In private, Sybil had let Desmond know she wasn’t especially fond of Russell, had even hinted that she found him shallow. Desmond had mounted a full defense of Russell, but Sybil’s admission had secretly thrilled him and had endeared her to him; everyone else, even old friends who should have known better, were so enamored of his charming lover, he often felt like a grumpy tag-along. He wanted his friends to accept his partner, but actually liking him was beyond the call of duty. Sybil’s loyalty to Desmond, more than any interests or attitudes they had in common, made her feel like one of his most intimate friends.

“Is something going on here we should know about?” Russell asked.

“Well, yes, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Sybil had spent her childhood in Rhodesia and spoke in a clipped, breathless way that made her, at times, sound indignant.

“And the answer?” Desmond said.

She took a drink from a recklessly wide wineglass and shrugged. “No one knows, but we’re all assuming the worst, even though we have no idea what that could be. Oh look, Russell,” she said, “someone over by the window is waving at you.”

One of Desmond’s ex-boyfriends was beckoning Russell with his index finger. He was an attractive set designer with slicked-back blond hair who was always pawing at Russell—a cheap way of getting my attention, Desmond had convinced himself.

“He must be upset you’re leaving,” Sybil said, watching Russell make his way through groups of friends tossing promises of dinner invitations in his wake, setting up Russell as a victim of Desmond’s ruthless abandonment. “One imagines him drifting aimlessly without you.”

“Do you mean cruising?”

“Interesting you leapt to that association, but no, I mean wandering, unsure how to spend his time, drifting.” And then, as if delivering the key to understanding a completely obscure sonnet, she said: “You’re his anchor.”

It amazed Desmond that this kind of criticism of Russell, which he knew to be not only incorrect, but precisely incorrect, could still make him feel better about himself. Russell was eager, energetic, and so unfamiliar with aimlessness, he didn’t even recognize it in other people. Thank God. No doubt Sybil, who was dazzlingly astute and insightful about literature but always snatched at the most obvious conclusions when it came to flesh-and-blood people, was making assumptions based on the fact that Russell was a good four inches shorter than Desmond. As for the anchor comment, Desmond would take it as a compliment, even if anchor was just another way to describe a weight around your neck.

“I’m only leaving for one semester,” Desmond said. “I’ll be buried in students and he’ll be buried in his work and then I’ll be home. He’ll barely know I’ve gone.”

“Will you get some time to work on your book?”