“Tom’s emerging from the chrysalis, darling,” Louise had said the night before. “Now you’ll be able to cement your relationship. Lots of splendid wise motherly talks.”

“He can talk to his girlfriend,” Lindsay said through gritted teeth as she stirred canned spaghetti sauce very fast. “That’s her function. Boys Tom’s age don’t want to talk to their mothers.”

“Nonsense, darling,” Louise said airily, pouring herself some wine and lighting up a cigarette. “He doesn’t want to talk to the girlfriend. Her function is sex.”

Lindsay closed her eyes. The guilty voice at the back of her mind, always hyperactive, was now starting to jabber about contraceptives, AIDS statistics, and unwanted pregnancies, when she needed to concentrate on McGuire. She looked at her watch, swore, rose, applied some extremely red lipstick, and squirted herself with a super-powerful and unsubtle American scent. She stalked through to her outer office. There, Pixie, her assistant, who was looking forward to this moment, waited until precisely five past ten, then dialed McGuire’s office. She explained in tones of dulcet insolence that Ms. Drummond was in conference, and would be delayed: Lindsay stood over her, making faces, while she did this.

Pixie was nineteen and ambitious. Talented too; her intention was to be editing English Vogue by the time she was thirty, and to take New York by storm by the age of thirty-three. Pixie, a nouveau punk, could always be relied upon to dress originally. This morning she had a diamond in her nose; she was wearing bondage trousers, an African necklace, and a Gaultier top that appeared to be made of shrink-wrap. She had a strong Liverpudlian accent, and she was streetwise. Lindsay used to pretend she had hired her for this last quality; in reality, she had hired her because she liked her, and because Pixie reminded her of her own younger, blithely confident self. Pixie, who often made Lindsay feel old, giggled as she hung up.

“Poor McGuire,” she said. “He’s about to be gutted.”

“Good.”

“Why don’t you like him?” Pixie eyed her. “I think he’s gorgeous myself.”

“He’s a man. An interfering, arrogant man. Watch and learn, Pixie, all right?”

“He can interfere with me anytime. I wish he would.”

“Pixie. Pay attention. Do I look intimidating? How about the suit?”

“The suit’s totally brilliant. Really keen. You want to test me?”

“All right. I’ll give you a clue. It cost five months’ salary. It required a mortgage. A loan from the World Bank.”

“It’s a Cazarès, obviously.” Pixie frowned. “Give me a second. Last year? Spring? Autumn? Yeah—autumn, ’ninety-four. Not the ready-to-wear line…It’s saying ‘couture’ to me…”

“Let’s hope it says the same to McGuire.”

“—but it couldn’t be couture. Not unless you met a millionaire recently…”

“I wish.”

“So it’s the ready-to-wear, but top of the line. I’m looking at the buttons—love the buttons, and the cut of the jacket, on the bias, and the fabric. Cashmere?”

“And silk. What else?”

“The collar?” Pixie began to smile. “The way the collar sort of curves around the neck?”