But Celeste had sexually forsaken him in the last few years. She went to bed, alone, at ten o’clock. She’d let herself go, gaining weight, eschewing makeup as if to repel his romantic interest. During the week, there was physical distance between them; on weekends, it was emotional. Gabe had always filled that void with young, attractive women who did not pose a threat to his marriage. But there was something different about Natalie Murphy.

He’d been stupid and reckless, had let her get under his skin. Natalie should never have spent the night with him at his apartment; it was too intimate, too much like a real relationship. The girl knew her way around his place, knew how to make cappuccinos, for Christ’s sake. And that night, when she’d told him she loved him, he should never have said it back. They’d been drinking; they were in the throes of passion. He didn’t really mean it . . . but then, he didn’t not mean it, either. Jesus . . . He’d created a problem.

He would set boundaries with Natalie, and he would stay with Celeste. For now, anyway. He’d always been comfortable compartmentalizing his life: the woman in the country, and the girl in the city. He glanced at his watch. The girl in the city would be on the subway now. In about forty-five minutes, she’d arrive at his luxurious building. Setting down his empty glass, he called his doorman.

After that, he called his real estate agent friend, Calvin. The younger man owed him a favor—or ten—after Gabe had helped him salvage the sale of a Midtown building to Chinese billionaires that had turned ugly. After ensuring his strictest confidence, Gabe instructed him to find something small, rent-stabilized, if possible, in the West Village or Chelsea. Natalie would be fairly close to campus, and not too far (and not too close) to his Upper East Side home. He could stop by her place on his way home from work, if he felt like it. She could ride the subway uptown to be with him. And at the end of the night, he could send her home.

He got up and made himself another Scotch.

29

The Delusion

The alarm on Nat’s phone beeped: 7:00 A.M. She stretched dreamily, relishing the soft sheets that smelled subtly of Gabe’s cologne. It was Monday; she didn’t have time to lie around. She had classes in a couple of hours. She had to find a new place to live. She had to get her boxes out of Brooklyn. But, as she had for the past two days, she allowed herself a moment to enjoy being there, in that sumptuous apartment on Park Avenue. She allowed herself to pretend it was her home.

Climbing out of bed, she padded to the kitchen in her T-shirt and panties and turned on the coffee machine. She opened the fridge and peered inside. There was a jug of organic milk, a dozen eggs, some cheese, and an onion. She could make an omelet or scrambled eggs. Did she have time? She didn’t, really, but the thought of cooking in Gabe’s kitchen was strangely appealing. She was rummaging through his kitchen cupboards when her phone buzzed.