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seemed self-evident, and besides it was boring. She didn’t tell him that she’d married the wrong man because before that she’d been engaged to the right man, but he’d jilted her. That could be made to sound dramatic, but what was the point? If she’d married Bill he might have turned out to be even worse than Rusty … you never knew!
    She mentioned her daughter Emma, who was such an important part of her life, and told him how Emma was working in films as a glorified gofer, with dreams of becoming a producer and director, the same dreams he had. She commiserated with him about how hard it was.
    She did not mention Max. You didn’t say that there had been only one man in your life who had always been there for you, but that unfortunately he was murdered by a psychopath he’d picked up in a gay bar. No, that was definitely too bizarre. You did not discuss tragedies when you were talking to a potential one-night stand.
    She was in Paris, at night, with a beautiful, affectionate-looking young man, and who could ask for more at this moment? She liked his voice, and his cat’s eyes, and his mouth. She looked at his mouth and imagined kissing him. Yes, he was what she wanted. She glanced at her watch.
    “It’s late,” he said, apologetically. “I’ll get you a taxi.”
    “Would you like to come back with me and have a drink?” she asked.
    “Oh, yes,” he said, delighted.
    Making love with him was even better than she had anticipated, and Annabel wondered for an instant why she had gone so long without this; the delight that was so great it always surprised her. He was hers: the hard, smooth muscles under the silky skin of his lean young body, all the energy and the tenderness of him, hers to touch, to share, to enjoy. She read him with her fingertips. The downy cheekbone that had been forbidden across from her at the tiny table in the café was hers, as was everything: nothing forbidden in that bed, everything giving more pleasure and excitement. They devoured each other with all the greed and yearning they had been hiding during their civilized mating dance.
    Afterward he lay with his head on her shoulder and she stroked his thick hair. The sex had been terrific, and usually she felt marvelously relaxed and happy. But not this time. Annabel watched the sky go pale with morning through the double-height French windows and wondered why. For just a few moments, for no reason that had to do with him, she felt a little bit sad.
    He was happy as a puppy in the morning, and that made her feel guilty and almost melancholy. She used to feel that way, not a care in the world, so pleased with herself. She shared her morning coffee and rolls with him, and then he watched her finish packing.
    “I hope the next time you come to Paris I can see you again,” Mathieu said.
    “Of course,” Annabel said.
    “If I ever get to New York I’ll call you.” He smiled. “Maybe by the time I get to New York I’ll be famous.”
    She smiled back; Annabel the Southern Belle, the flirt, the charmer. “I bet you will be,” she said.
    She was glad to be in London again. There was something about London that always made her feel at home, as if she’d been there in another life. She stayed at a sweet little bed and breakfast place which was much less expensive than the big hotels, and all day she ran around the streets looking. Some of the kids seemed to have nothing to do but try to look like members of punk rock groups and hang out with their other unemployed friends. It was a sign of a depressed economy and lost young people, and it disturbed her. But the beautiful old houses, the winding little streets, and the parks that were always green, even in the winter, cheered her up again. She had a very dignified, solitary dinner at The Connaught Hotel Grill, having carefully reserved in advance from New York, and the Scotch salmon, Dover sole, and the solid, peaceful atmosphere made her glad she had planned this special night out just