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Something you would be considering too, had you not already lost your mind. Come on, Adam, forgot this nonsense, come work for me. Get back in the game.”
    Drinking the last of his second pint, Adam Blackburn said, “No offense, but I think I’d rather be dead than go back and work in that snake pit we call Wall Street.”
    â€œBullshit. You just want to get laid, and you think this girl you non-dated in high school will punch your ticket.”
    â€œShe’s not like your Susie date. Look, I don’t even know if she’s attending the reunion,” he said. “Really, Patch, it’s not about her. Not her specifically. At least . . . I don’t think so.”
    â€œSo sure of yourself, huh?” he said sarcastically. “Want to explain that one better?”
    He leaned forward, the empty glass caught between his two hands. “Did you ever get the feeling you’d met someone before?”
    â€œPlenty of times, the next morning. We’d sober up and realize we’d met before, screwed each other on other occasions.”
    â€œNice story, one for the grandkids no doubt,” Adam said. “No, I’m serious, what I mean is . . . this girl, she reminded me of someone, even though I don’t know who . . . or even why. Okay, Christ, even to myself I’m starting to sound crazy. Look, I’ve just got to go back to Danton Hill and see what happened to her. I’ve got to quiet this itch I feel.”
    â€œI know all about those kinds of itches, think I’ll give Susie a call when we’re done, see what she’s up to. With three martinis in me, I think I’m not going back to the office, if you know what I mean,” he said with a leering smirk. Adam said nothing, just stared at him. “Fine, this chick who time forgot, does she have a name?”
    â€œVanessa.”
    â€œOh, sexy,” Patch said, gulping down the rest of his martini.
    â€œPatch?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œI think you’re drunk.”
    â€œBetter that than sober and returning to work . . . or worse, back home to Loser Hill. Man, Adam, what the hell are you thinking—and besides, you look like hell. You want to impress a lady, get an iron, work a razor over that scruff . . . then buy a clue. You can’t nail the hot chick from high school looking like something the cat dragged in.”
    Â 
    â€œWell, girl, look what the cat dragged in.”
    â€œSorry I’m late, luv. The tube was late in coming, the platform was packed, and I nearly gave up and walked the bridge from Waterloo,” the newly arrived woman said, barely pecking her friend’s one cheek, then the other.
    â€œExcuse me, you who works for the wife of an ambassador, you took the . . . tube?”
    â€œFace it, it’s the fastest way around Central London, not to mention the cheapest . . . though that second one, not by much. Transit fees in this city are getting way out of hand. Reva, you know that better than anyone. How many times have we been stuck in traffic inside a taxi and you’ve muttered, ‘Damn if we shouldn’t have taken the bloody tube.’ And now you’re giving me a hard time about having done just that? So I wouldn’t be late in meeting you?”
    â€œFine, whatever, ride among the huddled masses and wind up smelling like them. I hope you didn’t catch any germs or infections,” she said, fluffing her curly blond hair in an apparent gesture of ridding herself of any diseases Vanessa might have passed along to her with her air kisses. “Oh, and what’s with sending me that text message to meet you here, and with such utter urgency? The Phoenix Club, honey? They stopped stopping people long ago, they’ll let anyone in now as long as you’re not already drunk.” She paused. “They prefer you to get drunk on their booze.”
    â€œReva, you’re such a snob.”
    â€œFour-letter word, hon, we