"And you talked to her?"

"Briefly. I spent more time with the daughter, though."

"What'd you think?"

"Of the daughter? Well, she's maybe the cutest, most adorable girl in all the world."

"Figures."

"But Anna Brody? No thanks."

I waited for him to explain.

Basically, Tim said she seemed nice enough and that she was definitely unusual-looking, but she wasn't as advertised. She was all bones and hard edges. Something about her unfortunate profile. I think I liked best what he said about me. That I was much more beautiful. That I was in rarefied company, and the way he saw it, Anna Brody was not in that company. Then he said, "I was expecting someone breathtaking. But you know what she is?"

"Tell me."

"She's just rich."

The boys called from the bathroom that they wanted bubbles. Tim left the room to oblige them, and when he was far enough away, I said so he couldn't hear: "Okay, then. You're forgiven."

I don't remember why, maybe I wanted a change, but the next day I decided to walk home up Hicks Street instead of Henry. The corner of Montague and Hicks is often windy, but that day the wind was so strong it felt as if I were about to be swept up myself, which was why it took both hands to hold my hat on my head, and why I turned to walk backward, which was why I happened to see in a window of the Heights Cafe that Anna Brody was waving at me. Now that she had my attention, she gestured for me to come inside.

By the way, Tim had been wrong about Anna. She was even more beautiful than I remembered. The only conclusion I could draw was that Tim didn't have very good taste.

Anyway, she met me near the front door.

"Look, I'd love to talk," I said. "But my boys are waiting . . ."

"Please," Anna begged, "you have to save me."

I remember thinking, Oh, right, as if Anna Brody needs saving. I was about to ask, "Save you from what?" when she pulled me toward the back of the restaurant to a table of well-dressed women, all midmeal.

"Ladies, I trust you know Kate."

None of them did. But they went around the room and introduced themselves. Lynn Auchindale. Valerie Snelling. Pamela Wyeth-Bacon. The last woman, with the clenched jaw, smiled a fierce, cold smile and said, "And I'm Abigail Hosford."

Oops. Her call was one I probably should've returned. I had expected someone much older. Abigail Hosford may have been all of thirty.

Anna slipped on her coat and said, "Kate and I have a previously scheduled engagement. Nice to meet you girls, thanks." The ladies glared at me, clearly blaming me for breaking up their party. Anna left quickly, and I trailed after. Outside, Anna said, "I owe you."

"But I did nothing."

"You have no idea. They were never going to let me go."

I tried to place Anna's accent. It seemed to come from both nowhere and everywhere, as if she'd been born and raised over an ocean at thirty-five thousand feet.

Anna went on, "Oh, I met your husband yesterday. He was a big help with my Sophie."

"Yes, he said you two had met."

We both stood there for a moment, unsure what we were doing next. Then Anna said, "Would you like to get a drink?"

"Yes," I said, forgetting about the boys back home.

At Jack the Horse Tavern, while we waited for our drinks, Anna said, "Your husband is really good with kids."

"You think?"

"My daughter is very shy. And she took to him right away. The way I took to you. Except I didn't fall asleep in your lap."

Our drinks arrived. Anna took a slow sip and continued, "I suppose I should've been concerned-my daughter in the lap of a man I'd never met. But when I put it together he was your husband, I thought, Well, of course."

I wasn't quite following her.

Then Anna asked, "How did you two meet?"

So I told her about the first time I met Tim Welch from Cayton, Ohio, on the campus of UC Berkeley. How he was skinnier then, all bones, and his hair was short, and when he spoke, he had a sibilant S, so he sounded like a bicycle with a slow leak. That he seemed so excited by the thought of everything, the possibility of everything, and this enthusiasm combined with an excess of energy and a tendency to cry made me certain that the Ohio boy following me around must be a h.o.m.os.e.xual. "Which was good news," I told Anna. "Otherwise I'd never have befriended him."

"Why?"

"Because at the time, I'd had enough of boys and professors, and I was looking for a way to unsmoke all the pot and, uhm, uns.e.x all the s.e.x."

Anna smiled as if she understood.

"Tim was innocent in a midwestern sort of way. He knew nothing of the world, it seemed, and I knew too much, and because I thought he'd be attracted to his own kind, I felt safe."

"Of course."

"But before the start of his soph.o.m.ore year, he came back two inches taller and ten pounds heavier. He'd even begun to shave selected areas of his face-the chin, above his top lip. He looked s.e.xy in a goofy kind of way. This was bad news for me, because I wasn't as frosty toward the idea of a relationship, and the one boy I fancied was never going to be interested in me. But then he asked to meet for a late-night 'ssssnack' at a local diner."

I worried I was talking too much, but Anna said, "Don't stop."

So I continued: "I arrived late, having spent, to my surprise, too much time primping in front of my dorm room mirror. That night, over cheese fries and a shared vanilla shake, Tim admitted his feelings for me, saying that he had liked me first thing. He said I reminded him of a blond Patty Hearst. I said, 'Thanks?' Then he said no, it was more specific than that. He took out his wallet, unfolded a photocopy from an old newspaper, saying, 'This is because I don't have a picture of you.' It was that famous Patty Hearst photo where she was wearing a beret, holding a machine gun while robbing a bank."

