Admittedly, Sadie wasn’t objectively beautiful—well, not according to the rigid and narrow standards Anne had always applied to herself. Sadie’s nose was a tiny bit crooked, and her lips a bit too plush for the rest of her face. Her voluptuous body had soft, extravagant curves that reminded Anne of the Pacific Coast Highway curling around the cliffs of Big Sur. And Sadie refused to do anything about the tiny lines on her face besides inconsistent applications of drugstore moisturizer, even though she could easily afford cosmetic procedures.
Remarkably, she didn’t seem self-conscious at all about any of it. In all the time they’d known each other, Anne had never heard Sadie make a single negative comment about her own appearance. It was—well, honestly, it made Anne a little jealous.
In stark contrast to Sadie, Anne had molded, pinched, and smoothed herself into a disciplined physique, one that looked fifteen years younger than her actual age. Nature had given her an assist—she knew she was attractive; men had always admired her—but keeping up a certain standard took far more effort than relying on good genes. She owed the ripe-wheat color of her hair to Christophe in Beverly Hills, her smooth face to Botox, and her thin, whittled frame to a diet plan she’d color-coded, labeled, and laminated.
No, Sadie looked nothing like Anne, or any of the women Anne had surrounded herself with before the divorce.But nevertheless, there was something unexpectedly appealing about the ways Sadie refused to stay within margins.
While Sadie busied herself at the crafts display, Anne made her way to the shop’s front, her target the new florist Ryan had just hired: a girl who looked barely old enough to be out of college. That eyebrow piercing and forearm tattoo didn’t exactly inspire confidence either.
But just before she stepped up to the counter, a woman cut in front of her without so much as a glance in Anne’s direction, brushing so close, Anne could smell her vanilla-scented perfume.
“I beg your pardon,” Anne said pointedly.
No response whatsoever from the woman, who was—Anne realized with a shock—someone she knew. Or, more accurately, someone she’d known once upon a time: Brenda Hughes-Foster, the wife of a once-acclaimed, now struggling film editor represented by James’s agency. Clearly, Brenda hadn’t noticed or recognized her.
Back when they’d volunteered together for the LA Opera League, Anne had called Brenda a friend, but that “friendship” had been all cooed pleasantries and Brenda’s failure to hide her envy. Well, Brenda was no longer envious of Anne. Like nearly all the others in their circle, after the divorce, she’d dropped Anne like the Times Square ball.
Brenda was a few years younger than Anne, and just as thin. Today, her frosted hair was pulled back into a bun nearly as tight as the skin on her face, and Anne’s practiced eyes recognized that burgundyfil coupédress as an obvious Oscar de la Renta knockoff. Together with a garish Gucci bucket bag, the look signaled the gauche priority of loud labels over quiet quality. Brenda had always confused style with advertisement.
“You know,” Brenda began, her back to Anne, “you really should be doing your job.”
The new florist’s eyes went wide. “Um,” she said, “what do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb, honey. Yousawme come in. I know you did. I spent ten whole minutes of my valuable time strolling around this unorganized jungle looking for a suitable graduation bouquet, and you didn’t even try to help me. You’re lucky I don’t have time to ask for the owner.”
Sadie, joining Anne with moss soap in hand, made a scoffing sound.
“I don’t know why I expect better,” Brenda continued. “No one your age wants to work. You’re too busy whining about your pronouns or blaming your parents for all your problems.”
Anne suppressed a sigh. Brenda’s rants about These Kids Today—including her own children—had always been one of her favorite topics.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am.” The girl’s face flushed pomegranate red. “I’d be happy to help you out. What kind of arrangement are you interested in? We’ve got some beautiful options for commencement ceremonies.”
Before Brenda could respond, Sadie stepped up, shoulders squared, and placed the moss soap on the counter with a loudthunk. “Look,” she said to Brenda, and her voice dripped with the sweetness that always presaged her righteous fury. “Whatever she gets paid to work here isn’t nearly enough to put up with that kind of disrespect.”
“Actually,” the girl volunteered, “my salary’s pretty generous. Benefits are good, too.”
But Sadie wasn’t done. “You push right past my friend without so much as a brief acknowledgment of her existence, you attack this poor kid’s entire generation—”
“Excuseme,” Brenda interrupted. Those cold blue eyes stapled themselves onto her new target. She still hadn’t botheredto look over in Anne’s direction. “Where do you get off telling me I’m being disrespectful? This is none of your business.”
“You made it my business when you decided to lift that leg and spray your entitlement all over this shop. That girl can’t tell you to go to hell because she needs this job, but I’ve got tenure, decent alimony, and all the time in the world to ruin your day.”
Anne suppressed an inconvenient grin. Sadie didn’t often turn on the righteousness in public like that, but she hated bullies more than just about anything. With the possible exception of unseasoned chicken.
Brenda’s smooth face shifted into white, hard marble. She straightened up, using every single inch of her cream Chanel slingbacks to loom over Sadie, and smiled coldly at her.
Anne knew exactly what that smile meant. After all, she’d honed it to a fine art herself over thirty years of marriage to James. It was a brandished weapon.
The chill from that smile settled in Anne’s chest, forming an icy knot.
“I think it’s nice,” Brenda said sweetly. “That you’re so brave.”
“There’s nothing brave at all about advocating for—”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I meant that you’re brave to not care”—Brenda’s gaze traveled slowly down Sadie, from her sleek bob to the feathered ruffles at the ankles of her red Balenciaga pants—“about your appearance.”
Sadie froze. “What?”