It felt strange to be touched in a way that wasn’t hostile. It had been two months since I’d experienced such a gentle caress. Longer.

“Relax,” the stylist said, his hands on my shoulders. “You’re so tense.” From her nearby perch on a stool, Phoebe looked up from her phone. “I’m booking you a massage tomorrow,” she said, tapping on the screen.

I felt ridiculous when the stylist whipped off my cape. There I was with my nails gleaming and my freshly highlighted hair swinging in a glossy blunt-cut blowout—but wearing baggy jeans, an old pilled sweater, and a pair of worn-out sneakers.

“Don’t worry.” Phoebe brandished a credit card at the counter. I couldn’t make out the figures on the register. My reference points were five years out of date, but I calculated that the tab came to five hundred dollars. Plus tip. “We’ll get you some new clothes,” she said. “Next stop is Saks.”

“The Gap would be fine.”

She shook her head. “We sort of have a dress code at our office. Not to be restrictive. Just that we all like to look good. You’ll want to fit in.”

“At your office?” I wondered, but she was already out the door. Lonnie was waiting at the curb. Phoebe got into the back with me this time, and we headed north again, to Saks.

It was a shopping mecca for fashion worshippers. I used to spend at least one Saturday every month wandering its floors. I used to stretch my budget to reach around every new collection. But it had been five years since I’d last stepped through its revolving doors on Fifth Avenue. The smell of luxury that first enveloped me in the Mercedes was magnified a thousand times as I followed Phoebe through the array of cosmetic counters on the first floor.

We stopped at a makeup counter where it seemed I was again expected. “Your skin’s so dry,” the artist said, and troweled on some moisturizer. “You’re too pale,” she said next, and liberally sponged on a bronzer before she brushed on the blush. Then came the lipstick and my own perfect winged eyeliner.

I studied myself in the mirror when it was done. I looked polished, professional—privileged. I could almost imagine I was me again. But not quite. Time had taken its toll. Whether from the past two months or the past five years, the lines were there, and the shadows.

“We’ll take it all,” Phoebe said, and everything the artist had used on me was scanned and bagged. Another five hundred dollars, I guessed.

Phoebe led on from there, up and up through floor after floor of high-end designers. I’d always had my favorite labels, but some of them seemed to have fallen out of fashion during the intervening years, and new names had emerged to take their place. Once I could have found my way blindfolded through the store, but now I had to rely on Phoebe to lead me from floor to floor, boutique to boutique. She even came with me into the dressing room. “Oh! To have your figure,” she sighed when I stripped down to try on underwear.