Oh, no! That sounded like a permanent good-bye. Dan stepped outside. Meredith didn’t know what to say, so she said, “Okay, I will.” Once he was in his Jeep, she closed the door.


Now, Meredith touched the sore muscles between her ribs and decided she needed some Advil. But Connie would be feeling way worse this morning than Meredith did. Meredith eased herself out of bed and headed downstairs to see about her friend.


Dan didn’t call for three days, and then four. Connie was pretending not to notice, but Meredith was certain she did. She asked Meredith how humiliating her behavior had been at dinner. The last thing she remembered, she said, was taking a bite of salad. “And it was overdressed!”

As if soggy salad was the problem.

Meredith tempered her response, though she felt flashes of fury: Dan Flynn was a quality person who could probably do them both a lot of good, and Connie had frightened him away.

She said, “Not humiliating at all. You were tired.”

“I was drunk.”

“You have a lot on your plate,” Meredith said. “Emotionally speaking.”

“True,” Connie said. “Do you think Dan realizes that? Do you think he’ll give me a free pass for one shabby drunken night?”

“Of course I do,” Meredith said.

But the phone didn’t ring. Meredith and Connie went about their days quietly. Meredith got a little braver. She ventured out onto the deck for half-hour stretches, she went for short walks on the beach with Connie. She took her first incredibly delightful outdoor shower and stayed in until the hot water ran out. On Saturday morning, Meredith and Connie went into town, and Meredith could tell Connie was hoping they’d run into Dan. Meredith found she wanted to run into Dan herself. Imagine that! Instead of fearing a chance encounter, she was seeking one out. She and Connie walked along with their eyes peeled. When they passed 21 Federal, they fell into a glum, respectful silence, as if for the newly deceased.

Then Connie said, “You know, I think Dan liked you.”

“What?” Meredith said.

“I think he liked you.”

“Connie,” Meredith said. “I am the least desirable woman in all the world.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “First of all, I am married to Freddy Delinn. Second of all, look at me.” She was glad her point would be underscored by the fact that she was wearing her thrift-shop wig, which was growing ratty. “No one likes me. No one will ever like me again.”

“I think Dan liked you,” Connie said. “As a person. I think he liked the way you were.”

“I think he liked the way you were,” Meredith said.

“Then why isn’t he calling?” Connie asked.


Connie came up with an answer. Dan wasn’t calling because she, Connie, was a hag. Since Wolf died, she had let herself go. She needed her nails done, she needed her eyebrows and bikini line waxed.

“We’re going to the salon,” she said.

“I can’t,” Meredith said.

“Of course you can,” Connie said. “Wear your wig.”

“It’s not that easy,” Meredith said.

“Of course it’s that easy. We’ve been out to places a lot more public than the salon, and you’ve been fine.”

“I know,” Meredith said. “But I can’t go to the salon.” The salon was the equivalent of swimming in shark-infested waters. It was like negotiating a minefield on a pogo stick on Friday the thirteenth. The Pascal Blanc salon had been the first place to publicly denounce Meredith-and it didn’t get much more public than the front page of the New York Times Style section. Surely Connie had seen the article?

“In case you haven’t gotten it by now,” Connie said, “I don’t like going places without you.”

“I’m going to have to beg your indulgence here,” Meredith said. “I can’t do the salon.”

“You have to get back up on the horse,” Connie said.

“So you saw the article?”

“I saw the article,” Connie said. “And do you know what I thought when I read it? I thought, ‘Meredith Martin is the best woman your salon has ever seen. It’s your loss, Pascal Blanc.’ ”

“Really, it was my loss,” Meredith said. “I’m as gray as Whistler’s mother, and the salon got to broadcast how morally superior they were by keeping me out in the name of protecting their other clients, who might be upset by the sight of me.”

“Don’t you want to get your hair done?” Connie asked.

God, the answer to that question was yes. Since she’d started to go gray at forty, every six weeks she’d had her hair restored to the natural color of her youth-soft baby blond. This was, she knew, unspeakably vain of her-though it had more to do with how she felt inside, and especially now. The real Meredith Martin was blond. She was a brilliant and talented eighteen-year-old girl with an impossibly bright future.

“I can’t get my hair done,” Meredith said. “If I go to the salon, I’ll have to wear my wig.”

“So you’ll go with me, then,” Connie said. “And wear your wig. You can get a manicure and a pedicure. My treat.”

