“It gives you this dramatic flow of energy,” she said, taking a swig. “I’d let you try it, darling, but each person’s spiritual profile is different and special incantations are said over each bottle before it’s shipped—it’s special-order, you know—to match your spirit profile. Otherwise, it doesn’t work.”

Sylvia shook her head and smiled. Even if this didn’t work out, she thought, at least she’d have some fun.

Over she-crab soup and vegetarian gumbo, they had a free-ranging conversation about the arts and politics. Jane was quite bright, Sylvia realized. She was a big blues fan. In between flirting with the ephebic waiters she would pat her chest and swoon. “Listen to that. That’s Freddie King. He sounds like he’s playing your spine.” And she didn’t place much emphasis on time. Whenever Sylvia tried to loop the conversation to business, Jane would ignore her and ramble on. When Sylvia checked her watch for the seventh time, she dug into her bag for her Nokia.

“Callem and tellem you’re lunching. You’re an editor. You must have long lunches. How else do you show your power?”

Then finally, when the table was cleared, Jane got around to business.

“Okay, here’s the drama,” Jane began. “You’ve heard of A. J. Heath, the novelist, haven’t you, darling? The Rudies? Miriam? Dangling on the Brink of the Edge?”

She hadn’t. But she knew better than to say that.

“Well, he’s who we want you to interview. He’s really neat and bright. He turned down a Rhodes Scholarship because he said Cecil Rhodes was a racist. He was short-listed for the Booker Prize this year but he didn’t win. He should’ve won though. But I think there’s been a backlash against non-British writers. After Rushdie and Okri people started complaining. From talking to you I think the both of you would make a very good interview. It would be five thousand words, at a dollar per word plus expenses. There are basic guidelines for our interviews but our interviewers basically make up their own. We like their personalities to come out as well. And you’ve got loads. Does it sound like something you’d like?”

“Well …” She was hoping Jane wouldn’t ask any deeper questions about the work. She knew nothing of British literature.

“I don’t mean to rush you,” Jane said. “But I do need to know by tomorrow morning.”

Sylvia had been a journalist long enough to know she could do this piece—any piece, really—with a good press kit and some research. But as she walked down Park Avenue to Union Square, thinking about her luck, five thousand easy dollars, she cautioned herself about getting excited. If she took the assignment and was discovered, she would lose her job. But this was the kind of assignment that her résumé needed. She was still thinking of moving on—after finishing the new novel, which she estimated would take a year.

I need to call Diego, she thought as she crossed Fourteenth Street and picked up Broadway. And I need to get copies of those books.