Phylida read the premailed directions (“Unscheduled toasts may come after dessert and coffee”) as I drove through town to the restaurant. Every inch of street was jammed with traffic and sunburned people in salmon-colored shorts shoving past each other, licking melting ice cream off their wrists. Sebastian talked nonstop: “I wonder if Bibbity Blob is coming.” She talked about Niloo’s college days: “She bought a new purse every time she went to New York City. She slept with what’s-his-name.” When we pulled in line for the car valet, Sebastian asked if I had a tissue and cleared her throat and served up a morsel of vomit. “I hate this kind of thing,” she said. Phylida leaned backward with her arm through the slit in the front seats, the dark-blue matte cloth of her dress pulling taut across her front, highlighting her individuated teardrop-shaped braless tits that I’d felt before, and patted Sebastian’s knee.

The women walked behind me as I strode through the restaurant, trying to think of a way to tell people I’d been to London twice for work in the last six months. There was a patio where people stood drinking. The dining area was out back under a tent. We said hello to Bob’s parents and met Niloo’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Niyangoda, and Mr. Niyangoda’s new wife, Naomi. Phylida looked around and said it all seemed nice, and I nodded and she said, “At my wedding the bridesmaids will wear metallic scarves, very little makeup, full-length illusion skirts. The cake will be made to look like Wedgewood.”

Sebastian was wondering what Niloo’s hair would be like. Sebastian’s own hair was short and so greasy and frail it looked like it had been waxed to her head. Something about events like these made people appear either acceptable or pathetic. I got us another round. I’d actually had one more up at the bar, which made three. Was my drinking maybe becoming something? Had it blossomed over these last few months, at home at night, waiting for Phylida, alone until 2 or 3 A.M., foggy and secretly seething? It was a question.