The masseur saluted and shouldered off toward the estate’s main gate at a brisk pace. He looked back and smiled nervously when he saw that Cab was still watching him. He gave a little wave, but Cab thought he couldn’t get away fast enough.

*

Diane was waiting for him in the first-floor study. It was a man’s room in a woman’s house, with wine-colored wallpaper and heavy, dark walnut on a wall of built-in bookshelves. It had a fireplace and wet bar. The armchairs looked weathered and not particularly comfortable. An oil painting of Birch Fairmont above the fireplace made him look like a Rockefeller.

‘Hello, Cab,’ Diane said.

He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He ran his fingers along the spines of the hardback books on the shelves. He could feel her eyes following him.

‘Red or white?’ she asked. She had two bottles of wine open on a silver tray. He didn’t doubt that both were expensive.

‘Red.’

‘That’s what I prefer, too,’ Diane said, ‘but I have to drink white now because of the campaign.’

Cab stopped and cocked his head, puzzled. She laughed and tapped a finger on her lips. ‘Teeth,’ she went on. ‘Red wine stains the teeth. Doesn’t look good on television.’

‘Amazing,’ Cab said.

‘Yes, it’s a different world, but you know that. Your mother faced the same thing all those years.’

‘Yes, she did.’

‘Sit down, won’t you?’ Diane asked. ‘I don’t bite.’

There were two armchairs, decorated in a floral pattern, on either side of the antique table on which Diane placed the wine glasses. His was a large, gently fluted bowl glass, in which she’d poured two inches of Cabernet. Hers was a crystal tulip, and she’d filled it with Sauvignon Blanc. He sat down, and she sat down. The two chairs were angled toward each other, and Cab had to bend his long legs awkwardly so as not to touch her.

Finally, he looked at her. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and her face was flushed from the shower. Or maybe it was flushed because she was remembering when they were last together. She was older now – her skin not as taut, her brunette hair scrubbed of gray – but she was still elegant and attractive. She was casually dressed, but to Diane, casual meant a rose blouse, white satin slacks, and heels. He’d changed into a beige suit and narrow tie.

They clinked their glasses in a silent toast and drank. The Heitz Cabernet was superb.

‘Tarla doesn’t know,’ Diane said. ‘That was your first question, wasn’t it?’

He nodded, because she’d read his mind. He realized that Diane was different now. More confident and mature, more open. The Diane of ten years ago wouldn’t have bulled her way into that particular china shop.

‘Why didn’t you tell her?’ he asked.