Jane frowned. For the two nights Rosemary and Charlie visited, Jane and Dale lay curled up in bed, trying to muffle fits of hysterical laughter as they discussed what looked like Rosemary’s attempt to induce a heart attack. She and Dale always got along best when there was someone else nearby to act as buffer, especially if it was someone neither of them liked. They had had good times, there was no point in trying to deny it, but anyone could have a good time if they let themselves get caught up in laughter and romantic outings that distract you from your basic unhappiness and incompatibility.

“I was thinking about having a Scotch on the rocks,” Dale said. “Join me?”

It was 3:30 and there was no taping this afternoon, and in every practical sense, she’d finished working shortly after her morning coffee. She hadn’t had a drink at this time of day for years, possibly not since those languid summer afternoons she and Dale had spent on Nantucket the first two years they were married. These days she got a headache about half an hour after a few modest sips of liquor, went straight from the anticipation of the drink to the hangover, with no moment of release in between. But she knew that if she sat there nursing a coffee while Dale slugged back a Johnnie Walker, she’d feel like one of those priggish suburban mothers she despised. So when the waitress came over—a gaunt, pale girl with a boy’s haircut; French, if you bought the accent—she decided to go for broke and ordered a martini.

“And would you mind taking the fish,” Jane said.

“Oh. You don’t find it relaxing?”

“I’d prefer something edible,” Jane said.

Dale watched the girl’s candlestick legs as she clicked away. “How’s little Jerry?” he asked.

“Jerry’s delightful,” Jane said. Once, when he was three years old, Jane had made the mistake of calling her son Jerry. “My name is Gerald!” he’d screamed at her. “Gerald!” Fearing a major scene, neither Jane nor Thomas had made the mistake again. “He’s been nothing but pleasure from the beginning. We got lucky with him.”

“It’s not luck, he just takes after you. How old is he? Five, six? I suppose he’s into basketball.”

What was that supposed to mean? “He’s all caught up in gymnastics,” she said. “We take him to lessons every week. The teacher thinks he’s ready for the advanced class, but I don’t want him getting competitive.”