Dooher crossed his hands behind his head, considering. 'Who, in your opinion, is the all-around best-looking woman in the world? Face, body…' an expansive gesture '… the whole schmeer. Everything.'

Farrell thought a moment. 'Demi Moore.'

Dooher nodded. 'Well, Demi Moore is a dog next to Christina Carrera. Even with wet hair and ashes on her forehead.'

'I've never seen Demi like that,' Farrell said. 'Usually, when we go out, after she ditches Bruce, she dresses up, puts on some makeup, stuff like that. Come to think of it, I wonder if she's why Lydia's divorcing me. If she found out about Demi and me?'

'That could be it,' Dooher said. 'Those damn paparazzi.'

Dooher cracked a grin. 'Your fantasy life is much too rich for you to be a good lawyer.'

Farrell pointed across the room. 'Says the man who meets his associate's fiancee at church. What do you plan to do with her, if I might ask?'

A shrug, as though he'd never considered the question. 'I don't know. I'm thinking of hiring her.' At Farrell's expression, he added, 'Just as a clerk. She's law review. Pretty sharp kid, actually.'

Farrell pointed again, 'I must tell you, this is fire.'

'It's all innocent, Wes. I swear. Nothing's going on.'

'So do yourself a favor and get another clerk.'

'We're going to have ten other clerks. Christina's just going to be one of them.'

Farrell scratched his chin. 'Oh boy,' he said. 'Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.'

'I'm so worried about Mark. He's just not been himself.'

Lydia Farrell – Wes's wife – threw an 'Oh, please' expression at Sheila Dooher over the rim of her china cup.

The two women were in the glass-enclosed breakfast nook with the French countryside motif, above which the driving rain of the earlier morning had turned to a romantic Normandy drizzle. At the look, Sheila said, 'Come on, Lyd, they're not all bad. Men, I mean.'