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your ear. Instead, I thought the perfect job in New York would be something extremely glamorous and would signal my acceptance into the exclusive club of New York career girls who ruled the city. In my imagination, these girls did little more than sit inside large, glass-walled offices all day drinking skim lattes from Starbucks.
    â€œMeet me on Seventy-third and Lex at eleven. And don’t be late,” Emily said.
    She hung up the phone.

    S wifty’s was dark, with lots of oil paintings of dogs and pheasants and crisp white tablecloths.
    For the one billionth time, I felt completely out of place. Nearly everyone was dressed like they’d just come from a ride at the stables. I had never seen so many shades of brown! I, on the other hand, was wearing a floral-print tea-length dress, platform Brian Atwood pumps, and a white overcoat with a ruffled collar. As I approached Emily, who was already seated at a table in the back, I could tell from the expression on her face that I had swung at the fashion fastball and missed.
    Emily was wearing a camel cashmere sweater and khaki-colored stretch pants tucked into knee-high cognac riding boots. It worked on Emily but when I pictured myself in the same ensemble, all I could think was, Frumpety frump frump.
    â€œYou look adorable,” she said.
    But her tone did not say “adorable.” It said “interesting.”
    â€œI have a hard time dressing for day,” I admitted.
    It was true. I don’t even own that many items of clothing that might be described as appropriate for day. Every once in a while I find J Brand jeans and a pair of Delman flats in my closet and wonder how they got there.
    â€œI remember,” Emily said, smiling. “It’s nothing a little trip to Bergdorf’swon’t fix.” She leaned in. “So, quickly, what happened with Ryerson? I thought for sure you’d be married by now. You two were like the perfect little couple.”
    I looked at the ceiling. “Ryerson decided he had some soul-searching to do,” I said. “That was over a year ago. The last I heard he’s still . . . searching.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œWe were young,” I continued. “I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”
    I had just picked up my menu, hoping for a change of subject, when I felt someone standing just over my shoulder.
    â€œSo this is the perfect candidate you were referring to?”
    I turned around to see a woman as thin and spindly as a daddy longlegs, her wrists so slender they barely supported the weight of her Cartier Tank watch. Her hair was the palest silver gray, shaped into a perfectly symmetrical bob. She was probably in her late forties or early fifties, but her skin was smooth, without so much as a speck of sun damage. When she spoke, she pronounced each word in a loopy, soprano staccato, like one of those European ambulance horns. She was, in one word, intimidating. If I were allowed two words to describe her, I would add “hard.”
    â€œRuth!” Emily exclaimed.
    Emily immediately stood up. She and Ruth engaged in some form of multiple cheek-kissing that happened so fast, it was almost as if it didn’t happen at all. When Emily turned to introduce me, I was already standing. From a very young age, I was trained to greet any new person at a table by standing up almost immediately and with as much enthusiasm as possible.
    â€œAnd yes,” Emily said, “this is your candidate—Minty.”
    I stared back at Emily, then Ruth, then back at Emily again. “Minty Davenport,” I said, smiling my best smile and making eye contact with my potential future employer. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. . . .?”
    â€œVine,” Ruth said. “Ruth Vine. But please, call me Ruth.” She glanced at Emily and winked. “Makes me feel younger.”
    â€œIt is a pleasure to meet you, Ruth,” I repeated, smiling.
    Ruth’s handshake was firm, a