“There were several hundred thousand ways I could have written about that relationship, since my feelings about it and about Charlie himself shifted by the minute through all those endless years of our marriage. And believe me, they were endless, each and every one of the fifteen. So I thought, okay, let’s just pick an attitude and stick with it. And then it hit me: true love. Why not? Give the people what they want. Out with irony, in with love. And boy oh boy, did it ever work. If you don’t believe me, call my accountant.”

She got up from the sofa, and he followed her into the kitchen, a small, spotless room that looked as if she rarely entered it. There was still a thin layer of smoke from the toaster oven hovering in the air near the ceiling. Desmond opened the window a crack to let in a warm breeze, and watched as the smoke dispersed. Rosemary poured herself more wine, but when Desmond held out his own glass, she dumped in a mere splash.

“Can’t you do a little better than that?” he asked.

She pouted, but filled up the glass, and for the first time, Desmond felt a flicker of approval from her. He was still reeling from her description of her book, a confession of complete cynicism as far as he could tell, but delivered in a confusingly earnest tone. When they returned to the living room, he went and stood at the windows, gazing out at the wall of lights, while she repositioned herself on the sofa. The big yellow cat stalked back into the room and gave Desmond another disgruntled look, as if to say, “Still here?”

“I didn’t figure you for a cat person,” Desmond said.

The cat sprang up to her lap and she began running her hand down its back in long, languid strokes. “I love my pussy,” she said. “Fuddy and I have been together a long time.”

Desmond watched the performance for a few more minutes. When she dropped her guard, stopped insulting you and lapping at her wine, she looked remarkably vulnerable, especially tonight, dressed in that red robe, her hair falling around her shoulders. He decided to take a chance at provoking more insults and said, “You know, Rosemary, I don’t believe what you just told me about your book. I don’t believe you calculated the whole thing, cooked up a scheme with your accountant. I think you wrote it from your gut.”