So when he arrived, the Humblays were just asking to see Emma to say hello, and Mary Humblay was saying, “Now I hope you haven’t made her get all dressed up just because we’re here, because that would be a shame,” and Herbert was remarking that it was as much as anyone could do to get their own granddaughter to clean up even to go to church. And Gorham felt himself relax, and was glad that it was the Humblays and not the Vorpals who’d arrived first, to set the tone of the evening.

Anyway, Emma came in with her friend Jane, who was there for a sleepover, and they were wearing similar dresses in pink and blue and looking very sweet. They brought the puppy with them.

Until a year ago the co-op had been a “no pets” building. Gorham couldn’t remember why, but it had always been that way. Then Mrs. Vorpal had wanted to have a dog, so Vorpal had persuaded the board to change the rules.

The two girls had just started to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Humblay when the Vorpals arrived. Kent let them in and smoothly took their drink orders before ushering them into the living room. Mrs. Vorpal wanted a vodka martini; Vorpal took Scotch on the rocks.

“Well, good evening, Emma,” said Vorpal, who pretended he liked children.

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Vorpal,” said Emma.

Gorham introduced the Vorpals to the Humblays.

“We were just looking at this fine puppy,” said Herbert.

The puppy, it had to be said, was cute. A tiny, fluffy white ball, peeping out with large eyes from beside Emma’s cheek.

“You should thank Mr. Vorpal,” said Maggie. “It’s because of him that you’re allowed to have a puppy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vorpal,” said Emma.

Vorpal’s sword-like face broke into a smile. “It was my pleasure. I just think it’s nice for the children in the building to be able to have a pet.”

“That’s so nice,” said Mary Humblay.

“Have to agree with you there,” said Herbert.

“Okay, girls,” said Maggie, “you can go if you want. But mind the noise, please.”

The waiters brought the canapés round. The next guests, the O’Sullivans, arrived. He was a partner at a big law firm, quiet, judicious, but always good company; his wife Maeve was a slim, strikingly elegant Irishwoman who ran her own small brokerage house. Lastly came Liz Rabinovich and her boyfriend Juan. Liz was a speechwriter. She’d worked for some big-name politicians, though she had mostly corporate clients at present. But you never knew with Liz—she was something of a free spirit. As for Juan, he was a bit of a mystery man. Liz said he was Cuban. He’d once told Gorham that his mother’s family was Venezuelan, but that their money was in Switzerland. Juan lived with Liz when he was in New York, but Liz said he had a spectacular apartment in Paris. Gorham didn’t trust Juan. “Liz only likes men she doesn’t trust,” Maggie told him.