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against a strange man. She knows it too. She does not really want to go home to the faded, cold apartment that she lives in with her friend Maya and Maya’s mother.
    “Can I accompany you home?”
    She shakes her head. “Thank you, but there’s no need. My roommate is over there. We’ll go together.” He turns to see the blonde-haired young woman who had been sitting with Katya earlier.
    “And you won’t stay just a few more minutes?”
    “I’m tired,” she says, but her tone is softer now – she is physically tired, but also mentally weary of fighting her attraction to this man, just because it is unexpected and unsettling.
    “If you are tired, you should go,” he replies. “I only wanted you to stay because I would like to talk to you, and to see you.” He swallows and makes himself continue. “But that can wait for another time, perhaps?”
    The waiting; the waiting for her to answer, as the crowd of drinkers clustered at the bar around them grows louder and louder. He sees the bulbous eyes and reddened cheeks of the mass of people around him; he watches them shout to get the attention of whoever is pouring the vodka, watches them toast each other and drink, and he frowns and fixes his eyes on Katya’s face, on her mouth, so that if her reply is drowned in the noise, he will still read it.
    “Come to see me,” she tells him, raising her voice against the others around them.
    He nods, and waits again.
    “At my home. Tomorrow,” she says, and tells him the address.
    He repeats it after her, grateful for her trust in him, and she smiles and turns, and walks away, darting in amongst drinkers and dancers. He takes a step as if to follow, but then stops, because he senses that his time with her is over for now. He only wishes he could have left her with some memorable, romantic parting words, and not with the desperate, loudly-spoken repetition of her address. He turns back to the bar tables and sees Misha at the other end. Misha has seen him also, has been watching him, Alexander feels, and Misha nods and looks away, wrinkling his nose, as if he has just smelt something slightly unpleasant, and orders three more drinks. He had been planning to take them back to share with the girls he has just left, but by the time they are poured, he somehow thinks better of his plan and he drinks them all down himself.

Chapter Three
Boston
     
    A FEW WEEKS AFTER THEIR LUNCH , he receives a postcard from Estelle. It arrives at the office, a picture of a sun drenched boulevard and palm trees, sitting jauntily and unexpectedly atop the rest of the more mundane mail of his desk.
    “Lots of sun and lots of facelifts (not mine) here in LA,” it reads. “Having a break in the sun while Frank gives a paper at a literary theory conference. Thanks so much for lunch. Back on 22nd, for Xmas. Expect you for tea some time? Estelle.”
    Today is the twenty-second. He is pleased to have heard from her, for he had enjoyed their afternoon together, even though by the end of it he had also been a little disconcerted; with her smiling eyes and quiet questions, she had begun to stir at the settled surface of his interior, past life. There were moments during that lunch, admittedly short, when he had felt the carefully filtered, clear, still pool of his memories being shaken, the clarity being slightly sullied by a swirl of dust unexpectedly disturbed.
    He props the card against his computer screen, with the written side facing outwards, then he walks out and into the glassed-in conference room. His vice presidents are already there, as is Melissa Johnson’s small team. Day after day, her people arrive in full, formal business dress, despite the fact that Alexander and all his employees tend to dress more casually. His company headquarters is a relaxed environment in which to work. People have pictures of their children, or paintings by their children pinned to the walls. There are armchairs and sofas amongst the desks, where informal