Her raincoat hung from some hook in the hallway, identical to the others. She rifled through them all until she found hers, identifiable by her slim clutch pocketbook stuck into the right armhole, because she hated having to carry a pocketbook around a party. The coat was layered beneath a couple of others, and it took some effort to untangle them all. Somewhere in the middle of the struggle, a friendly American voice asked, “May I be of assistance?”

Iris jumped and turned. A man had appeared out of nowhere—a thick-shouldered, square-jawed, cleft-chinned all-American of a type Iris hadn’t seen in years. He showed her some friendly white teeth and continued in a slow country cadence designed by God to soothe skittish horses. “Say, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“Not at all.”

He reached up and removed her raincoat from the hook. Like a gentleman, he helped her into it, holding her pocketbook for her as she stuck in one arm and then the other. When she turned to thank him, he tipped his hat and wished her a good evening. She was still staring at the door when Sasha ranged up and asked her what was the matter.

Nothing, she said.

BY THE TIME SHE and Sasha arrived home in Holland Park at half past one in the morning, a light, miserable rain dropped from the sky. Sasha stumbled out of the taxi and told the driver to wait, he’d be back in a moment.

“You’re not going back out again, are you?”

“Burgess and a few others. Gargoyle Club. I won’t be long. I’ll walk you upstairs,” he added generously, as he gave her his arm to help her out of the taxi.

“No, you won’t. You’ll come upstairs with me and go to bed, like a decent husband and father. Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

“In point of fact, it’s already Sunday.”

“Sasha, please. Stay.”

She put her hand on his chest and did her best to capture his gaze, the way she used to do, but his eyes were drunk and blurry and he looked right through her.

“Darling, just for an hour or two. Back before you know it.”

“You know that’s not true. Don’t be an idiot, Sasha.”

The taxi driver tooted the horn.

“Christ, Iris. It’s just a drink.”

“It’s not just a drink. It’s your life, it’s your career! I’ve been hearing rumors—”

He seized her by the arms. “Rumors? What the hell are you talking about? Who’s spreading rumors?”

“Nobody! Just people, they’re talking about how much you drink, all these stupid, crazy escapades—”

He swore and let her go. He swung the taxi door open without another word and she wanted to scream after him, What’s wrong? What’s happening? Why won’t you tell me?