As if she’d heard Daisy’s thoughts, the other woman put down her phone and got to her feet. She wore a gold bangle on her wrist that flashed in the candlelight as she waved.
“Daisy?” the woman asked. Smiling warmly, she extended her hand. “Diana Starling,” she said. Her voice was low and pleasant, and Daisy thought she heard, very faintly, the hint of a Boston accent.
“Daisy Shoemaker.” The other woman’s grip was warm and firm, and her smile seemed genuine, as if Daisy’s arrival was the best thing that had happened to her all day. She didn’t look a thing like petite, freckled Hannah Magee. She was taller and darker, her features more severe, but Diana had to be about Hannah’s age, and there was something about her that reminded Daisy irresistibly of her old friend.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” Daisy said.
“It’s nice to meet you, too.” Diana sat down, rolling her eyes. “I spent the last six hours with a guy who called me sweetie, and I’m not sure if it was because he’d forgotten my name, or because he’d never known it in the first place. I’ve been looking forward to this all day!”
Daisy smiled and sat, congratulating herself on her guesswork. Diana Starling was tall, like she’d imagined, with a poised, confident manner. She wore a black business suit, crisply tailored, with a cream-colored silk top with an artful bow tied at the neck, the kind of shirt Daisy would have never been able to pull off （her bosom made button-downs impossible, and the bow looked complicated）。 Significant diamonds flashed at Diana’s ears. There were no rings on her fingers, but she was wearing perfume, something dark and emphatic, with notes of musk and tobacco. Diana’s dark hair hung in loose waves against her shoulders. She had a broad forehead, two faint lines between her eyebrows and more at the corners of her eyes, high cheekbones, and a square chin. Daisy saw the eyelash extensions she’d imagined, blush and bronzer and lipstick that left a dark-red bow on her water glass’s rim. It was more makeup than a typical Bryn Mawr mom might have worn for drinks, but it suited the other Diana. Daisy guessed that she was about fifty, but a well-maintained fifty, a groomed and fit and hydrated fifty. She looked healthy and attractive, and didn’t seem like she was trying desperately to look young. Daisy imagined private Pilates classes and a lap pool; regular blowouts, facials and waxings and a personal shopper to find those suits and silk blouses. When the other Diana traveled, it was probably first-class, and when she stayed in a hotel, it was probably five stars. It made Daisy insignificant and ordinary, with a handful of wholly unremarkable achievements: she’d married a man, produced a single child, and started a very small business, and how hard was any of that?
A waiter approached and bent over them solicitously. “Ladies, welcome to the King Cole.” He handed them both menus, refilled Diana’s water glass and gave Daisy one of her own, and set a silver dish of warmed, spiced cashews, and another one of chicharróns, in front of them.
“Mmm,” said Diana, biting into a nut. “Delicious.”
“Nuts are always better when you heat them up,” said Daisy. “I tell that to all my clients. Five minutes in the toaster oven and they’re a hundred times more impressive.” She realized that she was showing off a bit. It felt good, though, to have someone look at her like she was the expert, like she had wisdom to impart. Normally, she only experienced that kind of regard from a distance when she was with Hal, watching as people pumped him for legal advice or asked if he knew any secrets for getting into Dartmouth.
“I want to hear everything. But first…” Diana opened the menu. “I’m getting a Bloody Mary. They say they invented them here, you know.”
“Sounds perfect,” said Daisy. She had planned on ordering her usual glass of white wine, but a Bloody Mary sounded like exactly the thing.
“And is it okay if we get some snacks?” Diana made a funny, self-deprecating face again, and Daisy felt gladdened to know that Diana was an eater. “I had one of those working lunches, where they bring in platters of pastrami and corned beef sandwiches for the guys, and there’s always that one salad in a plastic clamshell, and it’s always the saddest salad in the world. And I have to eat it, because I’m a girl.”
“Can’t you eat the corned beef?” asked Daisy.
“The one time I attempted a sandwich at a business meeting, I ended up with mustard all over my blouse. A Shout wipe can only do so much.”