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will be a day’s work. There’s also the fact that I’ve consumed two double martinis, two glasses of port, and, all right, yes, the teensiest snort of cocaine when I had my head inside that globe in the library. So you could say I’m not altogether sober. Though I fear sobriety may come all too quickly.
    I therefore have the impulse to leave immediately, certain that if I don’t, God, or possibly Steven Spielberg—didn’t I see him among the guests?—will direct the earth to open up and swallow the entire wedding party.

    With Charlotte waving me on, I make my way to the car, open the passenger door, and get in. I have the distinct impression this is what it’s like to suffer a near-death experience.
    Tully Benedict gets in as well, on the driver’s side. There’s a hint of beard stubble on his face, which doesn’t surprise me even though it’s his wedding day. Already I can tell he’s the sort of person who has to put up Post-it Notes to remind himself to shave.
    Now that I see him up close, I note that Tully has a kind, interesting face. The sort of face that, ordinarily, I would find intriguing. But at the moment, his expression is extremely . . . tense. Well, I expect he’s upset. The poor man has just been jilted. He doesn’t introduce himself or in any way acknowledge my presence, except to ask where the seat belts are.
    “There aren’t any,” I say.
    He frowns.
    “This is a classic MGTF,” I say, trying to be helpful. “Manufactured in 1955 and kept in its original condition.”
    The frown deepens.
    Meanwhile, Juven has appeared and is strapping our luggage to the shiny metal rack suspended over the spare tire mount. He might as well be strapping Tully and me into twin electric chairs.
    Juven finishes with the bags. Tully leans forward to turn the key in the ignition. I reach out to stop him.
    “These old MGs are temperamental,” I say, remembering every word my father ever said to me concerning his car. “Don’t worry about the choke because Juven probably warmed up the engine. But you have to use the starter switch.” I point to a small octagonal-shaped knob on the control panel. “This thingy here, with the S on it.”
    Tully stares at me like I’m raving mad. I blunder on. “First, you turn the ignition key. Clockwise, if I remember. Then pull out the starter switch. The instant the engine turns over, release the starter. And you have to do all those things quite smoothly, I’m afraid, or you’ll kill the engine.”
    Tully looks a bit like he wants to kill me . Nevertheless, somehow, he gets the car running. The sound of the engine idling causes people to turn their heads. A crush of wedding guests gathers round us, gawking. There’s something aggressive in the way they surround the car, like wolves or killer bees. I’d be happy if we could get going now.

    Tully releases the hand brake and slips the transmission into first gear. We lurch forward.
    As we pull away, still in first gear, the crowd surges toward us. God knows who these people are. I’ve never met any of them. They’re all fashionably dressed and brilliantly bejeweled, yet they’re following us with outstretched arms, like characters from Night of the Living Dead .
    They draw closer, waving at us, snapping photos, and touching the car as if we were movie stars at a premiere. They blow kisses and shower us with rice. “Good-bye!” they cheer. “Good luck!”
    A wild-eyed young man steps forward. I recognize him as the star of one of those TV forensics shows. He’s very handsome—in a plastic surgery–enhanced, Aryan kind of way—and very drunk. When he spies the vinyl cling on my side of the car, he jumps onto the running board next to me and pounds on the hood, shouting, “Love Machine, baby! LOVE MA-SHEEN!”
    I push him off.
    The TV actor isn’t the only one who’s inebriated. They all are. The entire bunch is under the influence. Simply for this—that these people have access to alcohol and, at the