Chapter 7
The City
“Adrienne Richards?”
She’d been waiting so long and listening so intently for the name to be called, she was out of her seat on the first syllable. The leather sofa where she’d been perched squeaked rudely as she rose.
“Yes.”
The woman who’d called Adrienne’s name was young and impeccably dressed, from the trademark red soles of her Louboutin heels to her trendy, oversized glasses. She smiled in a practiced way, tight lips and no teeth, pure professionalism; if her client’s more casual sneakers-and-leggings look was out of place, she gave no indication.
“Through here, please, Ms. Richards.”
“Thank you.”
The Louboutins clicked away and she followed, steeling herself to walk smoothly, to act normal. To pretend this was a day like any other. Just a woman having a meeting—business as usual, nothing to see here.
It wasn’t easy. She’d already had one scare that morning, just a few blocks from the salon where she’d booked a walk-in appointment with the first available stylist for highlights and a haircut. She’d intentionally chosen a spot fully across town from the condo—equally far from both Ethan’s office and any of Adrienne’s usual haunts—in part to avoid the possibility of running into anyone who might know them. Thus far it had worked perfectly. Nobody had given her a second look, and the young man who’d styled her hair had given her exactly what she asked for: a long, wavy bob with rose-gold highlights, a perfect match to the picture Adrienne had saved on Pinterest under the tag “hairspiration.”
When a finger tapped lightly on her shoulder as she stood on the sidewalk, fumbling for her keys, she nearly shrieked aloud. She whirled around and found herself face-to-face with an apologetic-looking blonde wearing the same head-to-toe Lululemon-inspired style that also dominated Adrienne’s wardrobe, like a uniform that allowed members of the city’s female leisure class to know one another in the wild. A closer look revealed that they were in fact wearing the same leggings, in slightly different cuts.
“I almost didn’t recognize you!” the blonde chirped, and there was a moment of pure, gripping panic: Fuck. Who are you? The woman’s face was familiar, but only in the sense that Adrienne’s world was full of women who looked like this, generically beautiful, with thick, patrician brows, their faces as artfully sculpted by cosmetics and injectables as their bodies were by boutique fitness classes. Then the blonde spoke again, and the panic released.
“It took me a minute to remember your name—Adrienne, isn’t it?”
She smiled back, instantly adopting the same apologetic tone.
“Yes! Of course, hi! I’m so sorry—this is embarrassing, but I’ve completely forgotten—”
“It’s Anna,” the blonde said, laughing. “SoulCycle, the early Saturday class. I know, right? I’m so terrible when I run into someone from the studio in real life, it’s like, a different context? I almost walked right past you, but then I spotted your bag . . .” She broke off to gesture at Adrienne’s gym tote, which was indeed hard to miss: not just the print, loud and colorful, but the logo emblazoned across one side, a conspicuous announcement that the bag had likely cost at least two thousand dollars. Anna’s gaze landed briefly, enviously, on the label, then bounced back to eye level. “Anyway, I thought I’d say hi. Your hair looks great! Did you do something?”
“Sort of,” she said. She desperately wanted this conversation to end, but Anna was clearly one to keep small-talking; being uncharacteristically curt would be unwise. She smiled in a way that she hoped seemed self-deprecating, a little intimate, and leaned in. “To be totally honest, I’ve had this color before. It was last year’s big fall trend, but I just can’t let it go.” She paused, allowed herself to giggle. “Is it awful that I think it really works on me?”
“Ohmigod, no, totally,” Anna said, with so much earnestness that it was hard not to burst out laughing. “You’ll probably make it re-trend! You should post it on social. So have you been to spin lately? I don’t think I saw you there this weekend, or . . . wait, did you have a vacation planned?”
The panic was back. For someone who claimed a faulty memory, Anna was way too knowledgeable about the details of the Richards family’s travel schedule. Dammit, Adrienne, she thought. She’d always talked too much.
“I guess I’ve been off my routine,” she said. Another self-deprecating smile, tone friendly enough. Still, she worried it was the kind of cryptic nonanswer that might pique Anna’s interest.