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mother would have seen to
that.   So, I vote for the latter,
though I can’t imagine the pain involved.   Zap, zap zap —times one million.”
    “Are you finished?”
    “I’m just warming up.”   She paused.   “Can I tell you something?”
    “You can tell me anything.”
    “Maybe not this….”
    “Just spill it.”
    “I had a nightmare last night.   It was as awful as last fall’s
collection.   I saw a meteor shower
heading straight toward my head while I was at Wenn.”
    “Shall I refer to you now as
Chicken Little?”
    “I’d prefer Little Roughage.   Or Lotta Ice.   That would be more
appropriate.”
    “OK, Little Roughage, here’s my
advice to you—stop dreaming.”
    “You’ll probably say that one day
to your own child.   You’ll probably
steal away his dreams.   Dampen
them.   Occlude them.”
    “Children are a ways off, so it’s
best if you don’t worry about that now.”
    “You’ll crush them—I know
it.”
    “Don’t make me laugh.   Now isn’t the time.   Alex is getting ready.   I need to be serious.”
    And that’s when Blackwell became
the maternal figure I knew so well.   “There is always time for laughter, Jennifer.   Never forget that.   I’ve often said that our work saves us, and
it does.   But laughter also does, especially
during the most difficult and trying of circumstances.   So, on that note, we have a minor crisis
on our hands.”
    “What crisis?”
    “The dress you’re wearing
tonight.   It’s all wrong.”
    For a moment, I just pulled my
phone away from my ear and looked at it in disbelief.   This was what she was calling
about?   A dress?   Really?   Sometimes, just when I thought I
understood Blackwell, she’d pull something like this out of her ass when a
dress, of all things, should be the very last thing we were concerned about.  
    “Since when does a dress constitute
a crisis?”
    “Since Monica Lewinsky, for
one.   Oh, when will you ever learn
the importance of fashion?” she said.   “When will it ever sink into that head of yours?”
    “All right,” I said.   “Fine.   Hit me with its importance.   What are you talking about?”
    “I’m talking about the press who
will be in attendance at Dufort’s party tonight.   I had you wearing black.   Black!   Which now can be interpreted as ‘Death of
Wenn’.   But right now?   In our situation?   Black won’t do.   You need something that doesn’t say
‘mourning’.   You need something that
says ‘confident.’   ‘Successful.’   ‘Powerful.’   You need to shine tonight.   More than ever before, you need to look
your best—your most radiant.   You need to look the prettiest anyone has ever seen you, because—and
don’t doubt me on this, girl—they’ll all be judging you.   You can plan on that.   They’ll be watching you and Alex, and
looking for whatever cracks they can find.   I’m not worried about Alex.   He just needs to show up looking smashing in a tux.   But you?   You need to be a beacon of light.   You need to slay every woman there.   So, what are your plans for today?”
    “Why?”
    “Because we have to find you a new
dress.   A bright dress.   A bright, bold, red dress.   Something divoon to the tenth power.   You’ll also need new jewels.   So either bring along your credit card,
or I’ll bring my corporate card.   Doesn’t matter.   Wenn is
Wenn—they’ll pay the bills.   Have you eaten yet?”
    “No.”
    “Good!   Don’t you dare eat.   Not at all today.   If you must, nibble on a
raisin—but just one.   And
don’t finish it.”
    “Seriously?   You expect me not to eat for the entire
day?”
    “I need you looking your best.   Flat, flat, flat.   Slim, slim, slim.   If your tummy feels bloated, then eat a
boatload of roughage and let nature take its course.   That should clean you out.”
    “I got almost no sleep last night,
Barbara.   How are the circles
beneath my eyes going to