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busy.”
    “No, I’m not. Oh, you mean her ?” Jack sounded incredulous. “That’s just someone who came to play cards last night and got drunk. She’ll be okay.”
    “You said it was a boys’ night.”
    “I don’t think of Freya as a girl .” Jack chuckled at the very notion. “She an old friend. An old, old friend. I mean, really old.” He swallowed. “Practically forty!”
    Candace’s eyes darted to his. She looked suitably shocked.
    “Personally,” Jack lowered his voice, “I think it’s kind of sad when someone of that age gets out of control and has to be put to bed in the guest room , don’t you?”
    Candace shrugged.
    “Actually, my study. It’s so frustrating. I haven’t been able to do any work all morning. The sooner I can get her out of here and back uptown with her boyfriend, the better.”
    “That’s up to you.” Candace tossed her hair. “I mean, it’s none of my business.”
    “Good. So are we meeting tonight?”
    “I don’t know. . . .”
    “Come on,” Jack drawled persuasively. “How will I ever finish my novel if you don’t tell me all about semantics.”
    “Semiotics.” Was that the suspicion of a smile?
    “See, I can’t even pronounce it right. Why don’t you write down your phone number? When I’ve gotten rid of Freya I’ll give you a call.”
    “I don’t know,” she repeated, twisting a lock of hair. “I might be busy after all.”
    “Write it down anyway. Just in case.”
    Minutes later, Jack was standing on the sidewalk watching Candace’s tilting hips as she receded down the street. Sunlight gleamed on the curves of her smooth calves; he caught the flash of a gold ankle-chain. Everything about her signaled availability. Well, why not? he thought—so long as Freya hadn’t ruined the whole thing. Jack jabbed his hands deep into his jeans pockets and scowled. Thanks, Freya, you’re a pal.
    Back inside, Jack looked around for her. She could at least help him clear up last night’s mess. But it seemed she had gone back to bed with her hangover. It was somehow unsettling to think of her lying asleep in his apartment. Jack rubbed a hand across his chest, wondering what to do. He was sorry that Freya didn’t feel well, naturally, but she had already caused him major embarrassment and it wasn’t as if she were his girlfriend. Far from it. Michael could take care of her, he’d be good at that. Jack headed for the telephone. Unconsciously, his lips pursed and his steps became mincing as he pictured Michael prissily carrying a pot of tea and plumping up pillows. Then his expression sobered. What exactly was the etiquette of calling up another man to inform him that his girlfriend had just spent the night in your apartment?
    Pondering this problem, Jack slumped in a chair by the telephone and flipped idly through his address book. The pages were worn and dog-eared, each one crammed with names and numbers inked in, crossed out, scribbled over, doodled around, mysteriously emphasized with stars, tantalizingly cryptic. “Barbie (C’s sister)”—who was she? “Angelo’s Bar (pay phone)”—what was that? He could remember when the pages were crisp and white and empty, the leather binding a sensuous, glossy tan stamped with his initials—a going-away present from Lauren, his stepmother, “for all the wonderful friends you’ll make.” She’d already partially filled in the personal information on the first page, so that it read “Name: James Randolph Caldwell Madison III. Address: New York City. Occupation: Writer.” Jack recalled how his younger self had swelled at the stark magnificence of this description, though he had sheepishly discarded the page after a couple of weeks of city sophistication.
    Now the book was a satisfyingly fat compendium of publishers, movie theaters, girlfriends, favorite bars, magazine editors, libraries, pool clubs, restaurants, bookstores, photocopy shops—and friends, of course. Freya’s name sprouted all over the F