“It’s not about the money, Con.” Though it was about the money, in addition to everything else. In Palm Beach, Meredith used to get a manicure and pedicure every week to the tune of $125. And she always left a $50 tip. So, $175 on her nails, $100 on a weekly massage, and $250 every six weeks for hair. All that money, and she hadn’t blinked an eye. She was shamed by it now.

“It’s not about the money,” Connie said, “because it’s my treat. Manicure and pedicure. Please? It’s no fun going to the salon alone.”

“I can’t,” Meredith said. “Women who are under investigation don’t go to the salon. Women whose children are under investigation don’t go to the salon. Women whose husbands are serving one hundred and fifty years in federal prison do not go to the salon.”

“I understand you feel that way,” Connie said. “But it’s not that big a deal. It’s a manicure and a pedicure. Something to make you feel pretty. Something to take your mind off things. I can go alone, but I really want you with me. And no one’s going to hurt you, I promise.”


Connie secured appointments for Friday afternoon. In the car, Meredith thought she might hyperventilate. She used her Lamaze breathing; it had been much more helpful for her Freddy-induced anxiety than it ever had for the births of her two children. Connie eyeballed her.

“Do you just want to bag and go home?” Connie said.

“No,” Meredith said. “We’re going.” It had become some kind of stupid hurdle she now felt she had to jump. It was a test. And, Meredith reminded herself, she had never failed a test in her life.


The RJ Miller salon was inviting and unpretentious. There was jazz music playing, and the place smelled deliciously of hair product, acetone, cappuccino. It was a hive of activity, and Meredith quickly ascertained that this might work in her favor. The women who were lined up in the chairs were all glamorous-as glamorous as the women in Palm Beach or Southampton. They were suntanned and Botoxed; they wore Lilly Pulitzer skirts and Jack Rogers sandals. The type was familiar-it was Meredith’s type, her exact genus and species-but she didn’t recognize a soul. And no one turned to look at Meredith in her ugly wig and boring glasses. She was as exciting as a reference-room librarian. More than a few women turned to gaze at Connie; she was bewitching that way.

Connie checked them in with the receptionist, who had a cascade of sumptuous golden ringlets. She introduced Meredith as “Mary Ann Martin.” The receptionist barely took notice of her, except perhaps to secretly wonder why Meredith wasn’t there to have something done about her atrocious hair. It was a relief to be overlooked, but Meredith couldn’t help reflecting on the Pascal Blanc salon in the days when Freddy’s fund was returning at nearly 30 percent. When Meredith walked in, the room all but burst into applause. Meredith had been grounded enough to know that the ass-kissing had nothing to do with her and everything to do with money, but even so, she’d believed that the staff of the salon had liked her. She was a real person, despite her many millions. And yet, not a single one of the salon staff or the women she befriended at the salon had stood up for her. She had to admit, it had surprised her that, apparently, in the thirty years that she’d been with Freddy, she hadn’t made one true friend; she hadn’t forged one single human connection that could withstand the seismic aftershocks of Freddy’s collapse. Absolutely everyone had forsaken her-except Connie.

“This way,” the receptionist said. She led them into the spa room and showed them each to a pedicure tub. Meredith started to climb up on a perch, then realized she had forgotten to pick a color. She chose a dark purple. Paris at Midnight.

Meredith had experienced Paris at midnight more than once-any time they flew to Cap d’Antibes, they flew to Paris and then drove down to the coast in a Triumph Spitfire that Freddy kept in the hangar at Orly. Often, Meredith had shopping to do in Paris-she liked to stop at Printemps for candles and table linens, and at Pierre Hermé for boxes of colorful macarons.

Her life had been one of disgusting consumption. How had she not seen that?

The nail technician appeared. She introduced herself as Gabriella. She asked Meredith-whom she called “Marion”-if she would like a cappuccino. Meredith, feeling courageous, said yes.

Gabriella had some kind of accent, Eastern European or Russian. Meredith had known the names and life stories of all of the girls who had worked at Pascal Blanc. Her regular manicurist, Maria José, had a son named Victor who went to public school in Brooklyn. Meredith had once gone to see Victor in his high-school musical; he played Mr. Applegate in Damn Yankees. Meredith went because she loved Maria José and she wanted to be supportive, but Maria José was so ecstatic that Meredith Delinn would travel all the way to Red Hook to see Victor that Meredith’s presence overshadowed Victor’s performance, and Meredith ended up feeling guilty. When Meredith had explained this to Freddy, he’d kissed her cheek and said, Ah, yes, I know. It’s hard being Meredith Delinn.