It was a small room that looked out to an air shaft, but it had been given the movie set treatment made famous by Velan’s hotel chain: an immense painting over the bed, long white sheets covering the windows, a few garish pieces of asymmetrical Italian furniture, all designed to trick the eye into zeroing in on individual corners of the room and thus missing the claustrophobic whole. There was a leather suitcase open on the bed. Desmond peered into it at the carefully packed shirts and pants, thinking for one loopy second that it had something to do with his own departure. Then the door to the bathroom swung open and Peter emerged, drying his hands on a big green towel. He was a heavy man who carried himself with calm self-confidence, the kind of man you’d call in an emergency, hoping Velan didn’t pick up the phone. He had on a pair of khaki pants and a black T-shirt with a pad of graying hair sticking out of the neckline. He smiled wanly at Desmond, as if he’d been expecting him, and tossed the towel onto the bed.

“Going somewhere?” Desmond asked cheerfully.

“I’m afraid so.” His voice was thick.

It was then that Desmond noticed he was unshaven and that his eyes were a bright, nearly alarming shade of red. Desmond felt the smile melt off his own face. “Peter,” he said. “What’s happened?”

“Velan’s asked me to get out.” Peter sat in one of the dark purple chairs and let his head fall into his hands. The chair, shaped more or less like a cupped hand, was far too whimsical a setting for this display of raw emotion. Suddenly, all the bright, pretty furnishings, the sound of the party in the other room, even the faint smell of Velan’s sandalwood aftershave seemed inappropriate and poignant.

Desmond took a seat on the edge of the bed, his knees practically touching Peter’s. Of all the people here tonight, it was Peter he respected the most. It took integrity to put up with the likes of Velan, and Peter got too little credit for that. Although almost everyone who knew them acknowledged that Peter was the more likable and sympathetic of the two men, the kinder and the more intelligent, Velan was still considered the catch, the one who’d been hooked by lucky and—it had to be, what other explanation was there for the loyalty of someone like Velan?—massively endowed Peter. Velan made frequent, humorless jokes about replacing Peter, which Desmond had taken to be verbal aphrodisiacs. But now, it had happened.

“I’m sorry this had to play itself out this afternoon, Desmond, just in time to ruin your party.”

“Please, don’t even mention that. It doesn’t matter a bit. What happened?”