She went to the gym for her scheduled half hour on the Peloton, but the live stream was buffering, buffering. What was the point of pushing herself if she couldn’t tell where Sasha, her avatar, was on the leaderboard or how she stacked up against other women in their thirties? She made do with one of her preset scenic rides from the digital library, dodging taxis on the streets of Midtown Manhattan, but the video cut out twice and she didn’t get that fizzy sensation of being transported into another life. There was just this life and all the obligations that came with it: the speech this morning, the party tonight, all that air-kissing. She grabbed an overnight chia seed pudding Katya had left in the refrigerator and then headed back to the master suite for a shower.

In her closet, she found the asymmetrical navy blue pantsuit her stylist, Rio, had laid out for her. It was edgy, but was it the right look for the conference? Holly wasn’t sure now. She’d been invited to give the keynote address at the annual Producers Guild of America conference, and she wanted to appear professional but not too severe, fashionable but approachable. Holly wasn’t a producer and didn’t want anyone to think she didn’t know her place, even if “her place” was changing these days. She could do adoring wife of a film legend in her sleep, but the face of Hollywood’s movement to reform itself after #metoo was a role she was still settling into, even eighteen months after the first of those ladies’ luncheons that got the ball rolling. She wasn’t a victim herself (thank God), just a concerned citizen and a sympathetic ear. But those early conversations with actresses, filmmakers, and all the other wives had spawned an advocacy group, and now she was one of Genders United’s most recognizable members. She put on the blazer and pants and strode toward the mirror, imagining herself at the dais speaking the words she’d signed off on last night, a clarion call to the industry for gender equity. But it felt like a costume, like she was the female detective in a police procedural getting tough with a witness. No, she thought, no one likes a scold. She changed into the pale pink Jenny Packham jumpsuit and the strappy gold Jimmy Choos Rio had marked “backup.” She took a selfie and texted it to him for approval.

Knockout! Rio texted back, followed by a string of fire emojis. She’d been married to Ted long enough to spot the mixed metaphor, but she didn’t care. The compliment made her feel pretty.

“Holly, we need to leave in five minutes,” Erin said.

“Oh!” Holly said, hand to her breastbone. She hadn’t heard Erin come in. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Only a minute or two. I’ll knock louder next time.”