BRIGITTE WAS IN the driveway at four-thirty the next morning, right on time, as always. No matter what she did the night before, she always came to work on schedule, whatever the hour. She texted Tallie that she was there, and she came out of the house barefoot and carrying her shoes, and closed the door silently behind her. Tallie ran to the Aston Martin and got in. She had showered again and her hair was wet, and if possible she looked an even bigger mess than she had the day before. She was wearing another pair of ratty, torn denim cut-off shorts with a T-shirt that was in shreds.

“Is that fashionable and you paid a fortune for it,” Brigitte asked, referring to the shirt with fascination, “or did you get it at Goodwill?” There were in fact items of clothing that looked like that, wrecked by trendy designers who tore the clothes before they sold them. Max was always buying things with that look at Max-field’s. Tallie usually created hers for free, but with her you never knew. She rarely spent much on clothes. And designer anything was of no interest to her.

“No,” Tallie said happily, “I got this shirt out of the garbage. Hunt threw it away, but I hated to waste it. It looks like it still has some life in it.” She seemed pleased.

“As what? A rag at a car wash? You’re the only woman I know who makes the kind of money you do and dresses out of the garbage.” Brigitte laughed as they drove down the street.

“If I told you it came from Maxfield’s, would it be chic?”

“Of course,” Brigitte said without hesitation.

“Okay, then pretend it did. I don’t have time to worry about the way I look.” She never did. It wasn’t on her priority list. She cared about what was in her head, not on her back, unlike most of the women she knew, and Brigitte certainly, who wore new designer clothes almost every day. Brigitte spent most of her salary on jewelry and clothes. She liked to say that she had an image to keep up, since she represented Tallie Jones. But Tallie didn’t give a damn about that herself.