‘It’s about Richard,’ Mike began, when he’d finished a second brownie and downed a glass of milk. ‘I don’t know how to talk to anybody about it, but I thought you’re a doctor, and you’re … you live with Constance. …’

Diana was grateful that her professional training had taught her not to stiffen at anything, but far below the surface, where it couldn’t be read, her guard had gone up.

‘Richard found out last week that he’s got AIDS,’ Mike said and then released a trembling sigh.

Diana didn’t say anything. She waited for him to recover enough to go on.

‘He had to tell his parents, his mother and his stepdad, and they told him to get out. He doesn’t really have anywhere to go. …’

‘Hasn’t he been in touch with the AIDS people?’ Diana asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Mike said. ‘I think he’s just sort of freaked out.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He knows this other painter, an older guy, who’s letting him sleep in his studio, but Richard said, if the guy knew, he’d throw him out. Everybody would.’

‘Are you involved with Richard, Mike?’ Diana asked gently.

‘Sure … oh, do you mean, am I gay? No, but Richard, if you don’t count Ben, is my best friend. People can’t just treat him like a leper. It isn’t even dangerous for people to help him, is it?’

‘No,’ Diana said.

‘Could you, maybe, talk to him?’ Mike asked. ‘Could you, maybe, tell him what to do?’

‘Of course I will,’ Diana said. ‘How soon can you get him here?’

‘Tonight,’ Mike said. ‘Is it stupid? I don’t want him to kill himself.’

‘It’s not stupid.’

‘He’s going to die, isn’t he?’

‘Almost certainly, if it’s the correct diagnosis, but Mike, we all are.’

‘Yeah, but he’s not even twenty years old, and he knows what he wants. He’s one of the very few people I know who really knows what he wants.’

‘He can have five years to be what he wants, or five months. Let’s see what we can do to help,’ Diana said.

‘Do you know why he’s going to die?’ Mike asked, a bitter anger in his voice, ‘because he’s funny-looking, that’s why, because he’s short and ugly.’

‘There isn’t any reason, Mike,’ Diana said, ‘any more than there is that some people live to be as old as I am.’

‘You’re not that old,’ Mike said.

‘Well, I’m five years out of practice, and, if I’m going to be useful, I have some phone calls to make as well as dinner to cook before Richard gets here. About eight?’

‘Do you have enough for me?’ Mike asked.

‘I think I probably do,’ Diana answered, surprised at his directness, like a child asking for a cookie.