“It’s mostly acoustic guitar,” Brent Jackson pointed out. “And incredible vocals.”

“I think he’s tawdry,” Isabelle said. “He’s common, lowbrow. He will make the event seem cheap. We’re not selling tickets to Fenway; this is an upscale event. We should get an upscale performer.”

“You have a point,” Lock said.

“I was asked to deliver Max West,” Claire said. “I have delivered Max West, but now I’m hearing we don’t want him. I’m hearing he’s not suitable. Is that how everybody feels?”

“No!” Brent Jackson said. “Why are we even having this conversation?”

Why indeed? Claire thought. She was glaring down at the bald spot on Lock’s head with such heated vitriol that she expected it to catch fire. “Do we want Max West or not? I’m happy to cancel him and walk.”

Adams took Claire’s arm. “Don’t cancel him. We’re in the business of making money for this organization, and I think the best way to do that is to take the biggest star power we can get. Max is a coup for us, and he’s willing to do it for free. In my mind, there’s no question. Maybe we lose a few old folks who think his music is too loud, but we’ll pick up younger people.”

“We’re making a mistake,” Isabelle said. “What about the man’s personal life? The drugs, the drinking, the rehab, the affair with Savannah Bright splattered all over the tabloids. Is this a person we want representing a charity for children?”

Claire put her hands to her burning cheeks. She couldn’t decide which of many nasty things to think first. What do you know about children? Do you even know who Big Bird is? And what about kissing another woman’s husband on the dance floor of the Waldorf-Astoria in front of eight hundred partygoers? What about the letter that came a week later asking you to rotate off the board of Manhattan East Hospital? Are you the right person to represent a charity for children?

“We are sticking with Max West,” Adams said. Adams was always conciliatory, always open to other points of view and extending any debate, but tonight his voice was firm. “I don’t want to talk about it any further.”

Isabelle laughed derisively. She waved her hand. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll pull my other lines out of the water. But let it be noted that I think we’re making a mistake.”

“So noted,” Adams said.

“He’s, like, the biggest name in the business,” Brent Jackson said.

Isabelle’s smile was so fake it looked painful. “Okay,” she said. “Fine.”

Claire sat back down. Technically, she had won her point, and yet she felt defeated. Her own cochair wasn’t happy about Max West, and Lock had come dangerously close to rolling over on it—and this after he had asked her to pursue Matthew in the first place! Isabelle had gotten her shots in, calling Matthew tawdry, common, lowbrow, and cheap, and because Matthew was Claire’s friend, because they had grown up together and shared a history, Claire now felt like she was the skanky ex-girlfriend of a motorcycle drug lord. She wasn’t cut out for this kind of jockeying, or the politics.

Claire didn’t want to fight with Isabelle; she didn’t want to compete to see who would be the alpha dog, though wasn’t that what Isabelle was doing? Wasn’t that the point of her creating an agenda in the first place? Isabelle was asserting her control, taking charge. It hadn’t crossed Claire’s mind to write up an agenda for the meeting. Claire had thought that Lock would run the meeting, or Adams would, but not her and certainly not Isabelle.

Isabelle said, “We’ll make Claire the point person for the talent, then. Okay with you, Claire?”

“Fine,” Claire said. “I already delivered the contract and the rider.”

Adams held them up. “I have them right here. I will look them over.”

Next on the agenda were the invitations. Isabelle knew a graphic designer in New York who would do them gratis. She said this word, “gratis,” instead of “for free,” and Claire shuddered. The graphic designer, Isabelle said, was young and hip; he lived in Nolita. (Claire understood that this was a neighborhood in Manhattan, but she didn’t know where it was because the last time Claire had been to New York, Nolita hadn’t existed.)

“We need to revamp the invite design,” Isabelle said. “It’s fusty. The past few years the invites have been straight out of the retirement home.”

Perfect for our demographic, Claire thought.

Isabelle reached into her portfolio. “I’ve copied the invitation list for each of you to look over. Please add people, delete people, make notes by anyone you know who has died, or worse still, divorced.” She looked up for a laugh but got none. Claire felt marginally better. “This list is stagnant. It needs freshening up. We don’t want it to be the same old people.”

The same old thousand people, Claire thought.

“Like I said, having Max will bring in some new faces,” Adams said.

“Yeah,” Brent Jackson said. “Like me. Finally, someone I’d pay a thousand bucks to see.”

Isabelle sniffed. “Is it all right with everyone if I spearhead invitations?”

People nodded. Fine, fine. Though what was the point of having a committee if they weren’t going to be given jobs?

“Item three,” Isabelle said. “Catering.”

Claire had been prepared, coming into this meeting, to do battle regarding the catering. She was so stunned after fighting about Max West, however, that she couldn’t remember how she had planned to broach the catering question.