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ambassador’s wife. The DCM’s wife, who seemed to be there in the role of vice-principal, nodded for emphasis.
    “Reading, I suppose,” said Jane. The two ladies were stone-faced.
    “And the children, of course.” They were glowering.
    “And…tennis.”
    “Hmmm,” said the ambassador’s wife. Jane seemed to have come up with an at least partially correct answer.
    “Doubles?” said Mrs. Wigg.
    “Yes, quite often I do play doubles. Though in Oman it was usually so hot….”
    “Tomorrow morning, then!” said the ambassador’s wife, cutting her off. “Nine o’clock!”
    Mrs. Wigg rose from the couch and smiled at Jane through clenched teeth.
    “I’m so pleased,” said Mrs. Wigg, and with that, she departed to attend to other guests, leaving Jane and Bianca Garrett together on the couch.
    Jane waited for the older women to say something, and when she didn’t pressed ahead herself.
    “Bianca…,” Jane began.
    “Binky,” the other woman corrected her. She was patting her hair, which was lacquered in place around her head like a helmet.
    “Have you been in Beirut very long, Binky? We’ve only just arrived.”
    “I must tell you that you’re very lucky,” said Mrs. Garrett.
    “Oh yes,” said Jane. “We love Beirut.”
    “I mean about the tennis,” said the older woman. “You needn’t worry about playing well, by the way. She’s terrible. But it’s a good start for you.” There seemed to be a hint of jealousy in her voice.
    “And you aren’t even one of us, really,” added Mrs. Garrett.
    “Excuse me,” said Jane. “I’m not sure I understand.”
    “Oh come now,” said the other woman, leaning toward Jane in a conspiratorial whisper.
    “Everyone knows that Tom isn’t a foreign service officer. It’s no secret, and why should it be? You’re among friends.”
    Jane blushed so deeply and suddenly that she felt as if her cheeks were on fire.
    “You’re awfully lucky that Tom’s boss isn’t here. The fat one. Hoffman. He’s a toad. And his wife, Gladys, is even worse. They tell me she has a degree from a secretarial school. Nobody in our crowd likes the Hoffmans. He’s so loud .”
    Jane cleared her throat.
    “Say!” remarked Bianca Garrett to herself as if she had solved a riddle. “That’s probably why you’re here! Because Frank Hoffman isn’t.”
    Jane Rogers, her discomfort increasing by the moment, signalled for a waiter.
    “Let me tell you something, dearie,” said Bianca Garrett in a whisper. “I used to work for you-know-who myself once, as a code clerk, in Lagos and then in Addis Ababa. That’s how I met Phil.” She winked and took another drink from the waiter who had arrived with his silver tray.
    “So don’t think I don’t know the score,” Binky continued. “And let me give you a word of advice. In a post like this, where socializing is half the fun, you really shouldn’t keep to yourself and your little crowd from the fifth floor. Don’t fight the ambassador. And for heaven’s sake, don’t fight his wife!”
    Jane, who had never acknowledged to another soul outside the agency what her husband really did for a living, mumbled a few words and changed the subject.
    “We’re looking for a good doctor for the children,” she asked sweetly. “Can you recommend someone?”
    Binky, with one more wink, recited the list of acceptable practitioners.
    Eventually the bell rang, signalling that it was time for dinner. As Binky Garrett rose from the couch, she leaned unsteadily toward Jane and confided a last bit of advice.
    “It all looks very civilized around here,” she said. “But you and Tom shouldn’t forget that there are Indians just over the hill. Looking for scalps. And white women!”
    She downed her drink and was off.
     
     
    Rogers was seated at dinner between the wife of the Lebanese Army general and the wife of the French chargé. Both turned to him nearly in unison when they were seated, both staring up coquettishly at the tall and