I had a degree in fashion journalism, and I still didn’t dress half as well as she did. “Would you have preferred ‘former race car driver?’” Amal asked, her French accent giving the sardonic comment an even deeper cut to my American ears.Įven as a hip thirty-something-ugh-I was nowhere near as cosmopolitan and smooth as my sort-of-stepdaughter. “‘Sophie Scaife, wife of billionaire philanthropist Neil Elwood, seen leaving 1 Oak with Bahraini shipping heir El-Mudad Ati.’ Well, that’s not fair. He leaned over the iPad his eldest daughter, Amal, had nearly shattered on the table. That man sat across from me at the breakfast table. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the figure beside me in the photo. He neatly flipped an omelet like he was a professional chef and not a retired publishing magnate. “Page six? Of what?” My husband, Neil Elwood-“billionaire philanthropist” according to the caption beneath the photo on the screen-asked.

A paparazzi shot of a brunette vixen in a way-too-short asymmetrical Versace dress and sky-high stilettos, on the arm of a tall, devastatingly handsome man with an unfortunate pit stain visible on his sleek gray shirt. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.įor everyone who’s loved Sophie like I do.Īn iPad landed on the kitchen table in front of me far harder than any iPad should ever land. Content Warning: depictions of alcoholism, discussion of suicide and domestic violence.

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