One Fifth Avenue

“It’s a memorial service, dear. Mrs. Houghton has already been laid to rest.”

“Are you going?” Mindy asked.

“Of course.”

“Why wasn’t I invited? I’m the head of the board.”

“Mrs. Houghton knew so many people. This is New York. Not everyone is invited to everything.”

“Can you get me an invitation?” Mindy asked.

“I can’t imagine why you would want to go,” Enid said, and closed her door. She was still annoyed at Mindy for refusing to embrace her plan to split up Mrs. Houghton’s apartment.

Downstairs, Mindy found James in his office. “I am so insulted,” she said, plopping herself onto the old leather club chair. “It seems everyone in the building has been invited to Mrs. Houghton’s memorial service. Everyone but me.”

“Let it go,” James said warningly.

This was not like James. Mindy asked what was wrong.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were writing a blog?” he said.

“I did.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did and you don’t remember.”

“Well, it’s all over Snarker,” James said.

“Is it good or bad?”

“What do you think?” James said.

Mindy got up and peered over his shoulder at the computer screen. The headline read: INTERNET MOGULETTE (NOT!) AND CORPORATE MEDIA SLUT MINDY GOOCH ASSAUL

TS WORLD WITH MUSINGS. Underneath was a hideous color photograph of her, taken as she was leaving her office building. She looked ragged and unkempt in an old black trench coat, with her sensible brown saddlebag slung over her shoulder. Her mouth was open; the angle of the photograph made her nose and chin appear especially pointy. Mindy’s first thought was that the photograph was more devastating than the text. For much of her life, Mindy had made a considerable effort to avoid the sin of vanity, as she despised people who cared excessively about their looks; she considered it the height of shallowness. But the photograph instantly shattered her interior mirror. There was no way to pretend that you were pretty, that you still looked like a twenty-five-year-old, when the evidence to the contrary was available on any computer screen, accessible twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year, for years and years and years. Maybe even forever. Or at least until the oil ran out, the polar ice caps melted, and/or the world was destroyed by war, a meteorite, or a giant tsunami.

“Who wrote this?” she demanded. She peered at the name next to the text. “Thayer Core. Who the hell is he?”

“Let it go,” James said.

“Why should I? How dare they?”

“Who cares?” James asked.

“I do,” Mindy said. “It’s my reputation, my image, at stake here. I’m not like you, James. When someone insults me, I don’t just sit there. I do something.”

“What?” James said, rolling his eyes.

“I’m going to have that kid fired.”

James made a dismissive noise.

“What you don’t understand is that all those websites are owned by corporations,” Mindy said. “Or they will be soon. And I’ve got connections. In the corporate world. They don’t call me ‘corporate media slut’ for nothing. I must put on Mozart.” Lately, she’d found Mozart soothing, which could be yet another sign of middle age, she thought.

To put on the Mozart, she had to get up and go into her office next door. She chose The Magic Flute from a pile of CDs. The overture—the great booming drums and oboes, followed by the delicate string instruments—momentarily distracted her. But then she glanced over at her computer. Her screen saver was up, a photograph of Sam dressed as a dinosaur for Halloween. He’d been three and crazy about dinosaurs. She turned away, but the computer was calling her. Snarker was calling her. She pulled up the website and read the item again.

“Mindy,” James said accusingly, coming into her office. “What are you doing?”