Phoebe didn’t have to read further to know she was a fool for trusting a stranger, a fool for thinking this could work. Rona’s producers had taken her off the story. She wouldn’t be attending the party and couldn’t sneak Phoebe in after all. If Phoebe was going to make it into that party, she would have to do it all alone.

The driver lowered the window and leaned over in his seat.

“You Phoebe?” he asked.

She wanted to answer, but she couldn’t. There was no one to help her. She was floating, untethered, yards of taffeta enfolding her like a fluffy pink cloud.

14

Holly

Holly sat with her eyes closed, listening to her glam squad as they worked styling crème into her hair and almond oil into her cuticles and dabbed concealer on her eyelids. Even as a child, she’d loved going to the hair salon and having her hair washed, being told where to sit and which way to look, closing her eyes while Ms. Trina trimmed her bangs. When they bought this house, it was her idea to expand the master bath into the bedroom between the master suite and her office, creating a closet that would be big enough for her and Bernard and Rio and Kelly and all of their assistants, plus the children. She sat at the vanity now, and Rio sat in the extra chair beside her, the one where Zoe had her hair done for her ballet recitals. Rio and his girl, Max, waited to dress her after Bernard and Kelly did her hair and makeup. They were all old friends at this point. Holly liked to shut her eyes and imagine she was just one of the gang, not the most special member; sometimes they let her believe that was true. She floated in and out of their conversation, only half following.

“I love her.”

“I follow her on Instagram.”

“Me too. I’m obsessed with her closets. Everything is labeled and color coded. I need to do that. My shit is wrecked.”

“Her skin is to die for. Just like yours.” Somebody squeezed her shoulder. Holly smiled, accepting the compliment.

“But did you see that ad?” Rio asked.

Holly froze. She held her breath, and the beat of her heart slowed.

“What ad?” Bernard said.

She didn’t want to know, but she waited anyway. She wondered how long she could last like this, not breathing, blood thickening, like adhesive that was about to set.

“Girl made a post about those lollipops. You know the ones that help you lose weight?”

“No!”

“Yessss.”

“I thought she was smarter than that.”

“But do they work?”

“Do they work? Fool! You know those campaigns are tacky.”

“It’s only tacky if it’s not true.”