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“She’s already been screaming for you,” she said, nodding at the mezzanine.

“Oh Christ,” I said, crossing to the stairs.

Vivienne was milling around her dressing room in an ivory silk kaftan, another five strewn across the bed. A jar of bee pollen and her mother-of-pearl spoon sat on a gold tray on the dresser, which meant her disposition was already in the crosshairs of something hideous.

“Where have you been?” she barked.

“We agreed eleven,” I said, gently.

“The flowers are wrong. The orchids look positively gynecological.”

“I’m on it,” I said, turning to leave.

“And Caspian’s late! Bastard.”

“Would you like me to call him?”

“Of course not, Marlowe! That’ll make me look desperate. But I’m feeling very abandoned. Very let down.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, making a swift beeline for the door. “I’ll fix the flowers right away.”

In the kitchen, I studied the orchids, asking myself how I could stop them from looking like vaginas. I rotated them. That didn’t help. Now they looked like vaginas with secrets.

I removed each one that faced directly upward, tucked the worst offenders behind monstera leaves, and filled the gaps with calla lilies, a string of creative expletives flowing from my mouth.

I sent a photo to Vivienne for her approval. She replied with that will have to do. never call that florist again. I don’t take that kind of betrayal lightly.

Since her mood was already a tornado warning, I worked swiftly and quietly alongside Sofia, keeping my movements light, like we were both working backstage at a horrible performance. We hid all evidence that any normal human being had ever lived there: trash cans, pens, cleaning supplies, and the bottle of Xanax on the counter. I looked at the bottle once and considered popping one. But no, I needed to be wide awake, my social graces fine-tuned. A glass of wine would have to suffice.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

Priya: has the party started yet

Priya: OMG so nervous

Priya: this has to work

Callie: Marlowe

Callie: keep us posted

Callie: we’re dying here

My pulse ticked.

I will, I sent back. but stay calm. my heart’s already doing a thing that’s making me kind of nauseous.

Poolside, Sofia had already done the grunt work. The pool floats drifted across the water like pale little thrones for the freshly divorced. The bar was ready; the white wine chilled for Kai’s arrival. Each cabana was stocked with towels and champagne buckets and unnecessary lemons. The caterers were bustling around the food tables, worrying over honeyed figs and the flown-in burrata. The sun turned the vineyards an expensive flaxen yellow, and the hedges sat noble and manicured, clipped with barbershop precision.

I fought the urge to bite into my thumbnail.

The harpist turned up, dressed like a Greek goddess on her day off, her cotton maxi dress flitting around her ankles, and immediately started complaining about the pergola.

“It’ll disrupt the acoustics. I need the open air, at the other side of the pool,” she said, with enough importance that I could have sworn she’d arrived to negotiate a ceasefire.

I conferred with the caterers and reorganized three tables to make space for her, which she did not thank me for, then I took one final look around the poolside. Everything was as ready as it could be. I exhaled. But then Sofia emerged onto the patio like she’d been shoved there by some imaginary hand, red faced, and joined me.

“She just told me I have landfill energy today,” she hissed at me.