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with Claire implied that she was either her new best friend or her publicist, joined the group.
    “Fabulous! Party!” declared the peacock. “Everybody wants to know when you’re writing a sequel.”
    Claire laughed uncomfortably. “Let’s just get through this, shall we?”
    “You know, if you push another one out right away, it increases your selling power exponentially,” said Peacock.
    “But I’ve said everything I have to say,” Claire said. “What’s left?”
    “Well, for one thing, sex,” the fresh-faced girl said, her voice dropping to a coy whisper. “There’s not a lot of it in this book.”
    “Wait a minute,” Ben said. “Aren’t you billing it as ‘a young girl’s sexual awakening’?”
    “Sure, to sell copies,” said Fresh Face. “But it’s really pretty tame. The book ends when she goes off to college—just think of all the material Claire’s got saved up from the past ten or fifteen years!”
    All at once Alison realized that Claire was becoming agitated. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes hard and bright; her hand fluttered at her neck. “First of all,” she said in a strained voice, “remember, this is fiction. And second … ”
    Peacock and Fresh Face exchanged glances. They were clearly accustomed to dealing with sensitive authors; this was part of the deal.
    “Second … ” Claire’s voice trailed off. She looked at Ben beseechingly.
    “Second,” he jumped in, “if this novel were, in the slightest way, based on her life, the sequel would be dreadfully boring. Prince Charming, happily ever after, end of story.”
    Claire reached over and pulled Ben toward her, kissing him on the cheek.
    “Aw,” said Fresh Face, “sweet. A love story.”
    Peacock glanced at her watch. “Well, time to go. Fabulous party,” she said again. “Congratulations, Claire.”
    “Thank you,” Claire murmured, air-kissing them both.
    “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Fresh Face said, holding one hand out like a phone receiver, pinky and thumb extended, as they walked away. “You get some rest!”
    Alison watched them head toward the door, grabbing the leftover books from side tables along the way. “I guess I’d better be going, too,” she said. “See what I can scrounge up at home for dinner.”
    Claire nodded distractedly.
    “Well,” Ben said, trying and failing to catch Claire’s eye, “why don’t you come and grab a bite with us? We’re going to a little bistro around the corner on Second.”
    Claire snapped to attention. “Ben,” she said abruptly, clutching his arm. “I’m—I’m really tired. This might not be the best night.”
    “It’s okay—I can’t, anyway,” Alison said quickly. “I need to get home. Let’s do it another time.”
    “I’m sorry if that sounded bitchy,” Claire said, turning toward her. “It’s just … my mother and everything … You understand.”
    “Of course, of course.”
    “I’m so glad you came,” Claire said. “Honestly. It means a lot to me.”
    Something about this irritated Alison. Perhaps it was the earnest tone, at once overly formal and grandiose, the celebrity thanking her audience for its support. Perhaps it was bigger than that: Claire’s appropriation of an inheritance of stories and memories on which both of them had claims—an archive of secrets, a library of shared experiences. Their childhood together was Claire’s childhood now, defined by her interpretation.
    Alison took the elevator down to the lobby alone. Stepping outside, she gazed at the street in front of her, glistening like an oily river. The air smelled, improbably, of damp soil. Alison fumbled for her keys, feeling around in her bag for the smooth silver Tiffany’s ring Charlie had given her for her birthday (the little blue box had held such promise, and then it held … a key ring). As she opened the car door and slipped into the driver’s seat, Alison realized that she hadn’t missed Charlie, the way she’d expected to, at the party.