"That's sweet."

"So I brought him back to my room that night, and after we slept together, he cried . . ."

"He cried?"

"Yes, and said, 'Thank you ssssso much.' "

Anna laughed and said, "So he wasn't gay."

"No, he was just enthusiastic, and a crier, and for one night, at the very least, he'd made me feel like Patty Hearst."

Neither of us said anything. I felt I had revealed too much.

"Philip never cries. I don't know if he even has tear ducts."

I asked how they had met. Anna sighed and said, "It's not interesting. Not like you and your husband."

"Oh, come on."

"He bought me. Basically, I was for sale."

"What? Were you a prost.i.tute?" She didn't blink at my inappropriate question.

"No, I was poor. And he was anything but. And he wore me down. Philip is, if anything, persistent. And persuasive."

We had so much left to talk about, but my cell phone vibrated. It was Tim.

"I'm on my way," I told him. I flipped my phone closed and signaled for the check.

"Gotta run," I said. "Dinner's ready."

"So he cooks?"

"He boils noodles and heats up sauce . . ."

"Still."

When the check came, Anna wanted to pay. "No," I said, putting down my credit card, "it's on me."

Outside, we said our good-byes and headed off in separate directions.

Turning back, Anna called out, "Maybe you'll come for dinner sometime."

I said, "Yes, we'd like that." And I thought, It can't be soon enough.

JEFF SLADE.

I HOPE I'VE GOT THE RIGHT NUMBER. KATE? KATE OLIVER? IT'S SLAKOWITZ. JEFF Slakowitz. Did you know I changed my name? They made me. I go by Jeff Slade. But I'm still the same old Slakowitz. I don't know when we last talked. Was it your wedding? I hope you remember me, Kate Oliver. Because I'll never forget you. This machine is probably going to cut me off. Hey, remember your theory that in order to be famous, you need to have a big head? Well, you'll never guess what- As I was saying, remember your theory about bigheaded famous people? Well, you were right. Because Jay Leno's head is huge. The head of a bulldog. I just taped Leno. I'm on Leno tonight. It airs tonight. [Pause.] d.a.m.n, you probably don't even have a TV. You always hated TV. Did you know that I've got my own series? ABC. Sunday nights. Look, I got some more calls to make. But I just wanted you to know- Cut me off again. I'm just going to have to talk faster, aren't I? [Laughs.] I heard you have kids-two, how great is that? Kate, I'm proud of my new show. It's very family. One more thing-I'm on at the very end of Leno. And I talk about you. What am I saying? I'm talking about you when I'm talking at the end. [Pause.] Hey,greattalking. Hopeyou'rewell. It's great you have kids. Oh, and, of course, please say hey to Tom.

TIM.

WHAT WAS I THINKING, TOSSING MY RATTY BLACK OVERCOAT TO THE MAN IN THE tuxedo who opened the door? It was a sudden, arrogant impulse, but it took Kate digging her heel into my shoe for me to realize I'd been rude. "Thank you!" I hurried to say. The Man in the Tuxedo said, "You must be Tim." Impressive, I thought, for a cater-waiter to know me by my first name. He was a cla.s.sic cater-waiter type-mostly handsome, well mannered with two perfect racks of large, square white teeth. Then it occurred to me that I might have met this man some years before. Was he perhaps one of those actors Kate had bedded back in Berkeley? I'm not suggesting she had withheld telling me about this man-I sincerely believed she'd simply forgotten him, because he seemed rather much a type: the not-so-bright handsome-guy type who wanted to be famous but, in his quest for fame, developed no quality whatsoever that made him vivid in the long term. Then again, one need only consider the meteoric rise of Jeff Slade, the Jeff Slade, on-the-cover-of-TV Guide Jeff Slade, who, had things been different, easily could have been working this party as a cater-waiter himself, because what is vivid about Jeff Slade? Apart from being the most famous bad television actor in the world, apart from his highly publicized dalliance with that nasty ex-junkie rock star, apart from his recent release from the Betty Ford Center, and apart from the fact that the motherf.u.c.ker still calls me Tom, guess what's so vivid that sets Jeff Slade apart from all the other cater-waiters of the world? Jeff Slade is still in love with my wife.

Was this why I had tossed my ratty coat like a hot tamale and shouted, "Catch!" as it sailed through the air? Perhaps. Or maybe I was simply overcompensating for how small I felt. Earlier that evening, as I stood staring into our cluttered closet trying to decide what to wear, I made a decision. I will dress how I dress. I will be me. So I pulled from the closet my well-worn tan corduroy blazer; my scuffed brown loafers; my mohair sweater vest, a bird's nest of orange and yellow and light green threads of wool; and yes, later from the hall closet, I yanked from a hanger an old favorite article of clothing, my trench coat, purchased my senior year of college for six dollars at the Goodwill store in North Oakland.

