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sofa. “You look sic in that dress! Are you ready to get turn’t up at the party?”
    I was down with her slang, her lingo. “Turn’t up? Is that turn up to the highest degree?”
    “Yeah.” Brianna nodded coolly. “You know, get wild, get loose! Get turn’t up at the party.”
    I just smiled and shook my head.
    Teenagers these days , I thought. I felt like the old lady in the room. It seemed to me like some teens nowadays were too concerned about being turn’t u p. What they really needed to turn up was respect, intelligence, and making something of themselves.
    Good gravy! I thought . I must be getting old. I sound just like my Grandma Constance .
    Of course I shared none of this with Brianna. If I did, she’d probably never turn up to babysit.
     
     
    Because I didn’t leave my house until after Evan was tucked in bed, it was close to nine thirty by the time I arrived at the party. The lights were low, the drinks were flowing, and the music was bumping. I deposited my Secret Santa gift under the twenty-foot Christmas tree and cast a glance around the ballroom. Everyone was in a good mood, laughing, chatting, drinking, and dancing.
    As I grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, I caught sight of Rochelle.
    She waved at me from across the room, motioning for me to come join her.
    Tough as nails, warm like the Portuguese sun—that was Rochelle Bendal in a nutshell. She drank, smoked, swore too much, and scared almost everyone she met.
    But Rochelle didn’t intimidate me in the least because she and I went way back. When I’d first started out at Hall and Heinrich six years ago, I was hired as her assistant.
    Rochelle, an account manager at the time, had seen the steel in my eyes, my spitfire ambition. And while I’d worked efficiently, was highly motivated, and wore many hats, all my hard work never got me anywhere in the company.
    The Mad Men era of advertising might have been over at the time, but sexual equality in the industry had yet to be reached. Women didn’t match their male peers in the management ranks. Rochelle knew how difficult it was for women in advertising, and she’d been determined to help a fellow sister out.
    When I’d ask her why, she simply replied that she believed in women empowering one another rather than competing with each other.
    Rochelle had started out at the bottom, too, covering the phones for receptionists on bathroom breaks. She fought hard to rise through the ranks, and she succeeded. And she wanted to see me succeed, too. And she did. Like a true mentor, she took me under her wings, showed me the ropes, supported me, stood by me, and I eventually rose to the rank of senior account executive.
    “Sadie.” Rochelle smiled and leaned in to give me two air-kisses. “It’s so good to see you, darling.”
    “You, too,” I said warmly. “It’s been a while.”
    “I know,” she said ruefully. “It has, hasn’t it? Too long, I must say.”
    Three years ago, Rochelle was sent to New York to help spearhead Hall and Heinrich’s new office.
    “How have you been?” I asked. “How’s New York?”
    “Oh, I love New York,” she gushed theatrically. “Love it! Over there, you’re allowed to be an asshole only if you’re interesting. You have to actually earn the privilege of being a dick. Over here, on the other hand…” She waved her champagne glass in the air, making a vague gesture in the direction of Tim Pulaski’s table. “You can just be a dick. No personality needed.”
    Meanwhile, Tim was doing little to prove her wrong. He and the men at his table were rating the women on a scale of one to ten.
    It wasn’t exactly hard to overhear their conversation since Tim was as deaf as a post and often spoke at full volume. “Natalie’s a four,” he remarked. “With her big ass, she looks like Barney in that purple dress.”
    “Barneys New York?” Alan sounded perplexed. “The department store?”
    Tim made a dismissive snort. “Barney the fucking