“Okay. I’ll do it. When do you think I should go?”

“I’d say pretty quickly, so you can be in and out by Christmas.” And then he realized again that it didn’t matter to her.

“I could go tomorrow night. I have a few loose ends to take care of here, and I promised to call the curator at MOMA. I could take a night flight tomorrow and sleep on the plane.”

“Perfect. I’ll tell them. They said they’d take care of all the arrangements, and I’ll find you an assistant.” It was never a problem finding people to assist her. Young photographers were always dying to work for Hope Dunne, and she had a reputation for being easy to get along with, which was well deserved. Hope was pleasant, professional, and undemanding, and what students or assistants learned from her was invaluable to them. Having freelanced for her as an assistant, even for a day, looked good on their résumés. “How long do you want to stay?”

“I don’t know,” she said, thinking about it. “A few days. I don’t want to rush. I don’t know what kind of subject he is. It could take him a day or two to loosen up. Maybe book me for four days. We’ll see how it goes. That gives us time if we need it. I’ll leave as soon as we finish.”

“Done. I’m glad you’re doing it,” he told her warmly. “And London is fun this time of year. Everything is all decorated and lit up, they’re not as PC as here. The Brits still believe in Christmas.” In the States, it was becoming a taboo word.

“I like Claridge’s,” she said happily, and then she sounded more serious. “I might try to see Paul, if he’s there. I’m not sure where he is. I haven’t talked to him in a while.” It was odd to think that they had been married for twenty-one years, and now she didn’t know where he was. Her life these days always reminded her of the Chinese saying, “That was then, this is now.” It certainly was. And what a difference.