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go to Hudson, as he would have been eligible for tuition reimbursement.
    “Yes, well, he was interested in the acting program, but I helped him to see how impractical that was. He has to make a living, after all, and he always did so well in science, so he agreed to be premed if he could do the theater program in Italy this summer. Besides, I didn’t think Hudson would be right for Ned,” she says, and then adds, in a throaty whisper, “Too many gays.” Mara’s eyes dart nervously around the room, as if on the lookout for homosexual predators. But again I re-alize I’m being unfair to Mara. She’s not exactly a homophobe—she loves her gay hairdresser, for instance, and La Cage aux Folles is her favorite musical—she’s just a little overprotective when it comes to her Ned.
    I follow her gaze around the room, which is filling now with men in crisp suits and women in summery cocktail dresses. The lights have been dimmed to show off the glittering skyline beyond the windows. Votive candles in blue and gold glass bowls are scattered about the room, echoing the lights of the city. The room feels more like a garden party than an academic reception on the tenth floor of a Manhattan building. I see Robin and the girl Zoe talking to Mara’s husband, at the center of a cluster of men in white suits. As no self-respecting New Yorker would wear a white suit before Memorial Day, I conclude that these must be Cyril Graham’s friends from Hollywood. Robin himself is wearing the Versace tweed over a white T-shirt and faded jeans, but he looks every bit as sartorial as the Hollywood clique—and he doesn’t look a bit like he needs saving.
    “There’s Robin Weiss, the one whose film won first prize,” I tell Mara. “He’s talking to Gene.”
    Mara wheels around and scans the room to find her husband. When she does, she undergoes a sea change, not so much in her expression (she’s had far too much Botox for her face to give away anything) as in her posture. Her shoulders hunch up to her ears and she wraps her bony arms over her flat chest as if defending herself from an attack. I look back to see what’s brought on this bout of anxiety and notice that Zoe’s standing very close to Gene, one slim bare hip cocked against his leg. Poor Mara. She must be afraid that Gene’s found another conquest.
    On our girls’ day out Mara had devoted a good half hour to extolling Gene’s good looks. He’d been the handsomest boy at Tufts, she’d assured me; all the girls were after him. She’d even shown me a picture she carried in her wallet of the two of them at their senior prom. “Yes, quite handsome,” I’d said, trying not to inject too much enthusiasm lest Mara decide that I, too, was after her husband. The truth was that I’d never found Gene’s type—wispy blond hair cut in a seventies shag framing a babyish face and grazing footballer’s shoulders—that attractive. And two decades had done nothing to improve his looks, which have gotten softer rather than sharper. He still wore his hair longish—often pushed back by sunglasses on the top of his head even at an evening event like tonight’s—and his face had gotten pudgy around the eyes and jawline. His shoulders still strained the expensive Tommy Hilfiger jacket he wore over black jeans, but much of that muscle had turned to flab. He still managed to attract enough student admirers to keep Mara on her guard, though. Clearly she now thinks that Zoe is a threat.
    Just when I’m feeling sorry for her again, she points across the room to a cluster near the east door to the balcony. “Who’s that lovely young woman President Abrams is with?”
    I turn and see Mark talking to a slim blond woman in a tailored dove gray suit. “I think she’s the new lawyer working on the Graham bequest,” I say, my voice neutral. I can guess what Mara’s up to. On our girls’ day out I’d stupidly confessed that Mark and I were involved. Now she must think that if she has to