Snatches of good-byes came from the living room as Wade's breakfast meeting broke up. Nola's back straightened. She would take him to see the Dying Rooms and then talk about Lulu's adoption. After all, he had supported her in sponsoring orphanages in Ireland and Mexico. He had helped her establish the home for children at the estate where the old man had lived. Wade had been her mentor, protector, friend, soul mate.

Wade, wearing a white turtleneck, was on the phone, his back relaxed on the couch, his legs in grayish gabardine pants crossed at the ankles. He twirled the carved stamp of his name in Chinese at the end of a three-inch stick. Upon their arrival, each crew member had ordered such a “chop” made of soft stone, and Wade had since been peppering his documents with red stamps.

He was discussing with the chief engineer some unforeseen problems in dismantling the Forbidden City stage set and transporting it to Shanghai for the next concert. Something about getting the government to provide enough eighteen-wheelers, otherwise unavailable for rent.

Nola leaned on the doorframe. “Hi,” she said.

He tossed her a somber look and went on twirling and talking on the phone. No sooner had he hung up than the phone rang again. It was their Manhattan office, where a team of secretaries did Wade's bidding while they also answered fan mail, autographed Nola's photos, and fielded letters requesting donations of either her money or her eggs. Two webmasters updated her site, responded to fans’ e-mails, led music chats, and surfed the Internet to squelch rumors.

Nola waited a few minutes, then gestured that she wished to speak to him.

“I’ll call you back in a few,” Wade said into the receiver and punched the disconnect button. He looked up at her, but did not rise. “Yes?” His tone was cold.

“Wade, I’m—I’m sorry. I know you were worried about me.”

He scratched his palm with the clean end of the chop. “That’s one thing. But you’ve offended others. You have a responsibility to those who put themselves out for you. Important guests came to salute you—from the Chinese prime minister to George Mauriello—and you blew them off.” His voice gathered anger. “In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never acted like such a primadonna. And now, of all times?”

“Very important things are happening in my life—”

“You bet! After fifteen years you’re close to being number one!”

“I mean—”