Vivienne asked me to lunch. The invitation came through Marcus, which should have been my first indicator, but I was a woman who believed in facing things directly. I said yes.
She chose a French place in SoHo that had a three-week reservation wait. I suspected she was the kind of woman for whom logistics bent themselves without being asked.
She was already seated when I arrived, her coat draped over the back of her chair, a glass of still water in front of her. She smiled when she saw me. The smile reached far enough to be convincing.
"Naomi. Thank you for coming."
"Of course," I said. I sat down. I ordered water. I kept my coat on.
"I wanted to apologize again for the anniversary," she said. "Properly, without Marcus there. It was careless of me and I feel genuinely terrible."
She
