Rosemary Boyle clicked off the television set and rearranged the stack of pillows on the bed in her New York sublet. This wasn’t the most spacious apartment she’d rented over the years, and the light was barely adequate; but whoever had furnished it had a pillow obsession. The place looked like a harem and was a sprawler’s paradise. Too bad she preferred sitting upright in a stiff chair. The one thing she couldn’t argue with was the location. It took her fifteen minutes to walk to the class she was teaching at Columbia, and she’d been told it was only a block and a half to the Hudson. One of these days she’d stroll in a westerly direction and glance at the river. The sight of it might inspire a poem. On second thought, maybe she wouldn’t walk that way; she didn’t like paeans to nature, those limpid sonnets that were supposed to make you applaud the writer’s sensitivity to lower forms of life and scenic vistas. She’d take an old-fashioned versified transcription of a therapy session—full of anger, self-pity, and blame—any day. Those were always good for a laugh.

She tossed the remote control onto the night table. She’d paid for a whole month of cable just so she could watch Jane’s big documentary project and prove what a good, devoted friend she was, but good friend or not, she didn’t intend to lie here and listen to Pauline Anderton howling her way through “Over the Rainbow” as the end credits rolled. At this very moment, people all over the country were probably tripping over their feet in a mad dash for their mute buttons.

In one hour, she was heading out to a party a friend of Desmond Sullivan’s was throwing for him and Jane. Prior to watching the documentary, Rosemary had been dreading the event, assuming she’d have to control her drinking so she wouldn’t end up in a dark corner, three sips past sober, telling someone what she really thought of the thing. Now that she’d seen it, she could drink herself into a stupor without worry; Cry Me a River was actually not horrible. Jane had produced an odd, interesting film that not only told the story of a (boring) life, but also had something—not much, but something—to say about the music business, the fleeting nature of celebrity, and even, God forbid, about love. Hats off to Jane Cody and the sentimental Mr. Sullivan.