“You too.” Phoebe walked over to the conference registration tables lined up against the wall outside the presentation hall. She got her lanyard and her seat assignment and went through a set of double doors. She had no trouble finding table 93, right inside. The nosebleeds. She took the last empty seat, eyed the waiters delivering plates of eggs and mixed greens. She’d forgotten to eat this morning and was suddenly ravenous. She slathered butter on a thick slice of multigrain from the untouched bread basket, eating it in five quick bites.

Phoebe looked around the hall. Ambition was like a wildfire that had hopped the freeway and was racing through the neighborhood. People were craning their heads to see who else was here or they were taking selfies, affixing hashtags, applying filters, and otherwise announcing their arrival on Instagram. Malcolm would have hated it. Back in her twenties, Phoebe had played the game, but she’d forgotten in the years since how naked everyone in LA seemed, their greed and drive and tits and fast cars glinting in the California sun. Once upon a time, it was all she’d wanted, to be accepted in a room like this, but she’d never felt like she truly fit in. Even as a teenager, she was always the shopkeeper’s daughter, that strange girl from Koreatown who’d watched too much Shogun for the drama club and too much Woody Allen for the church youth group. She couldn’t stomach his films anymore, not even Annie Hall, Soon-Yi and Dylan’s shadows always too close for comfort.

The lights went low and people returned to their seats. A video played, a meta-movie about the making of movies that was so self-congratulatory, it made Phoebe’s teeth ache. Next, a welcome address from the conference chair. Finally, the president of the PGA rose to introduce Holly.

Phoebe had nearly changed her mind about coming when the list of scheduled speakers arrived in her inbox. Holly wasn’t even a producer! But in the end, Phoebe’s curiosity—the chance to see the woman live, in the flesh—was too great. She didn’t know much about Ted’s wife, only what was common knowledge. Holly had been an art student when she met Ted. They married five years after Phoebe left town and quickly had two children. In the glossy magazines at the nail salon, Holly was the trophy wife at Ted’s premieres. Her work hadn’t been exhibited much, just a handful of galleries over the years. Malcolm had a list of group and solo exhibitions that filled four typed pages, necessary for applying for exhibitions and visiting artist fellowships and the grant he’d won for this summer’s project with the lawn jockeys. Holly didn’t need institutional support. She had Ted.