“Story of my life. What do I owe you?”

She paid, and waited a short while, until Sandra had moved off to clear some tables. She had one more try with Lance, but got nowhere. Lance said Star showed up every month or so, or had recently. He didn’t know where Star might stay, didn’t know any friends of Star’s, but he did know this really great brasserie that Gini would love.

“How about it?” He leaned across the bar. “I’m free at nine. You have the most fantastic eyes. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“It’s been mentioned. In similar situations. Sorry, Lance. Another time.”

“No worries. Stay away from the cokehead. See you around.”

With a wave of the hand to Sandra, Gini left. She returned to her hotel. It was large, international, and anonymous. She felt she could move around it blindfolded; she might have been anywhere in the world; the room made her feel rootless and displaced.

This was the danger period, she knew—when she slowed down. She stood there, fighting the loneliness that kicked in the second the door closed. It was six-thirty. She tried calling Rowland—it would be five-thirty in London—but his secretary had just left and he was not answering. She tried the features desk, then news: the copy editor she spoke to there said McGuire was somewhere in the building and he would pass on the message, but some kind of crisis had blown up, so it might be a while before Rowland called back.

“What kind of crisis?” Gini asked.

“Have you ever seen McGuire when he’s angry?”

“No. Not really.”

“Well, it’s that kind. Scorched-earth time. So watch out.”

Gini next tried Pascal, but tonight was one of the bad nights. She redialed a score of times, but she could not get through. She had given Pascal the number here when she called him the previous day; if he was able to call her, he would. Maybe it was better not to reach him at this exact moment anyway. Each time they spoke, Gini was finding it harder and harder not to say—Pascal, please come home. Tonight the phrase might easily slip past her guard. No, wait, she told herself: it was Marianne’s birthday next week. Maybe Helen would be proved right, maybe he would return for that: a fine thing, she thought angrily—she was now reduced to taking comfort from the predictions of Pascal’s ex-wife.

She rang room service and ordered some food. Then she took out Anneke’s address book, set it down on the dressing table, where the light was brightest, and began going through it line by line.

It was a wearying task. Anneke had a tiny handwriting; these pages were crammed with insertions, crossings-out, arrows to changes of numbers, scribblings, and doodles of hearts and flowers and faces. At first she hoped Anneke might have used these hearts as a sign to indicate boys she favored; gradually she realized they were random. She could imagine Anneke on the telephone, pen in hand, this book in front of her as she embarked on protracted teenage telephone talks, doodling as she spoke, scattering these untidy pages with a myriad of tiny misleading signs, with graffiti that made Gini’s eyes ache.