try to puke. “Excuse me again, darling. I won’t be long.”
When he returned, pale and unsuccessful, Eddy was justladling out the mushrooms in port. “Ah! What’s this?” Philippa was asking. “Snails? Emily knows I adore snails!”
“Sorry, they’ re mushrooms.” Eddy couldn’t remember their name. “They were brought in this morning from a monastery.”
Philippa tried a mouthful. “Delightful. Are you feeling all right, Dana?”
“No. Let’s leave.”
“You aren’t serious. I can’t insult my sister like that. She’s probably spent the whole day making this meal for us.” Philippa
continued eating. “The mushrooms are very good. Try some.”
Feeling his pulse skip and pound, Dana swallowed a forkful. For a few moments, they ate in silence. Then Dana thought he saw
Ross at the bar. He threw his napkin to the table. “Excuse me again, doll. This is the last time, I swear it.”
Her mouth stuffed with mushrooms, Philippa could only smile grotesquely as Dana left yet again. She was angrily tossing back
the last of the champagne when an intense, athletic man with steely blue eyes slid into Dana’s seat opposite her. His look
stung, stunned: She sat paralyzed.
“Hello, Plum,” he said. “I thought I’d find you in the kitchen, not the dining room.”
Philippa knew immediately that this was her sister’s lover. She also knew that the second she opened her mouth, this one would
know she was an impostor. So she shrank away from him, trying to hide her face behind a napkin.
“I knew you were quick, but not this quick,” Guy Witten continued in a soft, ironic voice. “Your husband’ s partner? That’s
getting suicidal, kitten.” Reaching across the table, he smoothed her left eyebrow with two possessive, intimate fingers.
“Too much makeup,” he observed. Then his eyes fell, lingering on her décolletage. Philippa wanted both to cover herself and
to expose herself; the conflict made her cheeks flame. “But why dress like a whore? That upsets me.”
Zoltan stepped quickly to the table. “Is this gentleman bothering you, madam?” he asked.
Before Philippa could reply, Guy Witten stood up. “Of course I was. But now I’m leaving.” His eyes never left hers. “I’ll
be intouch.” With his last word, so intentionally rife with double meaning, Philippa’s stomach rolled.
She recovered her voice when Guy was halfway across the dining room. “An old friend,” she explained weakly to Zoltan.
The maître d’ smiled discreetly. “Ah, here comes Mr. Forbes.” Zoltan faded expertly away as Dana resumed his place at the
table.
“False alarm,” he said. “I thought I saw Ross.” He took his jacket off. “Hot in here.”
Diavolina was packed. A line had formed on the sidewalk, something that rarely happened in this neighborhood except at gay
bars. At ten o’clock, when Ward had still not returned from the therapist, Zoltan upped the music from jazz to rock, perhaps
to entertain the clientele as they waited for their meals. And wait they did: Operating without an oven, a sober dishwasher
or sous-chef, and two experienced waitpersons, the kitchen never recovered its rhythm. Hopelessly behind, the new waiters
began telling their tables that Diavolina was out of everything but chili, an entrée requiring only one plate, one level of
doneness, and no side orders.
Fortunately, the friends whom Byron had lured to Diavolina tonight were not the type to speed through dinner, go home, and
read nonfiction until the ten o’clock news. Comfortably inebriated, Byron’s roommate Jimmy ambled toward Philippa’s table
as the waiter was clearing away her mushrooms in port. Jimmy knew from experience that the best time to intrude upon a pair
of strangers was just before they received their main course. By then they would have drunk enough to be witty but not bathetic,
and the lovers’ quarrels would just be getting under way with a few barbs here and
When he returned, pale and unsuccessful, Eddy was justladling out the mushrooms in port. “Ah! What’s this?” Philippa was asking. “Snails? Emily knows I adore snails!”
“Sorry, they’ re mushrooms.” Eddy couldn’t remember their name. “They were brought in this morning from a monastery.”
Philippa tried a mouthful. “Delightful. Are you feeling all right, Dana?”
“No. Let’s leave.”
“You aren’t serious. I can’t insult my sister like that. She’s probably spent the whole day making this meal for us.” Philippa
continued eating. “The mushrooms are very good. Try some.”
Feeling his pulse skip and pound, Dana swallowed a forkful. For a few moments, they ate in silence. Then Dana thought he saw
Ross at the bar. He threw his napkin to the table. “Excuse me again, doll. This is the last time, I swear it.”
Her mouth stuffed with mushrooms, Philippa could only smile grotesquely as Dana left yet again. She was angrily tossing back
the last of the champagne when an intense, athletic man with steely blue eyes slid into Dana’s seat opposite her. His look
stung, stunned: She sat paralyzed.
“Hello, Plum,” he said. “I thought I’d find you in the kitchen, not the dining room.”
Philippa knew immediately that this was her sister’s lover. She also knew that the second she opened her mouth, this one would
know she was an impostor. So she shrank away from him, trying to hide her face behind a napkin.
“I knew you were quick, but not this quick,” Guy Witten continued in a soft, ironic voice. “Your husband’ s partner? That’s
getting suicidal, kitten.” Reaching across the table, he smoothed her left eyebrow with two possessive, intimate fingers.
“Too much makeup,” he observed. Then his eyes fell, lingering on her décolletage. Philippa wanted both to cover herself and
to expose herself; the conflict made her cheeks flame. “But why dress like a whore? That upsets me.”
Zoltan stepped quickly to the table. “Is this gentleman bothering you, madam?” he asked.
Before Philippa could reply, Guy Witten stood up. “Of course I was. But now I’m leaving.” His eyes never left hers. “I’ll
be intouch.” With his last word, so intentionally rife with double meaning, Philippa’s stomach rolled.
She recovered her voice when Guy was halfway across the dining room. “An old friend,” she explained weakly to Zoltan.
The maître d’ smiled discreetly. “Ah, here comes Mr. Forbes.” Zoltan faded expertly away as Dana resumed his place at the
table.
“False alarm,” he said. “I thought I saw Ross.” He took his jacket off. “Hot in here.”
Diavolina was packed. A line had formed on the sidewalk, something that rarely happened in this neighborhood except at gay
bars. At ten o’clock, when Ward had still not returned from the therapist, Zoltan upped the music from jazz to rock, perhaps
to entertain the clientele as they waited for their meals. And wait they did: Operating without an oven, a sober dishwasher
or sous-chef, and two experienced waitpersons, the kitchen never recovered its rhythm. Hopelessly behind, the new waiters
began telling their tables that Diavolina was out of everything but chili, an entrée requiring only one plate, one level of
doneness, and no side orders.
Fortunately, the friends whom Byron had lured to Diavolina tonight were not the type to speed through dinner, go home, and
read nonfiction until the ten o’clock news. Comfortably inebriated, Byron’s roommate Jimmy ambled toward Philippa’s table
as the waiter was clearing away her mushrooms in port. Jimmy knew from experience that the best time to intrude upon a pair
of strangers was just before they received their main course. By then they would have drunk enough to be witty but not bathetic,
and the lovers’ quarrels would just be getting under way with a few barbs here and
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