I shrugged and nodded, that mumbly nod I do. Norris was watching me really closely. “She says you’re a bit antsy about the move to London.”

Sometimes I really wish I had the kind of parents who got divorced and never ever spoke to each other again to the day they died. “I’m not antsy about it,” I said. “I’m just not going.”

Norris laughed. “What are you talking about? Babe, listen, you’ll love London. I’m crazy about it, I’d sing there for nothing—hell, I practically do. Jennifer, you will adore England, you’ll have the time of your life. I promise you.” He was holding my shoulders, smiling down at me with those confident eyes that really do flash all the way to the balcony when he’s being Rigoletto or Iago. Show people feel things, like I said—they just can’t help knowing a good scene when they see one. Like Mister Cat, it’s their job.

If I was ever going to do it, now was it. I took a deep breath, and I said, “I was wondering if I could maybe stay with you.” Norris didn’t drop his teeth, or anything like that. He stroked my hair and looked straight into my eyes, and sort of chanted, “JenniferJenniferJenniferJennifer.” It’s an old joke—he used to tell me that that was my real name, that he only called me Jennifer for short. That was long ago, when I was little, when the name hadn’t yet started to bug me so much.

“I could take care of things,” I said. “I could do the shopping, the laundry, keep things clean, forward your mail. Water the plants.” I don’t know why I threw that in, because he never has any plants. “You wouldn’t have to pay a housekeeper. Or a secretary.” It doesn’t look right on the page, because it all came out in one frantic whoosh, but that’s about what I said.

Norris said, “Jennifer. Honey. Come and sit down.” And I knew it was all out the window right there. He pulled me over to the sofa and sat next to me, never taking his eyes from mine. He said, “Honey, it wouldn’t work. We couldn’t do that to Sally—you know she’d be devastated, and so would I, and so would you. Believe me.”