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excellent makeup artist. It must be someone who is not overly theatrical.” She shook her head. “It will not be easy, not easy at all. But a few people do come to mind. I shall look into it and we will meet again on your next trip to New York. Happily we are not pressed for time. This is going to demand a great deal of preparation. I do hope you are up to it . . .”
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    I spent the summer shuttling between Los Angeles and New York, and on each trip east Claudia and I conferred. She refused to even think about my physical transformation until Molly’s costume was complete. And that took a while: she was such a stickler for detail that she made me change the color of Molly’s stockings three times before she was satisfied.
    I would have lost patience with the process, but I was wrapping up one life and starting another, and the search for Molly Hollis was a welcome distraction. In the midst of the tedious details of moving—packing up the house, emptying out the office, searching for babysitters and transporting animals—this exercise in disguise seemed like great fun.
    I bought a dowdy Armani suit that was three sizes too large; Claudia insisted that I wear a padded bra and two thick skirts beneath it to give me more girth. I found a proper little purse and Mom’s old diamond ring. Bit by bit the clothing came together. It took almost two months before Claudia pronounced the costume complete, but at last she announced that the time had come for Molly’s debut. “Make a reservation,” she commanded. “Where are you planning to introduce this new woman to the world?”
    â€œYou’re coming with me, aren’t you?” I asked nervously. “I was thinking of starting with a four-star restaurant that has a brand-new chef. Everyone’s expecting me to weigh in on him, and if any restaurant in New York is watching for the new critic from the Times, this would be at the top of the list. They know I’ll be there sooner rather than later.”
    â€œLe Cirque!” said Claudia, clapping her hands.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œPerfection,” she said. “It’s as much theater as restaurant, and it will be a perfect stage for Molly. I will be very pleased to join you.”
    The reservation was for an early dinner in midsummer. When Claudia arrived at the hotel, makeup lady in tow, I was already dressed. They both burst out laughing when I came to the door, and I realized how ridiculous I must look with my wild hair and Molly’s staid suit. Claudia turned to Denise. “We are counting on you,” she said, “to make the head match that body.”
    â€œI can do that,” said Denise, extracting a plastic cape from her bag of tricks. She was a nondescript middle-aged woman who, like so many makeup artists, wore her well-scrubbed face disconcertingly free of lipstick, foundation, powder, or blush. She threw the cape over my suit and began to erase me. First she covered my skin with a thick coat of pancake makeup. Then she made my eyebrows disappear. As she worked, my skin acquired a yellow tone that it has never had, and wrinkles where none had been. She filled out my cheeks so they looked fuller, and the mouth that her pencil drew was smaller than my own. She hesitated over the lipstick, and then chose a rather creepy coral shade that was, she assured me, two years out of fashion.
    â€œClose your eyes,” she said, beginning to work on the upper part of my face. Brushes swept across my lids, sponges swatted at the area below. My eyes were still closed when Denise asked me to put on the wig. It had been made to Claudia’s exact specifications: straight, short, and ash brown. It was also so tight that I had to wrestle the thing over my bunched-up hair. This was an ordeal, and as I bent down, struggling with it, I had the sensation that two enormous rubber bands were being wrapped around my