Finley had barely ended the call before another notification popped up on her phone screen. She would have recognized the ringtone even without the picture of the Kate Hudson doppelganger with a perfectly styled blowout.
“So how did it go?” asked Mona Allen, aka Mooney, her closest friend since she returned to New York over three years ago.
She and Lydia, Finley’s classmate from law school and former colleague at the firm, had been roommates for years, but Finley and Mooney never actually met until three years ago. Back in New York after two years in Morocco, Finley had felt adrift, unmoored by the change in so many parts of her life. Mooney had been the perfect antidote to the confusion. She was a doer, a mover. Smart, pretty—no, make that gorgeous—and she knew her stuff. A top-tier event planner, she had the heavyweights of the city begging to be on her invite list, and she worked it like a master puppeteer. Hers was a golden contact list, the stuff of king makers.
And despite all that power, she chose Finley as her friend. Since their introduction at an impromptu Friday night happy hour, the two had been inseparable. They commiserated stumbles over Kamikazes and celebrated triumphs with Taittinger.
“So, tell me all,” Mooney gushed. Finley could see Mooney pouring herself a cup of matcha. How she can drink that stuff is beyond me, Finley thought. Tastes like green plaster. Sour, gritty—and green.
“It looks like I got an assignment,” Finley said. “Morocco.”
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