No more black jeans and loose white oxford shirts, not for her. She had pinned an Hermès scarf around her long, lovely neck, she wore a Burberry skirt, she sported a fragrance, like a Frenchwoman or a grandmother. Still, when she smiled, my heart seized. Did I mention her smile? It was a rare enough sight, true, but so dazzling it hurt. Even the lines around her eyes when she smiled caused me pain. It was as if she had spent all the years after me laughing.

“How have you been, Victor?”

“Fine.”

“No, really.”

“Fine,” I said.

“Okay. I won’t press. I know how it is to keep things to yourself. I’ve been reading about you in the papers.”

“Just part of the job,” I said.

“Maybe, but you seem to thrive on the notoriety. How’s Beth?”

Beth was my erstwhile partner, who had left our legal practice to travel the world. “I suppose she’s okay. Last time I saw her, she was heading for a plane to India. She’s off to find herself.”

“That sounds exciting.”

“It sounds like work.”

“You weren’t tempted to go along with her?”

“Gad, no. I actually might succeed, and then where would I be?”

“So you’re all alone at the firm?”

“At the firm, yes.”

“And life’s good? Everything’s fine? It all turned out great?”

“Sure it did. Doesn’t it always?”

“Even Voltaire didn’t believe that,” she said, eyes glancing first down at her coffee and then back up at me like an invitation.

She wanted me to ask. It’s what is done at this stage of the reunion, the feigned friendliness and concern. How are you doing? I hope things are going well. A sort of teeth-grinding politeness that hides the truth boiling underneath. But just then, with the lovely face of my betrayal sitting across the table from me, framed by the steam of her latte, I wasn’t in the humor to be polite.