“I used to be,” she continued. “It seemed easy once. Or maybe I wasn’t really happy. Maybe I was just having fun. That’s different, isn’t it? I think I used to be very selfish. I didn’t understand that actions had consequences. When Milena and I first met, before we were married, we were a bit like Beth, I suppose—out every night, lots of men, lots of parties, lots of drink. But then it all changed. You reap what you sow, that’s what they say. But I wish I’d understood then what I was sowing. Shall we have a dessert wine?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “If I drink during the day I fall asleep. But go ahead if you feel like one.”

“No, you’re probably right, and we should get back to work, I suppose. Sorry to ramble on. Sometimes I feel so . . .” But she stopped, shook her head as if to clear it, put her spectacles back on, gave me a wry smile. “Right. Let’s go and talk doublets and hose.”

When we returned to the office, I felt Milena’s computer drawing me as if I was attached to it with invisible cords. But I didn’t work on the computer that afternoon. I sketched our thoughts for the party into a coherent proposal. It was so trivial and so interesting that I felt regret that this would surely be my farewell to working with Frances. I finished the proposal and had almost cleared my desk when David arrived to collect her. He was in a bad mood and scarcely glanced in my direction. Frances made an apologetic grimace. I muttered an excuse and left.

When I got home, I ran up to the computer without even taking off my jacket. I went through the tiresome business of typing in my new email address and password, copying each character one by one. There was a new message and I clicked on it.

The previous messages had been written above the one before but now the old ones had been deleted. The subject line said, “Who are you?” and the message repeated, “Who are you?”

Chapter Twenty-One

Against my better judgment, I had promised to be at the latest Party Animals happening because Beth was away for the long weekend she’d been planning. A very long weekend that was actually one day short of a week. “Just to give you a better feel for what we do,” Frances had said, the afternoon before. “You don’t need to do anything, really. Just be in the background and keep an eye on things.” She had examined me dubiously. “It’s that women-in-commerce thing you costed,” she said. “You know, dozens of high-powered women networking and complaining about men. So if you could . . .” She faltered.

“Wear a suit?”

“Yes. Something like that. Thanks, Gwen.”