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said, “You remember? We met . . . oh God, I can’t even remember where we met . . .”
    “I can’t even remember what day it is most of the time,” Pippi agreed, nodding her head.
    “I think you passed me on the Long Island Expressway this afternoon.” Pippi opened her mouth in recognition, as if finally able to place who Janey was. “I’m sure we did,” she said. “We passed almost everyone. Did you see me? I was in a green Ferrari.”
    Janey ignored the obviousness of her remark and said, “I love that car.” 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 25
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    “So do I,” Pippi said. “I wish it was mine, but I can’t afford it.”
    “Is it your boyfriend’s?”
    “Oh no. I mean, it is his car, but he isn’t my boyfriend. Not yet, I mean . . . He’s a polo player, ” she said breathlessly, as if that explained everything.
    Janey nodded wisely, knowing that poor little Pippi, with her mousy face and eyes that were spaced too closely together, hardly had a chance, and in a voice dripping with sympathy said, “You should have brought him to the party.”
    “I wanted to, but I couldn’t, ” Pippi said in agony. “He had to have dinner with some old guy . . . Harold something . . . ?”
    “Harold Vane?” Janey said, trying to hold her excitement in check. Harold Vane was yet another of her former lovers, and a good friend—she must remember to call Harold tomorrow and find out all about this mysterious polo player.
    “What’s his name?” she asked casually.
    “I can’t remember. Harold . . . ?”
    “Oh, I know Harold,” Janey said, with a superior laugh. “I meant the polo player.”
    “Zizi?” Pippi asked. And then the light of understanding appeared to dawn on her. “That’s what everyone calls him anyway. But I haven’t found out if he has a last name or not . . .”
    “Really,” Janey said, smiling vaguely. Pippi was so dumb, she thought, and now, having achieved her aim, she wanted to escape. Turning, she saw a savior in the form of Rupert Jackson.
    He was obviously looking for her, because he came right over, and in a scolding tone of voice declared, “Miss Wilcox, you’ve been very naughty. I’ve just discovered that you know this scoundrel, Peter Cannon. Is it true you actually dated the man?” Janey would have preferred that Rupert hadn’t been acquainted with this information, but it was impossible to keep secrets in New York, and in a second, her dismay was quickly replaced with the pleasurable knowledge that Rupert Jackson must certainly be interested.
    “Oh really,” she said airily. “I only dated him the same way I date every man.
    For a minute.”
    “You are naughty,” Rupert said, shrieking with delight. His voice attracted the attention of nearly everyone in the room, and he said, “You must tell Uncle Rupert all about it.” And then, in full view of the party, her took her arm and led her away to a remote corner of the terrace.
    The party had swelled and grown, and cries of “Isn’t it a perfect evening?” rang out across the terrace, as if the guests themselves had arranged for the weather and not Mother Nature.

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    But who wouldn’t have wanted to take credit for such an evening? The night air was a temperate seventy-two degrees, there was a full moon and just the slightest hint of a breeze off the Atlantic Ocean. The soft wind mingled with the strains of music from the steel band, picking up the bell-like peals and sprinkling them over the party like so much fairy dust. Flowering fruit trees in pots, their branches trimmed to resemble lollipops, were spaced at even intervals along a bright white balustrade, and framed between two of these trees now stood Janey Wilcox.
    Having moved away from the crowd for a moment, Janey situated herself to her best advantage, in a three-quarter pose facing the ocean. Her hands rested on the balustrade, and she leaned over