I was beautiful and wealthy and went to a fine school. I took care with my appearance and wardrobe, watched how I spoke and was well aware that I projected an image. Garrison said he knew the first moment he saw me that I would be his wife, and that was exactly what I’d hoped for—that the best-looking young man from the best family with the best prospects and, of course, the best heart would see me and know in an instant I was the one.

I didn’t let him down.

After he died, I most certainly did not fall apart and start leaving the house in a bathrobe or letting my hair get long and stringy. Did Jacqueline Kennedy? Did Coretta Scott King? Joan Didion? I think not.

Not only did I keep up appearances, I exceeded them. I became a style icon and an industry leader. Well into my forties, heads still turned when I walked down Madison Avenue. I was sleek, chic, tall and slender, and I wore three-inch heels every day. Though I didn’t date publicly, I eventually had a few gentlemen friends . . . lovers, if you must know. My financial adviser. An art appraiser from Christie’s. I would never marry again, nor did I want to, but I enjoyed the occasional dinner in the city, a night in a suite at the Mandarin Oriental or the Baccarat (never the Plaza . . . their rooms were so tacky).

And then, abruptly, I became invisible.

That was the first inkling I had that I was aging out.

Oh, I was still fashionable and attractive, but suddenly, I was an older woman. Heads no longer turned, despite my excellent bone structure and thick hair. Doors were no longer held. Young men looked right through me, often bumping into me as if I were made of fog.

I wasn’t just invisible to men. Females, too—the twittering teens who’d swarm past me on the street, giggling too loudly, exclaiming about themselves in utter self-absorption. Young women were too busy checking their phones or fondling their own hair or adjusting their breasts in their push-up bras.

Men my own age who once had given me an appreciative glance stopped seeing me, their gazes trained on those hair-fondlers. I found myself hating the young. They were so loud, so self-obsessed, so needy, always wanting all the attention on themselves.

It seemed to happen overnight. Once, a bartender would flirt with me, admire my taste in alcohol, since I always specified Chopin vodka or Hendrick’s gin. He might say, “I love a woman who appreciates the finer things,” or, “I bet you could teach me a thing or two,” with a crooked smile or a lifted eyebrow. Now it was simply “Coming right up.” Or, far worse, “Yes, ma’am.”

For decades, I was a regular at the same hotel restaurant and bar in the city. It had been Garrison’s favorite place to take his clients. I stayed loyal after he died, bringing my contacts there, the buyers, the fashion journalists and editors. The manager always greeted me by name—as was appropriate. It was simply good business to recognize a returning customer, especially as I became a tastemaker. I would hold interviews at this hotel, not wanting to let people see my apartment, which would’ve been entirely too personal. Often, I’d book a hotel suite for my corporate guests or recommend it to friends. The hotel was appropriately grateful for the free publicity and stream of business. Seated in the rooftop bar at the Lyon Hotel, Genevieve London sips a classic gin martini and gazes over the city.

Until the day when I went in and the ma?tre d’ said, “Can I help you?”

Not “Mrs. London! How wonderful to see you again! James, please escort Mrs. London to her table.”

When I told her my name, she didn’t give a flicker of recognition. “Enjoy your lunch,” she said, passing a menu to a minion.

I didn’t move. “One can have one’s teeth straightened, you know,” I said. “Ask your dentist. You could be quite pretty. And please get your superior. Tell him Genevieve London is here and unhappy with the service.”

Of course it was cruel. But, really, did Helen Mirren get treated this way? She did not.

No longer did young women look at my shoes with envy . . . they were wearing bedroom slippers, or aptly named UGGs. At home in Stoningham, of course I was still recognized, but sometimes in the summertime, I’d have to wait in line at the wine shop or farmers’ market, and it was as if I were simply invisible. Waitresses would walk past me without even taking a drink order. At Rose Hill, where Hope lived, new staff no longer mistook me for her mother. My gentlemen friends invited me out less frequently, which was fine, as they were now talking about things like sciatic pain and little blue pills. On what would be my final interlude with the man from Christie’s, I caught a glimpse of his dangling scrotum, so reminiscent of a turkey wattle, and decided my sex life was over.

I had read the articles on hating one’s neck and the lack of male attention, but I hadn’t quite expected it to happen to me.

I was aging well, mind you. I’d always had perfect skin, and I took care of it, never falling prey to the tanning fad, always wearing a hat when outside, as well as excellent makeup and sunscreen. My neck was crepey, but a little laser treatment from a dermatologist kept that to a minimum. I didn’t mind the wrinkles, as they were slight—a few crow’s-feet à la Audrey Hepburn, a slight softening of the cheeks.

I did mind the hairs. Every morning when I flossed and brushed and put on makeup, I peered into the mirror—the magnifying mirror that showed every eyelash at ten times its natural size—and looked for hair, tweezing each whisker away before it had a chance to grow. Every night when I washed with gentle cleansers and moisturized with serums and lotions infused with hyaluronic acid and vitamin C, I did the same. And yet there was the day when, in a restaurant restroom, I found an eyebrow hair at least an inch long. An inch! I swore it hadn’t been there the night before.