He didn’t want to leave San Francisco; he loved the city, and the city loved him. He had friends here, even admirers, whereas in London he was nothing but a moneyed arriviste, the creature the British upper classes despised most. He had been blackballed by the Garrick Club and White’s, after he had practically forced business acquaintances to put him up for membership. He had bought a yacht, then had had to sell it at a huge loss because no top yacht club would have him, and Barbara wouldn’t let him join anything less. She had made a public scene at Annabel’s when they had had to wait half an hour for a table, humiliating him in front of people he wanted to be his friends, and someone from the yellow British press had witnessed the event and spread it over the gossip columns, along with his history of being blackballed. People had stopped returning his phone calls. His heart was pounding. How could he stop her from going to London? He couldn’t, he realized. He was at her disposal, pure and simple.

It had to end.

The elevator doors opened, and he could see straight through the apartment to the terrace, where she stood, looking out over the city. She put a glass to her lips and threw back a drink, then set the glass on the parapet.

Charles was walking toward the terrace, then he was walking faster, then he was running. She heard him coming and glanced over her shoulder. “Where the fuck have you been? Get me another drink,” she spat, then turned back to the Bay view.

Charles went straight for her. He stopped, bent over, grabbed her by the ankles, and dumped her over the parapet. She didn’t scream, she shouted obscenities all the way down, until they ended in a soft plop.

He didn’t pause to think about what he had done; he ran back to the elevator, turned, and screamed, “BARBARA!” Then he walked quickly through the living room.

The maid appeared from the direction of the bedroom. “Mr. Grosvenor,” she called at his back as he walked. “Is anything wrong?”

“Didn’t you see her go over?” Charles walked to the parapet and looked down. He could hear horns blowing and brakes screeching from the street fifteen stories below. “Barbara!” he shouted.

The maid appeared at his elbow. “What’s happened?”

“She went over,” Charles replied, feigning shock. “As the elevator doors opened I saw her standing there, then she put down her glass and climbed over the edge.” The glass stood empty on the parapet.

“Oh, my God!” the maid half whispered. “Should I call somebody?”

“Call 911,” he said. “Tell them a woman has jumped from the terrace into Green Street.”

The maid ran for the phone.