“Honey, there’s always too much loss. You and I are in the too-much-loss business.” He looked up at the waiter hoping the appetizers were on their way. He had no intention of having the evening take a turn for the maudlin. “Did I tell you there’s going to be an Alvar Aalto exhibit at Cooper-Hewitt? And they’ve asked for a number of my pieces.”

“Really.” Frankie admired Charlie’s ability to move a conversation along from loss to an upcoming exhibit.

“Absolutely. I was at the forefront of the Aalto renaissance. Jil would have been very proud of me.” Charlie lifted his hand. He was becoming unusually anxious about his appetizers. Before the Starbucks incident, before his marriage broke up, he could go to any black-tie dinner party in New York, sit next to anybody, and start jabbering about the ballet or Alvar Aalto. But tonight, sitting with Francesca Weissman under a Chinese paper dragon, he was aware that his conversation was deliberately empty.

“The shrimp balls, the thousand-year-old egg, spareribs, and the chef sent over the crispy wontons. Should I split it?” the waiter asked.

“Yes, we’re sharing. We’re good children,” Charlie answered.

The waiter divided the portions in half while Charlie pointed to various small pots with sauces. “Francesca, this is for the shrimp balls, this is for the spareribs, this is for the ancient egg. If you mix them up you get sent to the basement to peel snow peas. Am I right?” He smiled at the waiter.

“Yes sir.” The waiter laughed.

“And I’d like another martini. And my friend would like another glass of wine.”

“I’m okay.” Frankie put her hand over the glass.

“She’d like another.” Charlie knew Frankie didn’t really like to have more than one drink, but he also knew she would ultimately always match him. In the past few weeks Charlie needed more than two martinis every night.

Frankie didn’t know if Charlie’s increased drinking was the aftermath of the Starbucks incident or because of the gossip that Samantha and Barry Santorini were in Aspen together. Pippa Rose had shown her an item about them and said, “Isn’t it reassuring that even at the most hideous times life goes on?”

Recently, after two martinis, Charlie would talk to Frankie about taking a trip to hike across Bhutan and how it would be good to start a reading group about New York architecture with Jil’s ex-lover. He’d prattle on about moving to one of Richard Meier’s new buildings on the West Side Highway or his thoughts on the Gehry drawings for the Guggenheim downtown. But tonight he was uncharacteristically quiet.

“I’ve been reading Jil’s copy of The Elements of Style,” she commented, breaking the unaccustomed silence again.

“I remember that as a perfect book. No more, no less.” Charlie started looking around the rooms. “Just perfect.”