Abigail was sitting on one of the comfortable armchairs, reading an intense novel about a despotic village patriarch in preapartheid South Africa. The protagonist had just finished beating his daughter for her refusal to marry the man he had chosen. “Another light read?” “It’s a beautifully written book.” “I think while we’re here, you’re going to have to be completely in my thrall.” Sarah grabbed the offending Booker Prize winner out of her sister-in-law’s hands. “Books, music, clothes. Everything. I decide. I’m pulling rank. You’re here as my guest. Go get changed for dinner.” “I am changed.” Abigail looked down at her black pants and long-sleeved white T-shirt. It wasn’t just any T-shirt, it was one of the ludicrously expensive, clinging, slightly-off-white T-shirts that Sarah had convinced her to buy. “You told me to buy this shirt, remember?” “Of course I did.
