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the nightstand. “My God. I thought only opera singers could do that.”
    She half covered her face with her hand, but her eyes were smiling. “I’m so sorry. That’s never happened to me before. Ever. I
always
scream—but—”
    â€œHey, it doesn’t matter. It’s only a glass.”
    â€œBut your mirror.”
    â€œIt’s only a mirror. Forget it. You were wonderful.”
    She carefully climbed off me and lay very close beside me, with her head resting on my chest. I put my arm around her thin, bony shoulder-blades and I felt as if I could have lain there for the rest of the day, and the following evening, too. She traced patterns on my stomach with her fingertip.
    â€œDo you believe in fate?” she asked me.
    â€œYou mean, do I believe that whatever’s going to happen to us, it’s going to happen to us, whatever we do? I don’t know. Don’t you think we have choices?”
    She propped herself up on one elbow and stared at me, a little too close for me to be able to focus properly. “But it was fate that brought you here, don’t you think? Some old woman could have moved into this apartment. Or two gays, like Paul Cadmus and Jared French.”
    â€œWell, I guess. If
Magician
hadn’t been so successful, I never could have afforded it.”
    She touched the tip of my nose, and smiled. “You and I were destined to meet. I just know it. I’ve been waiting for you for so long.”
    â€œWhat about Victor?”
    â€œWhat
about
Victor?”
    â€œI don’t know. Are you unhappy with Victor, or shouldn’t I ask?”
    â€œIt depends what you mean by unhappy.”
    She climbed off the bed and went to stand, naked, by the window. The sun was lower now, and the room was mostly in shadow. I lay there and watched her and I didn’t know what to say to her next. I didn’t even know how I was supposed to feel about her; or how she felt about me.
    â€œLook at the time,” she said, without turning around. “I’d better go.”
    â€œDon’t you want to hear some more of my almost-beautiful music? I started to write a piano concerto once. It’s called
The One-Handed Clock
. I could play it for you.”
    â€œMaybe another time.”
    â€œAnd that means what? That there isn’t going to
be
another time?”
    She came back over to the bed, and knelt next to me, and kissed me. “Of course there will be. Don’t you understand? You and me, we’ve only just started.”
    I kissed her back. “In that case, I’d better stock up on drinking glasses, and mirrors.”
    We dressed. Somehow, once we had put our clothes back on, wefelt quite awkward and formal. “Do you want me to help you with the dishes?” she asked me.
    â€œDon’t worry about it. But you could send Malkin up, to finish off those bits of tuna.”
    â€œI might just do that.”
    We kissed again, at the open doorway. She turned to go, and it was then that I asked her the question that I should have asked her as soon as she walked in.
    â€œIn the park. Whose baby was that?”
    She didn’t turn back. She had one hand resting on the newel post at the top of the stairs, and her face was hidden by the curve of her hair.
    â€œHis name was Michael,” she said. She hesitated a little longer, as if she were waiting for me to ask her another question, but something told me not to press her any further—not yet, anyhow.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “I’ll see you whenever.”
    She left, without another word I heard her go down the stairs, but strangely I didn’t hear her open the door to her apartment, and I didn’t hear her open the front door either. I listened and listened, but it was almost as if she had gone down the stairs and vanished.
    A few seconds later, however, Malkin came running up the stairs, purring, so Kate must have opened her apartment door to let