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literary exchange with a winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award to ask if she—Grace—ought to be sneaking out to Zitomer pharmacy and begging one of the ladies to buff her up. And what about her hair? Should it be in its usual configuration of tight coil and clean lines, pinned with the heavy bobby pins (these were made for old-fashioned plastic rollers and getting harder and harder to find)? Or should she brush it loose, which made her feel untidy, and look like a kid?
    I should be so lucky , she thought ruefully, as to look like a kid.
    Of course, she was not a kid. She was a woman of a certain seasoning, a self-reliant woman of some refinement, with myriad responsibilities and attachments, who had long ago set certain parameters for her appearance and then remained consciously within them, relieved at not having to reinvent herself constantly or even aspire to greater heights of beauty. She was aware of the fact that most people viewed her as formal and contained, but that didn’t bother her, because the Grace who wore jeans at the lake house and brushed out her hair as soon as she got home from work was not a Grace she wished to make available to the world.
    She was young enough . She was attractive enough . She seemed competent enough . That wasn’t it.
    The fame part…well, perhaps that was getting a bit closer. If she could have hired an actress (taller and prettier!) to play the role of her book’s author, she would have been tempted. An actress with an earpiece, into which Grace could feed the correct lines ( In the vast majority of cases, your potential spouse will tell you everything you need to know very quickly… ) as Matt Lauer or Ellen DeGeneres nodded soberly. But I’m a big girl , Grace thought, absently brushing dust against the surface of the mirror with the backs of her fingers. She went back to the others.
    Now Rebecca was sitting in Grace’s chair, staring deeply into the screen of her phone, and the coffee table had been angled away from the couch, with the pitcher of roses and the bound galley of her book pushed aside and forward, into the frame. No one had to tell her where to sit.
    â€œYour husband’s adorable,” Rebecca said.
    â€œOh. Yes,” she said. She didn’t appreciate being put on the spot. “Thank you.”
    â€œHow can he do that?” she said.
    Ron, who was already looking through the lens of one of his cameras, said, “Do what?”
    â€œHe’s a doctor for kids with cancer.”
    â€œHe’s a pediatric oncologist,” Grace said evenly. “At Memorial.”
    At Memorial Sloan-Kettering, in other words. She really hoped they’d drop it.
    â€œI could never do that. He must be a saint.”
    â€œHe’s a good doctor,” Grace said. “It’s a difficult field.”
    â€œJesus,” said Ron. “No way could I do that.”
    It’s a good thing no one’s asking , she thought irritably. “I was trying to decide what to do with my hair,” she said, hoping to distract them both. “What do you think?” She touched the tight coil at the nape of her neck. “I can take it down. I have a hairbrush.”
    â€œNo, it’s good. I can see your face. Okay?” he asked. But he was asking Rebecca, not her.
    â€œLet’s try,” she confirmed.
    â€œOkay,” he said.
    He picked up the camera again, looked through it, and said, “So this is just a practice, all right? No sweat.” And before she could respond, he produced a heavy metallic click.
    Instantly, Grace went stiff as a board.
    â€œOh no.” Ron laughed. “I said it would be painless. Aren’t you comfortable?”
    â€œActually, no,” she said, trying to smile. “I’ve never done this. I mean, had my picture taken for a magazine.”
    Thus completing my public infantilization , she thought as the last of her courage fled.
    â€œWell, what