Caitlin tips her head, like a magician who has just performed a successful trick. I guess she has. She doesn’t even have me up in arms about it, because, I too, would have been happy with only an hour extra with Camille. Now I’ll have an entire morning. We can wake up together. Have breakfast. I can take her to the airport. Wave her off. God, no, I don’t want to think about that part just yet. I refocus my attention on the three women I’m having dinner with tonight. Time may be running out, but it doesn’t mean I can’t make the most of it.

“I can’t believe you never had a civilized conversation with him,” Caitlin says. Wine has flowed freely and we’ve just all ordered a pousse-café, which Camille has taught us to pronounce without any residue of our native accents. It still doesn’t sound as convincing as when she says it. “It could have saved you so much hassle.”

“I don’t think you quite understand the situation I was in.” Camille has given Caitlin and Josephine the short version of her life story—the one I already know by heart. “Yes, at first, it hurt, because I felt like Jean-Claude had broken all our wedding vows in one fell swoop. Until I realized he hadn’t. And the one he did break wasn’t worth that much to me anyway. Because if not in deed, I had been breaking it in thought for much longer.”

Caitlin purses her lips together. “I’m not judging you, Camille. I know things were different back then. And everyone has their own story. I’m just saying that a little honesty can go a long way.”

“Let’s change the subject,” Camille says. “I’ve talked about my ex-husband enough for one lifetime. Give me some juicy gossip on Zoya instead.” She turns to me and winks.

“Zoya is a saint,” Caitlin says. “Truly a woman too kind-hearted for her own good.”

“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes.

The waiter arrives with our drinks. Grand Marnier for Camille and Josephine. Whiskey for Caitlin and me. I’m glad for the interruption. Perhaps bolstered by the favor she has done me by getting me some time off work on Thursday, Caitlin is in a combative mood tonight. Surely what she just said will be followed up by an actual piece of juicy gossip on me.

“Santé!” Camille raises her glass. “It’s a pleasure getting to know you all.” She swivels in her seat to face me again. “Especially this kind-hearted saint.” She leans forward and kisses me on the lips. There’s a hint of sadness in the way her lips are folded when her head retreats. I feel it too. I know from experience that great, sweeping emotions like these are often the precursor of an equally great loss.