She’d laid out a whole theory behind her proposal for Dale, he’d bought it, told her it sounded wonderful, and in truth, it did. And why not? So what if she’d stumbled upon it at the last second, it was a hell of a lot more original than yet another fifteen-part series about the goddamned Monroe Doctrine or Westward Expansion, one of those showcases for someone’s research skills and lack of imagination, the kinds of things people were so busy praising they didn’t have time to watch. She’d arrange a meeting with Desmond Sullivan and pick his brains about it. Like most academics she knew, he could probably be bought out of academia with a few subway tokens and the promise of meeting a few third-rate TV personalities. The whole afternoon had been remarkably productive. So much so she’d forgotten why she was here until Dale brought it up himself.

“Tell me something, Janey,” he said, leaning on the table, cupping his face in his hand and gazing at her with the limp focus she recognized as his stock look of seduction. “Why did you call me up and arrange this little meeting? After all this time?”

“Millennial fever,” she said.

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Neither do I,” she said, “but I’ve heard it’s contagious. I hope you realize you’re making eyes at me.”

“If I am, it’s completely unconscious.”

She mimicked his body language, chin in her hands, her face inches from his. “Puberty,” she said, “was the last uncalculated move you made.”

“Oh really? I thought it was falling in love with you.”

“If you’d fallen in love with me, you never would have married me.”

“You’re so full of theories, Janey, you should have your own Web site. Why did I marry you?”

“How else were you going to have extramarital affairs?”

One of the big pink boys on the other side of the room dropped a cigar on the nearly marble floor and there was a stir of activity and laughter. Dale sat back in his seat and looked away from her, troubled now, and ran his hand through the dark brush of his hair. He had lovely, large hands, and Jane had always suspected he went for regular manicures. There was no other way to explain those perfectly shaped, shiny fingernails. “I have a suspicion,” he said, “just a suspicion, Caroline’s been talking to you. Am I right?”

“Caroline and I have friends in common. We were in a book group together before she married you, and we’ve been friends since. Why wouldn’t she be talking to me?”

“I mean about me. She thinks I’m having an affair. And believe it or not, Janey, I’m innocent.”

“I believe it not.”

“I promise you.”

“Oh. That’s different.”