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head.
    â€œIt’s giving me a headache,” I complained, my voice muffled beneath the hair. “I hate it. It’s going to be like eating dinner in a bathing cap.”
    â€œDarling,” said Claudia, “do stop complaining and look up.”
    I raised my head and opened my eyes. Looking into the mirror, I found a woman I did not recognize staring straight at me.
    â€œMeet Molly,” said Claudia. I could not speak. I found myself moving my lips to see if hers would move too. They did. I wiggled my nose; Molly’s nose wiggled. I raised my fingers; she raised hers. I waved. She waved back. Claudia tapped my arm and said gently, “I believe it is show-time.”
    I watched her struggle to keep a smile from escaping, and saw that she was having a Henry Higgins moment. She was about to show her creation to the world; she could hardly wait.
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    S low down, my darling,” said Claudia as we walked out the door. “Take smaller steps. Remember, you are now Molly. Stay in character.” She winced when I hailed a taxi. “And do not shout.”
    That part, at least, was not difficult. It was too hot for speed or noise. My sensible shoes were sticking to the sidewalk, and beneath the yellow pancake makeup my cheeks were flushed. Claudia, shrouded, despite the heat, in one of the shapeless black dresses she wore everywhere, seemed oblivious.
    â€œI wonder what Molly likes to eat,” I said as we settled into the cab. “I wonder what she talks about?”
    â€œThat,” said Claudia, “is what you are about to find out.”
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    L e Cirque was cool but far from calm. The small, fussy room was crowded with women in shimmering dresses and men in elegant suits who perched on striped silk chairs that seemed too small for them. Huge bouquets of flowers nodded from the corners and little ceramic monkeys frolicked across the tables.
    The maître d’ was hunched over the reservation book, and when he finally deigned to notice our presence he subjected us to a cool inspection. I found myself patting the wig as he looked me over, hoping no stray dark hairs were escaping.
    â€œDo you have a reservation?” His tone indicated that he considered this a dubious possibility.
    â€œHollis,” I said. He did not acknowledge this, so I said more loudly, “Molly Hollis?” I was surprised to find that my voice had gotten flatter and slower, as if it too had undergone a makeover. The man ran his finger across his book, searching ostentatiously through the names. “Ah yes,” he said at last. “Here it is.” He sounded disappointed. “A non-smoking table. I’m afraid there’s nothing at the moment. You’ll have to wait in the bar.” With his head he indicated where that might be found.
    It was lonely at the bar, and after we had ordered only water, lonelier still. The wig grew tighter on my head, and I fidgeted in my layers of clothing. The lack of attention was an unmistakable message.
    â€œDo you suppose,” asked Claudia, “that they are laboring under the misapprehension that we are going to tire of the wait and go away?”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    â€œI would not dream of granting them that satisfaction,” she said.
    â€œNor I,” I said, sticking a finger beneath the wig to scratch my itchy scalp.
    Our designated table turned out to be very small, in the back of the dining room, and wreathed in the murk of the surrounding smokers. “But I asked for non-smoking!” I protested in my flat, quiet voice. The man shrugged and pointed around the restaurant as if to say, “Can’t you see they’re all taken?”
    He doled out the menus and beat a hasty retreat. “A wine list?” I asked his departing back, but he was already gone. This, we soon learned, was not going to be a problem; the few inches of banquette to my left were