And Calhoun + Calhoun was just barely surviving. How bleak had things gotten? Well, just look at this salon. For years Claudine had been going to Lather—was one of Jeff’s very first clients. He was the only person she trusted to get the sharp jut of her black bob just right. An overly severe angle looked like she was trying too hard to be hip, desperate to seem younger than fifty-three. Not angled enough, and she seemed too matronly, looked ten years older. There was a precision to it, but precision is expensive. Which now she couldn’t afford. She had to come to a dump like this where instead of the soothing strings of Beethoven they pumped in too-loud Top 40 hits, and rather than glossy, oversized European fashion magazines the reading material was cheap, well-thumbed supermarket tabloids.

There was a stack of them on the table next to the hair dryer. She had already read them. The same stack sat on her desk at the office. Research. They all had Zara on the cover. Her streaked-blue hair pulled back in a greasy, disheveled bun. Oversized sunglasses covering eyes no doubt swollen from crying and sleeplessness. And the telltale sign of sorrow for a celebrity of her stature: sweatpants.

POP PRINCESS ZARA SINGS BLUES AFTER LIAM SPLIT

INSIDE ZARA’S DEVASTATING HEARTBREAK

FRIENDS WORRIED SUPERSTAR ZARA MAY DO SOMETHING INSANE

That something, apparently, was going mansion hunting in Aspen.

Obviously, Claudine had been shocked when she called. Shocked that it was Zara herself and not a personal assistant. Shocked that someone Zara’s age still knew how to call. Claudine’s younger employees only texted.

“I found the listing for Montague House online,” Zara said. Her voice sounded normal, without a trace of the soaring falsetto that had sold out arenas around the world and earned her fifty million Instagram followers. “I’d like to fly in and see it next Thursday.”

“Absolutely,” Claudine said. “We have our company holiday party that day, but I’ll reschedule.”

Claudine was relieved. Money was so tight that she’d already scaled back the holiday party from previous years. Usually she hired a top caterer to pass hors d’oeuvres and mix specialty cocktails. This year the plan was takeout: spring roll platters and Thai meatballs. Even the self-serve prosecco bar felt like a stretch.

“Don’t reschedule. I can see it another time—” Claudine could hear the waning interest in her voice, Zara was only used to hearing yes.

“We can combine them?” she offered quickly before she had time to think about what she was saying, before she could process how this would affect Henry. “Why don’t I move the party to the house. It was absolutely built for entertaining, and you can see it in top shape.”