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carvedmarble table, Andrew is truly ravishing. He should stand there always, he should always just be there for her to look at. Thinking this, Margot smiles as she offers him more coffee.
    But Andrew is not smiling; he is talking seriously. (God, why do men always talk so much? Margot has repeatedly wondered this, even of beautiful Andrew, but she has come up with no answer.)
    “…  real recession,” he is saying. “No matter what the feds are calling it. Things are very bad, and my private crystal balls are telling me it’s getting worse. Lord, I may have to move.”
    Very little of this has got through to Margot. She never reads or watches any news, confining herself mostly to fashion magazines and memoirs, preferably of the very rich and sexually active. But she did quite clearly understand Andrew as he said, “…  have to move.”
    “But, darling, wherever would you go?” she asks him, all sympathy.
    “Oh, someplace south of Market, probably. Maybe Bluxome Street. Somewhere like that.”
    “Ugh.” Margot shrugs theatrically. “I’ve never even been there.”
    “Or maybe Potrero. Richard and I took in a party there.”
    “Oh, you and Richard?” Margot giggles, believing it permissible to tease Andrew in this way.
    But Andrew seems not to take this as teasing. Or to be not in the mood for teasing. “Yes, Richard and I went to a party, is that so odd? Really, Margot, Richard is possibly my closest friend.”
    He is so deadly serious, so unlike his usual light jokey self, that Margot is silenced, nonplussed, even as her mind records and dissects this exchange, and what she comes up with is a considerable surprise: Andrew actually
loves
Richard Fallon, Andrew is serious, he is in love with Richard, who everyone knows is a flirt but basically straight. Is Andrew mad?
    “Well, darling, you mustn’t move anywhere dreary like Potrero,” she tells Andrew. “You can always move right in here with me.” As she says this, Margot silently adds: Why not? I’d adore it. I adore you, beautiful Andrew.
    Andrew, however (fatally), laughs. “Come on now, Margot. You’re really not old enough to be my mom.”
    A rage so pure and cold that she almost faints fills Margot, rage and what is for her its inevitable concomitant: a seething lust. Covering her face with her hands, she begins to cough, hiding everything (she hopes). She coughs and coughs, as from behind those long tapering strong jeweled fingers she thinks, You rotten bastard, prick, how dare you, Andrew Bacci? I’ll get you for this, you just wait. I’ll really get you.
    “Sweetie, what is wrong?” asks Andrew. “Are you having some sort of seizure? Can I get you some water?”
    “No, darling, I’m really okay, honestly.” Margot dabs at her eyes with a scrap of lace and linen, even as she is thinking, Really, how
dare
he? I’ll kill him!
    She asks, “How is dear Richard?”
    In a doting, foolish way, Andrew laughs, confirming Margot’s idea. “Oh, the same,” Andrew says. “Absolutely brilliant and totally nuts. That guy has a certain streak in him.” He smiles, his smile helpless and beautiful, and he pauses, looking marvelous, with those playful onyx eyes and that serious, perfect mouth. He says, “I think Richard’s poised on the brink of some very big changes in his life.”
    “Do you possibly mean he too might move to Potrero Hill?” Margot giggles, knowing perfectly well that that, in a sense, is precisely what Andrew does mean—move along with him, Andrew means. He is the crazy one, perfectly nuts.
    Andrew flushes, confirming all suspicions. “Nothing so specific,” he mutters.
    “Well, my darling Andrew, I think you’re probably right on the button. What I see in the future for Richard is a most wonderful new love affair. Something very new for him, this time a truly major passion. One that will really knock him off his pins.”
    “You think so?” Eager Andrew, his eyes enlarged, mouth unguarded.
    “Oh, absolutely.
Sans