I pulled myself to my feet. The cocktail hour would begin shortly and I was supposed to attend. It would be my first public appearance, my first chance to connect faces and forms with the names on the passenger list. A waste of time, since I had already found the ‘individual’ I had been asked to identify, but I’d have to face him sooner or later and I was damned if I’d let him know how badly he had shaken me.

The accommodations lived up to the advertisement. In addition to the twin beds there was a couch long enough for even me to stretch out on, and two comfortable chairs. The bathroom had not only a shower but a tub (not quite long enough for me to stretch out in, but few of them are), and the dressing table was lined with fancy bottles bearing the labels of a famous French cosmetician. Methodically and mechanically I unpacked, showered, and settled myself at the dressing table, ready for action. Usually I don’t bother with much makeup, but I planned to use every speck of artificial assistance I could get that night. I wanted to look gorgeous, cool, calm, and indifferent.

With luck I might manage the last three, anyhow. My hands were still unsteady; I tried to calm myself by recalling all the dirty, low-down tricks John had pulled, but my mind kept wandering off the track, remembering . . .

Remembering times like the Christmas Eve we had spent in the abandoned church, huddling close to the feeble fire while a blizzard raged without, drinking tea made in a dirt-encrusted flowerpot with a crumpled tea bag from the hoard I carried in my backpack. John had laughed himself sick over the contents of that backpack, but he had been hungry enough to eat the crumbling gingerbread and the squashed chocolate bar. He had played Bach on a tissue-covered comb, and when I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer he had sat up at night holding me in his arms to keep me warm, and patiently feeding the tiny fire . . .

I didn’t need blusher. My cheeks were bright red. I went to work dulling the flush of anger with foundation and covering up a few lines that hadn’t been there last time I looked.

There had never been a commitment or even a promise. But it is, to say the least, disconcerting to kiss someone goodbye after he has made tender, passionate, skillful love to you, and have him show up with a brand new wife the next time you meet.

He hadn’t set me up for that shock, though. His pallor might have been due to rage, consternation, or fear, but it had been genuine. He hadn’t expected to see me.

I selected a dress and slid into it. It was black and slinky, with long sleeves and a neckline that plunged lower than Aunt Ermintrude would have approved. I filled in some of the space with a heavy (faux) gold necklace and pendant, stuck a couple of gold-headed picks into the hair coiled at the nape of my neck, and stood back to study the effect.