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nothing of his own. The place looked like a cheap hotel room, and all he could think of was what he had lost in the past year. It was impossible to remember anything positive that had come from the upheaval he'd been through. All he could think of were the losses.
    He put down his bags, and looked around with a sigh. And then he took off his coat and dropped it on the room's only table. It was certainly going to give him plenty of incentive to find his own place very quickly. He helped himself to a beer from the fridge, and sat down on the couch, thinking about Claridge's, and his house in London. And for a crazy moment, he wanted to call her ' You wouldn't believe how ugly this place is' . Why did he always think of telling her the things that were funny or sad or shocking? He wasn't sure which one this was, probably all three, but he didn't even bother to reach for the phone. He just sat there, feeling drained, trying not to see the emptiness of the apartment. There were posters on the wall of sunsets and a panda bear, and when he checked the bathroom, it was the size of a closet. But he was too tired even to take his clothes off and take a shower. He just sat on the couch, staring into space, and finally he lay back, and closed his eyes, trying not to think of anything, or remember where he had come from. He lay there for a long time, and eventually he opened the convertible bed, and he was asleep by nine o'clock. He didn't even bother with dinner.
    And when he woke up the next day, the sun was streaming in the windows. It was ten o'clock, but his watch said three. It was still set for London. He yawned and got out of bed. The room looked a mess with the unmade bed in the center of it. It was like living in a shoe box. And when he went to the refrigerator, there were sodas and coffee and beer, but nothing to eat, so he showered and put on jeans and a heavy sweater, and at noon he ventured out into the street. It was a gorgeous, sunny day, and absolutely freezing. He ate a sandwich in a deli on Third Avenue, and then walked slowly uptown, glancing into shops, noticing how different people looked than they did in London. There was no mistaking New York for any other city in the world, and he remembered easily that there was a time when he once loved it. This was where he and Carole had met, where he had started his career, where he had enjoyed his first success in architecture, and yet he had no desire to come back here. He liked visiting it, but he couldn't imagine living here again. But he was, for better or worse, and late that afternoon he bought the New York Times and went to look at two apartments. They were both ugly and expensive, and smaller than he wanted. But where he was living was worse. And he was immediately reminded of it when he went back to the studio at six o'clock. Sitting in one tiny room was unbearably depressing. He hated being there, but he was still jet-lagged and tired, and he didn't even bother to go out for dinner. He spent the night working instead, on some papers they'd sent him about current projects in New York. And the next day he walked to the office, even though it was Sunday.
    The ugly little studio was only four and a half blocks from the office, which was probably why they got it. They had offered him a hotel, but he had said he preferred an apartment.
    The office was a beautiful space on the fiftieth floor at Fifty-first and Park, and when he walked into the reception area, he stood looking at the view for a while, and then walked slowly around the models. It was going to be interesting working here again. Suddenly after all these years, it all seemed so different. But nothing prepared him for how different it really was on Monday morning.
    He had woken up at four, and had been waiting for hours, working on a variety of papers. He was still on London time, and he was also anxious to get started. But when he got to the office, it didn't take long to sense that there was a palpable aura of