She wanted to kick off her silly shoes again and stride over there like an actress on an orchestral surge, but she picked her way with dignity so as not to fall off her heels among the e-mailing enviers. They hated coveting her, she thought as she overlooked some of the climbers hoping she would recognize them. They angled for seats at her dinner table. If they knew how little was had there! She should address them posthaste, on that chair conveniently empty and so easily stood upon. You wish to be me? You wish to find status, its guarantee of contentment? My fellow newsmen, my sad girl reporters, beware of this, my listing ship.

“Stanley Belson,” she said joyously. She was behind his shoulder. Getting in front of him would have meant sitting on his keyboard. He was devouring the computer screen. For a moment she thought he might not turn from it. He probably didn’t remember her voice.

But he did. “Mabel Cannon,” he said, his fingers clacking a few last words.

She couldn’t help it. She swooped to him and put her arms around his neck.

“You remember,” she said in his ear. She could feel him laughing. She snuffled. “Just think,” he said back to her, “what everyone watching is thinking.” She unclamped him, and they turned to smile at each other.

“It’s always been a stage, hasn’t it?” she said, motioning to the Room.

“Yes, but one whose spotlight has yet to find me,” Stanley said. “Until now.”

“How have you been?” She really wanted to know. But the words weren’t out before she felt the gully between them and wished she hadn’t asked.

“Mabel, I’ve been terrible,” he said, fixing her unease.

They laughed again. And he added, “You too?”

“How did you know!?”

“I have instincts,” Stanley said. “If nothing else.”

For a few more moments, they were silent, just smiling at each other. Items pouring through their heads were too different in color and shape to seem similar. They were fundamentally the same, nonetheless. She felt it.

“Do you take a drink now and then?” she asked. Maybe he would make this second gambit feel natural as well.

“I do. Smoking still too, I’m afraid.”

She crouched quickly, removed the painful high heels, and said, “Here.” She scribbled her mobile number on a paper she pulled from the trash can under his desk. “I’m around tomorrow and the next day and the next day. I want to talk, really talk. Stanley, it’s, well …” she almost forgot what her convictions were. “We’re old enough to do this!” She whispered this conspiratorially, energetically. His eyes crinkled, and he cocked his head.

“We are,” he said. “I will call you.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

“Okay, then,” she said, reluctantly standing up again, toes slowly finding the infernal shoes.