“Haiti? You choose odd locations for your fashion pictures.”

“Don’t I just,” replied Markov, repressing a small smile. “I guess I like to shake up people’s expectations. Give them a surprise.”

“Yes. I can imagine you might like that.”

“The point being—I’m away, Lindsay loses her number-one confidant, right? So I’m looking around. I’m casting. I need a stand-in—just for four weeks. I had thought you’d do—I mean, you work in the same office, you seem to get along okay. I mean, she’s not going to pour her heart out to you the way she does to me, obviously, but you could help in other ways. Take her for a meal now and then. Maybe the odd trip to the theater, the movies. Nothing heavy. Just so she could get away from that monster of a mother of hers. So she had a chance to go out once in a while instead of just sitting alone, getting more and more miserable every night. I mean, the main trouble is, she’s been badly hurt, and when that happens to women, all their self-confidence goes, you know? Some jerk throws them over—after three years, would you believe—and wham suddenly the women, they’ve got this fixed idea in their heads—they’re hideous, they’re dumb, no one likes them, no one wants to talk to them—massive hemorrhaging of self-esteem…”

Markov paused. He had promised Lindsay, under oath, that he would tell no direct lies, but allow McGuire to make certain assumptions. He glanced at McGuire; surely this message had gotten through? Or would he need more narrative tricks?

“I find this hard to believe.” Rowland was frowning, looking puzzled. “Lindsay always seems so confident, so assured. She’s very good at her job, she’s highly successful, I wouldn’t have thought—”

“Oh, you know women—”

“No, actually, I’m not sure I do.”

“All the same. Unfortunately. Success? What does it mean? Nothing. Nada. Complete zilch. I mean it’s okay, up to a point—but it’s not what they really want, right?”

“What do women want?” Rowland asked with a sidelong glance.

“Love, of course,” Markov said, ignoring the glance, which might have been amused. “Love, love, love. The holiness of the heart’s affections. All that.”

“Very wise.”

“You think so? Perhaps. It’s fine until it goes wrong. When that happens, a man just picks himself up, gets on with his life—I speak from the sidelines here, of course…”

“That’s certainly what people say.”

“Whereas a woman—oh, no. Terminal angst. And when they’ve been lied to, of course, lied to for over three years, promised marriage, the whole bit, and then that turns out not to be in the cards, because, guess what, the bastard’s already married, with a very rich wife he can’t leave, and three beautiful, vulnerable little kids—and when the woman concerned, she’s had no inkling of this, and she’s been lied to and lied to, and it turns out he’s been boasting about her so all his friends know, know, I mean, these really intimate details…”