“Darling, how dreadfully rude. What can you be thinking of?” Louise, who was fast on her feet when she wanted to be, was already at the window. “Look. The poor man’s parked the car for you. Goodness—he’s devastating, darling. Why didn’t you say? And now he’s standing down there like a lost soul—and it’s freezing cold.”

“Louise…”

“Coooeee…” Louise was leaning out the window and waving her glass. “Hello, Rowland,” she called in siren tones. “Lindsay can’t find those papers. Come up and have a glass of wine.”

“Please, God, don’t do this to me,” Lindsay muttered under her breath. Louise closed the window and turned around.

“What was that, darling?”

“I was praying,” Lindsay said. “I was praying my life might change. I was praying you might change. Never mind…”

“Answered prayers are always the most dangerous, as Truman Capote put it,” said Louise. “Or was it Capote? It sounds Catholic. A bit Jesuitical. Maybe it was Graham Greene?”

She was reaching for the buzzer to open the front door.

Lindsay gave her one last desperate look, her fair, sleek, impossible mother, and fled into her bedroom. She went on praying that she’d find what she was looking for quickly: she tugged drawers open; she scattered files. Vogue, she thought. English Vogue, and an article that was one of the first she’d ever written, when she was starting out and still working freelance. Was it 1978, or 1979? Had she filed it under “Freelance” or under “Vogue”?

“Darling, what a noise you’re making in there,” Louise called. “There’s no need to hurry. I’ve introduced myself. Tom’s introduced himself. Goodness! It does smell awfully oniony in here. Tom, open the kitchen window. Can you cook, Rowland? No? And a very good thing too. It’s a woman’s province, in my opinion, but then, Lindsay has these advanced ideas. Poor Tom manages very well. Sit here beside me, Rowland—just toss those magazines on the floor. I hope you like the Chardonnay—Australian, of course, madly cheap but quite fun. Now, tell me, have you known Lindsay long?”

Lindsay dropped a stack of files. Dear God, she thought; even Louise, a fast worker, was not usually this unsubtle. Deciding she could not bear to overhear any more, she kicked the door shut. From beyond it, as she searched, came the interchange between Louise and Rowland, a blessedly indistinguishable stream of words. Rowland was being forthcoming, she thought, as she caught his lower tones. Damn; the article was not filed under “Vogue”; it must be in “Freelance,” then—and it was that file she had dropped. Its contents were now scattered all over the floor. With a moan of exasperation she sank to her knees and began scrabbling among the papers. They were back to front, upside down. It took her almost ten minutes to find the article and its accompanying photograph. The instant she saw it, she knew she had been right. She felt a surge of triumph and excitement. Clutching the papers to her chest, she opened the door.