He winced. “No, of course not. How do I find you? Telephone?”

“Yes, telephone. I’ll make sure to answer first.”

Iris marveled at herself, so composed and assured, making arrangements with her lover. What a difference from an hour ago! Now she’d seduced a man. There was no question who had seduced whom—she was the one who unbuttoned his shirt—she was the one who drew his hands to the zipper of her dress. Objectively, she knew she was bruised all over, that she had a plaster cast on her left leg plus stitches on her forehead near her hairline. Still she felt utterly beautiful, absolutely irresistible. She idled her hand on his cheek.

“Damn it all,” he said. “I want to see you again. Tonight. And the next night, and the next, and all the nights after that.”

“Then Ruth will know for sure.”

He swore again. “Can’t you get away at all?”

She squinted. “I could tell her I’m going away on a drawing holiday. There’s this class I’ve been taking at the American Institute. I could say we’re going to sketch monasteries in Tuscany or something.”

“That’s it. You could stay at my flat. I can’t take any vacation myself, or they’d know something was up. But I’d come home early every night. I’d take the most lavish care of you. We’d have a week or more.”

“Like paradise. But not until the stitches are out. And the cast.”

“How long is that?”

“Four more weeks for the cast. Is that all right? The first week of May.”

Sasha bent his head to kiss her hand. He’d brushed his hair wet, and the warm light from the courtyard turned his hair a sleek, dark gold. Iris thought how soft his hair felt as it fell on her stomach and breasts and thighs.

“All right,” he said. “The first week of May.”

Ruth

JUNE 1952

New York City

I first discovered Barbara Kingsley in the same way Columbus discovered America—while I was busy looking for something else. There was this party in Greenwich Village, some artist pal, low-down dive kind of crowd, and I was hoping to glimpse a certain on-again, off-again beau of mine and climb on again.

At the time, Barbara was doing some artist work—you know what I mean, sitting there nude on a stool to inspire a bunch of men and their drawing pencils—and she lounged on a sofa between a pair of girls, bearing a glass of gin and a bored expression. The bells went off in my head. I forgot all about Mr. On Again and bustled right up to her.

“Excuse me. Ruth Macallister.” I stuck out my hand. She not so much shook it as curled her fingers briefly around mine. “If you haven’t already signed with a major New York modeling agency, I’d like you to consider mine.”