cheekbones, the smoky eyes, the figure-hugging dress? How did she end up there, at a Broadway show, with a rich, handsome, older man? A small, self-satisfied smile crept across the face of the girl in the mirror.