WHEN OLIVIA HAD ALMOST run out of questions about track and field, she excused herself politely from the table for two.

Given the choice, she would have preferred to be on the little bedroom terrace that she hardly ever used. Bounded by white stucco, climbing with ivy, and bordered by love-in-idleness, it seemed the perfect grotto for the weary in waiting. But as she passed a neighboring table, she paused to accept and return the compliment from the comedian; and at the booth a few steps beyond, she told the director with the Slavic accent that she would very much enjoy having the opportunity to work with him as well. She tucked a curl behind an ear, offered a delicate smile, and continued toward the powder room hoping to find it empty.

But of course, it wasn’t.

They hardly ever were.

•

LEANING AGAINST THE WALL by the sinks was the rather rough looking blonde whom Olivia had noticed dining alone at the bar. She was smoking a cigarette and listening to the attendant who was describing a night on the town as she aimlessly wiped the countertop. Miguel, the girl was saying, had borrowed his uncle’s car and dressed in a three-piece suit. He had taken her dancing at a little club on Shepherd Avenue. A club that had the finest band en Los Ángeles . . . En California . . . En todo el—

The girl stopped when she saw Olivia’s reflection in the mirror. She apologized and retreated to the back of the room where she began folding and refolding hand towels. Olivia approached a sink and turned on the faucets. The blonde didn’t move. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall, as if she could hear the rumba of the girl’s reminiscence.

From across the restaurant, Olivia had imagined that the blonde was in that league of callous women who began their workday at the bars of the Hollywood restaurants and hotels. But from up close, Olivia could see how terribly off the mark she had been. In the mirror’s reflection, the blonde’s unscarred profile suggested an almost aristocratic beauty with no hint of an ugly enterprise’s toll. And she had the effortless poise of a woman raised in the largest house in town. With her arm hanging gracefully at her side, her fingers slender and unadorned, she held her cigarette at an upward angle so that the smoke could spiral toward the ceiling with an enviable lack of purpose.

—Would you like one?

Olivia looked up to find that the blonde had caught her staring.

—Why yes, thank you, she replied, though she hadn’t smoked in more than a year.

The blonde slid the pack across the counter.

Olivia took one of the cigarettes and lit it. She leaned against the wall, assuming the blonde would make conversation, but she didn’t.