The wardrobe crisis begins at four in the afternoon, exactly three hours before we're supposed to leave for the Ritz-Carlton.
I know this because Sophie has appointed herself my personal stylist for the evening, and she takes her role with the gravity of a military strategist preparing for battle. She arrives at the penthouse armed with fashion magazines she's clearly never read, a color wheel she printed from the internet, and an expression of intense determination.
"Okay," she announces, spreading the magazines across my bed. "We need to find you something that says 'I'm secure in my relationship' but also 'I'm hotter than your ex-girlfriend' but also 'I'm not threatened by her at all, I just happen to look spectacular.' This is a delicate balance."
"It's dinner, Sophie. Not a diplomatic summit."
"It's dinner with Lucas's elegant, pearl-wearing, museum-curator ex-girlfriend. That's exactly a diplomatic summit. With higher stakes."
