Claire didn’t have the heart to be tart or snotty with Isabelle, however, because Isabelle was morose enough as it was. Not one of the people she had personally invited to the gala had deigned to come. She was candid about this, more candid than Claire might have been in the same situation. They sent checks, she said, but they won’t come. Claire thought for a minute or two that Isabelle was going to blame the declines on Max West, but it became clear from her near-teary demeanor that she took it personally. They weren’t coming because of her, because of whatever had transpired last fall, at the Waldorf.

Thankfully, Isabelle was distracted by the magazine article.

Siobhan said to Claire, “Your hair looks good.” These were the only nice words Siobhan had uttered since coming up to the office. She was exhausted from doing the Pops, which had ended very late on Saturday night and took all day Sunday to clean up, and Carter had been no help. He was sick, Siobhan said. Siobhan had agreed to cater the gala, but she did not seem happy about it. She let everyone in the office know that she was not happy, and everyone in the office, including Claire, cowered and deferred to her because she represented their one and only hope.

“Thank you,” Claire said sweetly, though she disagreed: she thought her hair—which she had tried hard to straighten—made her look like Alfred E. Neuman.

“Your hair looks good, too,” Gavin said to Lock. And everyone laughed. Except Isabelle.

It took Claire a few minutes to notice, but Isabelle was silently seething. Finally she let an audible hiss leak—and she stepped away from the group.

“Nice article,” she said flatly. “It really showcases all the work you’ve done on the event, Claire.”

The room fell silent. Claire reeled with surprise—not that Isabelle was offended that she hadn’t been photographed or mentioned as cochair, but that neither she nor Lock (nor Gavin, who had proofread the article weeks ago) had noticed that Isabelle had not been photographed or mentioned as cochair. What Claire thought was, Ohhhhhhh, shit. What Claire said was, “We all know how much work you’ve put into this, Isabelle. I can’t believe there’s not more in this article about you . . .”

“There’s nothing in the article about me!” Isabelle spat.

Claire scanned the article. “Surely your name is listed as—”

“It’s not!” Isabelle said. “I’ve been completely overlooked.”

“It’s a faux pas on NanMag’s part,” Gavin said. “We should call them right now and complain. Maybe they’ll print a correction in the next issue.”

“A correction?” Isabelle said. “What good will that do?” She snatched up her Peter Beaton bag and stormed out.

Lock closed the magazine. Gavin, Siobhan, and Claire went to collect their things, but nobody said a word. What to say? Isabelle was right. She—the woman who had hired a cellist from the New York Symphony to play at the invitation stuffing, the woman who had wooed Manolo Blahnik into underwriting the event to the tune of fifty thousand dollars, the woman who had painstakingly made a hundred phone calls on the day of the catering crisis—had been overlooked.

Would she quit? Claire wondered. Now, in the final hour? Would she not show?

Lock said, “Let’s give her time to cool down. I’ll call her later.”

Lock was on the phone with Isabelle—in the middle of a long, teary (on Isabelle’s part) conversation—when Ben Franklin walked into the office. It was nearly six; Gavin had gone home. Ben stood in front of Lock’s desk with the financials clenched in his hands for several minutes as Lock attempted to placate Isabelle. (“No one is selling you short. Everyone on the committee understands how hard you’ve worked, how much of yourself you’ve poured into this event . . .”)

Lock put his hands over the receiver. “I can’t help you now, Ben. I’m trying to talk someone off the ledge here.”

Ben’s face was stoic. This lack of emotion, and the way he was holding forth the financials, made him seem like nothing so much as a butler.

“It’s important,” he croaked. “Eliza was right.”

“I’ll call you in the morning,” Lock said. “First thing.”

Ben nodded and, turning on his heels, left the office.

On Tuesday, at the office, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Everyone wanted gala tickets!

“We’re sold out,” Gavin said. “I’m sorry. I’ll have to put your name on the waiting list.”

By noon, the waiting list was forty-six people long. What was this? Had everyone read the article in NanMag? Or were people just such procrastinators that they didn’t think about Saturday’s plans until the Tuesday before? Either way, they were out of luck. Gavin thought this rather smugly. Despite the fact that it wasn’t at all his type of music, he was attending the gala as Isabelle’s guest. He had called her on Monday afternoon to see if she was okay, and she had asked him.

Will you be my date for the gala? Isabelle had said.

At first he thought she was kidding. He had laughed.

She said, No, I’m serious.

Are you sure there isn’t someone else who—

No! Isabelle said. Absolutely not! I’d like to go with you.

Isabelle French—the beautiful, wealthy cochair of the event—would be attending with Gavin Andrews, handsome (Best Looking, 1991, Evanston Day) and single office assistant. He was on fire! He wished to God that he had known this was going to happen. If he had known, he would never have . . .