Charlie came to the conclusion that everything in his life would have been different if he and Samantha had moved downtown. He decided that if he and Samantha had lived downtown, they’d have had more interesting friends: artists, writers, playwrights, a different kind of wealth. If they lived downtown he wouldn’t be just an Upper East Side dermatologist but someone who was on the edge and an integral part of fashion. If he and Samantha had lived downtown she would have seen that Barry Santorini wasn’t a real artist. He was basically a parasite who preyed on artists.

“Maybe Samantha and I should get a loft in Tribeca,” Charlie mentioned to Jil as they walked around the Sonnabend Gallery in Chelsea. They had made a date for Saturday morning gallery-hopping followed by lunch.

“You could get a loft for a song now. Everybody’s moving out since the Trade Center.” Jil had had this conversation with Charlie at least eight times since Samantha moved out but he went along with it anyway.

“Or we could get a nice town house in the West Village. Or one of those glass Richard Meier apartments on the West Side Highway.”

“Too open. Too much light.” Jil stopped in front of a sculpture of bicycles that were smashed by the Trade Center. “I don’t know if I can quite accept that as a valid piece of art yet.”

“I can’t believe it was over a year ago.”

Charlie looked at the smashed spokes on the wheel. “I hate how much everything’s changed.”

“Charlie, are you talking to anyone?” Jil asked him.

Charlie began to cry. He cried every time Jil saw him since Samantha moved out. “You mean a shrink?”

“I mean, a shrink or a friend. For instance, do you see Frankie Weissman much?”

“She’s terrific. But no, I haven’t. I’m not good company these days.”

“Tell me about it.” Jil put his arm around him and laughed.

“You’re one of the few people I still find it comfortable to be with,” Charlie confided.

“Maybe you should call Frankie. She can be very soothing and I find her quite witty as well.” They passed a Chris Ofili piece adorned with elephant dung and Jil immediately turned away. “I have to say if I never see another Ofili I’ll die a happy man. This may be the most overrated crap I’ve ever seen in my life, except for anything by Damien Hirst. Let’s get something to eat. This is making me famished.”

Charlie and Jil walked down Tenth Avenue to Bottino. When they walked in, the hostess, a five-foot-ten blonde in a black tube dress, lit up. “Mr. Taillou, how nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you, Natalia.” Jil gave her two kisses. “This is my friend Charlie Acton. I told him you’d take care of him next time he comes.”