When they had awoken from their impromptu nap, Mick remembered a great mom-and-pop Italian bistro that was only a couple of blocks away, but Sarah had been reluctant to leave the room. She was still hopeful Vicki might call. Mick could have told her waiting for the phone to ring was a waste of time. A decade of directing had made him something of an expert at reading faces, and Vicki’s was stone-cold shut. No call would be forthcoming.

The room service arrived twenty minutes later and was surprisingly good. They ate the perfectly grilled halibut with buttery mashed potatoes, “local” asparagus—which Mick had argued against because where in the hell were they growing asparagus in New York City—but Sarah won. He was grateful to see her appetite was better than it had been that morning. However, she still looked a little pale and had developed violet shadows under her eyes. It was as if they had made an unspoken pact and talked only about inconsequential things, like the premiere of his new movie, which would be a week from Thursday in New York. He floated the idea of the two of them staying the extra week. “We could make a vacation out of it, amble through the museums, take in some Broadway shows, shop for a fancy outfit, and you can attend the premiere with me.”

She demurred. Her cat, Charlie, would be missing her. And even though he was disappointed, he enjoyed watching Sarah’s face lighten as she described how her motley cat would insist on sleeping with his nose tucked into the nape of her neck, his paw draped across her shoulder. “Claws ready to extend,” she said, raising her hand, arching her fingers into pretend kitty claws, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “To hold me in place, even in his sleep, to make sure I’m not preparing to vacate the bed.”

“Sounds like a tyrant,” Mick said, not in a complimentary fashion, but Sarah took it as one and smiled.

“He is,” she replied, and scooped up another forkful of mashed potatoes.

Once they had noshed on the “healthy portion” of the meal, they tucked the dirty dishes and leftovers in the belly of the white-linen-covered trolley. Then, with fanfare, Mick had removed the organic carrot cake with crushed pineapple, the homemade chocolate peanut bar, and a pot of steaming-hot coffee.

“Oh my,” Sarah half moaned, half sighed as she sank her fork into the cake. “You are a terrible, terrible man.”