When Kate suggested I wear something nicer, I gave my usual knee-jerk response, b.a.s.t.a.r.dizing Th.o.r.eau: "Beware the occasion that warrants a new suit." Knowing me to be stubborn when it comes to clothes, Kate didn't press the issue. I had prevailed.

We were quiet and reflective during our crisp walk across the Heights. Only the click-clack of her black heels underscored the scene. But as we approached the house and saw the chauffeur-driven limousines out front, I regretted my choice. Even before we climbed the bluestone steps to the majestic cream-colored house on Columbia Street, before entering the candlelit vestibule, before hearing the string quartet of recent Juilliard graduates carve the air with Beethoven, Vivaldi, and Bach, as the music floated across the exquisite and polished original parquet floors, bouncing off the walls as thick as buffalo, faintly echoing through all eighteen fireplaces, each cut from the same Italian pink marble; even before I met the other guests-of which there were only six, and before I realized who those six were-and certainly before I realized that the cater-waiter who caught my coat and carried it down the hall as if holding a priceless fur was not a cater-waiter at all but our host, Philip Ashworth, before all this and more became exceedingly clear, I had the wherewithal to sense that while Kate was dressed and ready to impress, we were both in way over our heads.

KATE.

TO UNDERSTAND THE INAPPROPRIATENESS OF WHAT TIM THEN DID, ONE HAS TO fully appreciate fine wine.

When Philip Ashworth announced he was opening a bottle of '59 Romanee-Conti Richebourg, Penelope Winston, the ex-supermodel/ linguist, turned to me and whispered, "It's a monster wine. Simply devastating. Had it once in Venice. Said to be one of the best burgundies you'll ever taste."

Philip Ashworth swilled it, sipped, and said, "Disappointing."

"Oh, come on, Philip," Wally Walker, the crown prince of publishing and Philip's roommate from Yale, called from across the room, cigar in hand. He insisted on tasting it. He took his turn, lightly smacked his lips, and said, "It seems tight to me. But just a little."

Against the objections of the other guests, Philip had the bottle taken away. He sent for two different bordeaux, and when the cater-waiter returned, Philip announced a '61 Haut-Brion and a '66 Le Pin and said, "We'll taste them against each other."

Wally Walker moaned in antic.i.p.ation and said, "This is why we love you, Philip."

I knew enough about wine to know that these were fantastic, once-in-a-lifetime wines. And as the wine goblets were filled to tasting depth, a large gla.s.s of orange juice was carried by another caterer on a tray and presented to my ridiculously underdressed nondrinker of a husband, which was bad enough, but then he joked, "And what year were these oranges squeezed?"

No one was amused. Tim gave out a high-pitched honk of a laugh, and I joined the others in ignoring him.

Anna Brody sat across the room in the bay window, near the crackling fire, blowing her cigarette smoke toward the chimney. I didn't know she smoked. On careful study, I saw that she didn't inhale. She was a social smoker. And the way she did it-the slow draw, the grand exhale into the updraft-made me wish I was smoking, too.

Philip very much wanted to know our thoughts.

Rene Scarlata, the bone-thin coloratura and consort of Dante Calibrini, the venture capitalist, favored the Haut-Brion. "But I could go the other way just as easily," she said. The men-Lancaster Group CEO Benjamin Wirtz, a banker from Hong Kong named Wai Jen, and Goldman-Sachs a.s.set allocation genius Walter Clyde-all championed the '66 Le Pin.

Taking in the room, I realized that these were all Philip's friends. We'd been invited to be Anna's.

Turning to me, Philip said, "Kate, which do you prefer?"

I looked around the room. All eyes were on me. "Which do I prefer?"

Everyone was waiting for my answer.

In one of the articles I had read on Louis Underfer, he'd been asked, "What is the key to a successful person?" His answer: "The ability to make a choice and, if it's wrong, then make another."

I felt blood rush to my face. Make a choice.

I am, by nature, not a person who seeks the spotlight. But something about that room, those guests, and such fine wine made me want to stretch this moment, make it last.

Philip said, "Kate, take a leap . . ."

The truth was I wanted to gush about all three, even the burgundy that we'd been forbidden from tasting. "Well," I said, "I would have to say-"

That was when Tim, out of nowhere, decided to tell an unrelated story. It was about a famous writer who suffered from depression and decided one day, because living was so hard and terrible, that he was going to kill himself.

The guests looked around. No one knew what to say. There had been no transition whatsoever. After a cold, dead silence, Wally Walker spoke. "Who was the writer?"

"I don't remember," Tim said. "But he's famous."

I had to laugh.

Tim went on to explain that this famous writer whose name he couldn't seem to remember had taken elaborate steps to prepare for his suicide. When asked what those actual preparations entailed, Tim didn't know! "But it's really beside the point," he said, digging his hole even deeper. "Because just as the famous writer was about to kill himself, he happened to hear on the radio the Four Last Songs by Strauss. The irrefutable beauty of the music made it impossible for him to do it. Suddenly, he wanted to live!"

Tim might as well have strapped a bomb to his own body. Not only was he committing a kind of social suicide, he was taking the party with him.