Free Girl Before a Mirror by Liza Palmer Page A

ladies,” Ginny says.
    All I can do is stand there with my mouth hanging open.
    In just one short escalator ride, I’ve entered an alternate universe that makes Wonderland look sedate.
    Hundreds of women thread and weave through this upper lobby area, their salon-ready hair now coiffed with olive branches, togas draped with precision, while historically accurate costumes parade past us. The volume is hovering at near-deafening levels. We are propelled into the thick of it.
    â€œI’ve just died and gone to heaven,” Sasha squeals. I say nothing. There are no words. “Take your time. Breathe. I’m here and I won’t leave you.” Sasha is throwing my own words back at me. She gives me a wide smile and we enter the fray. As we are herded into the Silver Ballroom, Sasha continues to point out famous author after famous author. They are part of it all, bedecked in their Roman best and taking pictures with fans. I tell her she should go up to them. Say something.
    â€œOh, no. I couldn’t! What would I say?” Sasha asks, as we take flutes of champagne off a silver tray now that we’resafely inside. We settle ourselves near the back of the Silver Ballroom—a dimly lit, soon-to-be-unveiled masterpiece, I’m sure. The chandeliers twinkle above us, but I can barely make out the Roman columns on either side of the large stage that anchors the entire ballroom. “Should we have dressed up?” Sasha asks, tugging at her tailored blazer, deciding to unbutton it in a moment of pure abandon.
    â€œWe can’t be the only ones not dressed up,” I say, scanning the ballroom filled with everyone dressed up and not one person—
    â€œWhat do you think?” Ginny Barton asks.
    â€œWe’re feeling a tad underdressed,” I say.
    â€œNot to worry, the editors and agents don’t dress up, either,” Ginny says, pointing out the sleek-looking women dressed all in black peppering the otherwise debaucherous festivities. “People will just think you two are in publishing.” I see a woman in a beautiful tailored suit approaching us. She’s probably trying to flock with her own kind. Then I recognize her. I hear Sasha let out an involuntary gasp as the woman—and the two assistants who trail her—nears.
    â€œHelen! So good to see you,” Ginny says, extending her hand to the woman.
    â€œOh, please.” Helen Brubaker pulls Ginny in for a hug. They separate from each other and Ginny resituates her toga.
    â€œThis heat is killing me, Barton. You guys ever think about having this thing somewhere other than Phoenix?” Helen Brubaker’s smoky rasp harkens back to every diner waitress who called you honey and kept your coffee topped off. Her rough-edged accent contrasts with her designer clothes, and I can’t help but gawk at the tasteful yet very expensive jewelry thataccessorizes her lithe, yoga-ready figure. Even though Helen Brubaker is clearly in her late sixties, she just looks . . . vital. Alive. Polished. Wildly intimidating. And now I’m staring.
    â€œYou know we love it here,” Ginny says.
    â€œThat’s ridiculous. No one has a strong opinion on Phoenix. Although maybe that’s its allure.” Helen laughs.
    â€œHelen Brubaker, this is Anna Wyatt and Sasha Merchant from that ad agency I was talking to you about,” Ginny says. The entire crowd begins to notice that Helen Brubaker is among them. The side-glances, the gossiping behind cupped hands, the selfies that just happen to be standing in front of Helen. She is unfazed.
    â€œOh sure. You guys are coattailing my book, right?” Helen takes a flute of champagne from a passing tray and downs it.
    â€œI assure you—”
    â€œI’m messing with you, hon. You need to loosen up,” Helen says, hitting me on the back as if we’re longtime friends at some beerfest.
    â€œI’m a huge fan,” Sasha ekes out, her eyes fixed