“I’ve had better,” he said. Like, for example, the day the immigration officer at JFK had pulled him out of the line because of his Arab name and Arab face and Arab passport and locked him in a room for five hours while unseen hands disassembled his suitcase and sliced open the stitching of a two-thousand-dollar Canali suit. Even that day was better than this one.

He smiled and put his hand on hers. “Let’s make it better later. What if I come to your place tonight?”

“Sure.” She smiled back. This had been happening more often now. From once a week to twice a week, which felt about right. He was a considerate lover, thorough but not overstepping bounds, physical or emotional. He was in it for sex and company, and so was she. It didn’t hurt that he was handsome. Tawny skin, firm jaw, penetrating eyes. She had no false modesty about her own looks; why should she settle for less in a man? The thought made her think of Stanley Pleski’s fat pasty face, the ultimate contrast. And that made her raise a hand to signal a waiter for that second martini, just as her phone dinged with a text. She looked down. It was from Rafe. When can I see you?

“Word on your deal?” asked Majid.

“Hmm?”

“Your deal? The one you’re waiting to close?”

Oh, right, that. She didn’t hesitate. “No,” she said. “It’s nothing.” She looked again at the message from Rafe. And Majid’s phone went ding.

He looked at it. And smiled.

“Good news?” said Catherine.

“It is,” he said. “I’ll celebrate vicariously. Have that other drink.”

Catherine

CATHERINE

Twelve hours later, the predawn sun still behind the mountains, Catherine stood on the three-meter board at the Piscine des Vernets, south of the city center, on the bank of the Arve. Other early risers were swimming laps at the indoor pool. The adjacent bar area, filled in the evenings with people who were about to swim or had finished swimming or who just liked the pickup scene at the bar, was deserted. Catherine tested the board with a bounce. Getting ready to dive, there was nothing else in her mind. No Pleski. No Rafe—she hadn’t even answered his text. And not Majid. He’d come over late, they’d had sex, he’d left while she was sleeping. It was perfectly satisfactory.

She bounced on the board again. And again. Not enough play. She stepped off and turned the wheel that adjusted the fulcrum. Remounted and bounced again. And now it was right. She stepped back into starting position and took a breath, then moved. Three forward steps, quick but smooth, then jumped straight up, high. She landed on the board and rode it down, her weight and momentum pushing until the board stopped, and then the rebound vaulted her up into empty air.