Anne Eisen turned into her building, carrying a box of cakes from Le Vrai Pâtisserie. If it had been La Vraie Pâtisserie, as Victor never tired of pointing out, it would have been even vraie-er, or plus vraie, she thought, smiling at Fred the doorman. Fred looked like a boy who had inherited his older brother’s school uniform. The gold-braided sleeves of his brown coat hung down to the knuckles of his big pale hands, whereas his trousers, defeated by the bulk of his buttocks and thighs, flapped high above the pale blue nylon socks that clung to his ankles.

‘Hi, Fred,’ said Anne.

‘Hello, Mrs Eisen. Can I help you with your packages?’ said Fred, waddling over.

‘Thanks,’ said Anne, stooping theatrically, ‘but I can still manage two millefeuilles and a pain aux raisins. Say, Fred,’ she added, ‘I have a friend coming over round four o’clock. He’s young and sort of ill-looking. Be gentle with him, his father just died.’

‘Oh, gee, I’m sorry,’ said Fred.

‘I don’t think he is,’ said Anne, ‘although he may not know that yet.’

Fred tried to look as if he hadn’t heard. Mrs Eisen was a real nice lady, but sometimes she said the weirdest things.

Anne got into the lift and pressed the button for the eleventh floor. In a few weeks it would all be over. No more eleventh floor, no more of Professor Wilson’s cane chairs and his African masks and his big abstract I-think-it’s-good-but-his-work-never-really-caught-on painting in the drawing room.

Jim Wilson, whose rich wife enabled him to exhibit his rather old-fashioned liberal wares on Park Avenue, no less, had been ‘visiting’ Oxford since October, while Victor visited Columbia in exchange. Every time Anne and Victor went to a party – and they almost never stopped – she’d needle him about being the visiting professor. Anne and Victor had an ‘open’ marriage. ‘Open’, as in ‘open wound’ or ‘open rebellion’ or indeed ‘open marriage’, was not always a good thing, but now that Victor was seventy-six it hardly seemed worth divorcing him. Besides, somebody had to look after him.

Anne got out of the lift and opened the door to apartment 11E, reaching for the light switch, next to the Red Indian blanket that hung in the hall. What the hell was she going to say to Patrick? Although he had turned into a surly and malicious adolescent, and was now a drug-addled twenty-two-year-old, she could still remember him sitting on the stairs at Lacoste when he was five, and she still felt responsible – she knew it was absurd – for not managing to get his mother away from that gruesome dinner party.