Ian came forward, an iPad in his hands, slashes of pink on his cheeks. “Come in. Into the belly of the beast.” Gillian in her bat-wing blouse introduced me to the others, and I presented Antonio as an old friend, causing Ian’s gaze to alight on our faces briefly in turn. I plucked two glasses of wine from a passing tray.

“Yes, I believe Mr. Bryce was an early postmodernist . . .”

“The permanent as well as the temporary . . .”

“I expect you’re a victim of your own success? We are . . .”

Returning to work after Maddy’s death, I had been painfully alert to every averted gaze, every brave question, every conversation that dried up as I approached. Here no one was afraid of me. Antonio was a highly presentable escort and his presence protected me from the wounding I had come to expect on social occasions. I did not mind sharing him with these women, the one with fiery hair braying, “We’ve got to ring the changes! If we don’t ring the changes . . .” and the other one coaxing him away with her painted eyebrows. “If you do nothing else, go down and see the Tanks. Oh, you must . . .”

I nudged Antonio in the back. “Stop . . .” he whispered, and his lips did what Maddy’s did when she was trying not to laugh.

On my other side, Ian was holding forth. “. . . isn’t there a danger these hybrid practices thrrive in a liberal environment, but in a consairvative one the picture looks different. Verry different indeed . . .”

“Change the subject, do,” Gillian murmured in my ear. “He’s about to tell you he’s an old warrior of the left.”

“Do you have any children?” I interrupted, regretting it at once.

“Girl and a boy,” said Ian. “For my sins. Twenty and twenty-two.”

“I’ve got one twelve, one fourteen . . .”

“Mine are four and eight . . .”

Antonio was silent.

“Sixteen,” I said. I was still a mother.

“My daughter’s in Egypt.”

“My son’s been swimming with dolphins.”

“Mine got hepatitis B.”

“They survive.”

I pointed to Ian’s iPad. “Will you take our picture?” He obliged and passed it to me. I remembered that Antonio did not smile for the camera. He raised his brows, which made him appear dignified and enigmatic. I was reluctant to give back the picture and its curious distancing and doubling effect. Antonio and I lived in two places, in ourselves and in the image of us.

“Can you send it to my cell?”

“Are you in prison?”

“Mobile.” I laughed. “Send it to my mobile.”

“Your mo-bull?” said Ian.

Antonio touched my waist. “Shall we go look at some art?”