“It’ll have to.”

Dad’s pork chop was moved onto a white plate, and the swap-over of Mum’s dinner was effected.

“Everyone happy now?” Rachel asked sarcastically.

We settled down to our food.

“Anna, how’s your new brand going?” Luke asked politely.

“Great, thanks. Just today, the Boston Globe did a comparison of five supercreams: Sisley’s Global Anti-Ride, Crème de la Mer, Clé de Peau, La Prairie, and Formula Twelve. And Formula Twelve got the highest. They said—”

“Yes, but your new crowd don’t do lipsticks or anything, do they?” Mum clearly thought my new position was a demotion. With that, the subject was closed, but not before I’d had a flashback of how Aidan used to celebrate all my coverage and the dingbats of my rivals. How many times had he come home waving a newspaper and saying something like “Rocking good news. USA Today didn’t like the new Chanel cream. Girl said it clogged her pores. Whooh! High five!” Clap. “Low five.” Clap. “Behind-the-back five.” Clap. Lifting his leg, he’d go, “Under-the-knee five!” Clap. “And through-the-legs-and-out-the-back five!” Clap.

I was distracted from this unexpectedly happy memory by someone shouting, “Get out!”

It was Helen: Dad had walked in on her in the bathroom.

“You’d want to get a lock on that door,” Mum said.

“Why?” Rachel asked. “You don’t have one on your bathroom door.”

“That’s not our fault. We’d like one.”

“Why don’t you have one?” Luke asked.

“Because Helen filled the keyhole with cement.”

We all fell silent as we remembered that day. Helen had got the cement from the builders who were converting next door’s garage into a granny flat, and when she’d finished filling the keyhole, she went on to cement around the bathroom door, trapping Claire, who was in the bath, doing a home-spa day. Dad had to spend hours on his knees, in a chiseling frenzy, before she was finally freed, by which time the stairs and landing had filled with concerned neighbors and builders doing a vigil. The granny of the granny flat who was the cause of all the trouble had even suggested saying the rosary.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Neris Hemming

Your rescheduled appointment with Neris Hemming will take place on March 22 at 2:30 P.M. Thank you for your interest in Neris Hemming.

“I’m not interested,” I told the screen. “Neris Hemming can go and fuck herself.”

Two seconds later, I put the date and time in my organizer. I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t help it.

Anna! Hey, Anna.”

I was hurrying along Fifty-fifth Street, on my way to a lunch with the beauty editor of Ladies’ Lounge, when I heard my name being called. I turned around. Someone was running toward me: a man. As he got closer, I thought I recognized him but I couldn’t be sure. I was pretty sure I knew him…Then I saw that it was Nicholas! He was wearing a big winter coat, so I couldn’t see what his T-shirt said, but his hair was still sticky-up and cute.

Before I knew what was happening, he’d scooped me up and we were hugging each other. I was surprised by how warmly I felt toward him.

He put me down and we smiled into each other’s face.

“Wow, Anna, you look great,” he said. “Sorta sexy and scary. I like your shoes.”

“Thanks. Look, Nicholas, I’m sorry I never called you back. I was going through a really bad time.”

“That’s okay, I understand. Truly.”

I felt a little embarrassed asking, “Do you still go to Leisl’s?”

He shook his head. “Last time I was there was about four months ago. None of the old gang go anymore.”

In a strange way I felt sad. “Nobody? Not even Barb? Or Undead Fred?”

“No.”

“Wow.”

After a little lapse into silence, we both started talking at the same time. “No, you go ahead,” he said.

“Okay.” This was something I had to ask. “Nicholas, you know when Leisl used to channel your dad? Do you think she really did? Do you really think you were talking to him?”

He thought about it, fiddling with his funny string bracelet. “Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. But I guess that at the time, I needed to go and hear what I heard. It got me through. What do you think?”

“I don’t know. Probably not, actually. But like you said, it did what it needed to do at the time.”

He nodded. He’d changed since I’d last seen him. He looked older and bulkier, more like a grown-up. “It’s good to see you,” I blurted.

He smiled. “And it’s good to see you. Why don’t you call me sometime? We could do something.”

“We could investigate conspiracy theories.”

“Conspiracy theories?” he asked.

“Yes, don’t tell me you’re not interested anymore!”

“Oh, sure, I am, it’s just—”

“Got any good new ones?”

“Um, yeah, I guess.”

“Well, tell me!”

“Okay. Um, like, haven’t you noticed how many people are dying by skiing into trees? One of the Kennedys, Sonny of Sonny and Cher—lotsa people. So what I’m asking is, is it a conspiracy? Is someone interfering with the direction-ness of their skis? And instead of ‘tonight he sleeps with the fishes,’ the new Mafia catchphrase could be ‘tonight he skis with the trees.’”

“‘Tonight he skis with the trees,’” I repeated. “You’re lovely. You’re absolutely hysterical.”

“Or maybe we could just catch a movie,” he said.

97

Which one of you stole my Multiple Orgasm?” Mum opened her bedroom door and shrieked down the hotel corridor. “Claire, Helen, give me my Multiple Orgasm!”

A middle-aged couple, wearing practical sightseeing clothes, was just leaving their bedroom. Mum saw them and, without missing a beat, did her “polite greeting”—a strange chin-raising gesture—and said, “Lovely morning.”

They looked scandalized and hurried toward the lifts; as soon as they’d disappeared around the corner, Mum yelled, “You let me have nothing!”