the alcohol as to wash the bad taste of her sycophancy to Frau Kluge out of her mouth, to return to the world of normal things. She is not ready to go home to a solitary brandy—she craves company—yet she is not about to go to a bar by herself to seek it. There is little in the world more pathetic, Trudy believes, than a middle-aged woman sitting alone on a bar stool. She runs over her list of possible drinking companions: there is Ruth, but this being her short day at the university, she is probably home preparing dinner with her husband. There are a couple of colleagues Trudy could call, but they are more acquaintances than friends, and casual conversation with them—invariably consisting of campus gossip—seems both irrelevant at the moment and too much work. And aside from this, there is...Trudy gnaws her lip and makes a decision on impulse. Perhaps it is because her pre-interview sparring with Frau Kluge has made Trudy think of him for the first time in a while; whatever the cause, she will pay her ex-husband Roger a little visit.
She gets off 394 at Fifth Street, where Roger’s restaurant, Le P’tit Lapin, is still located despite the girders of the highway, a dream in some city councilman’s head when Roger and Trudy first bought the place, that now eclipse it in permanent darkness. Trudy smiles a little as she parks and picks her way over the ice to the door. Given the restaurant’s success, Roger could certainly afford to move it to a more upscale neighborhood, but it is typical of him that he has not. Such an act would smack of pretension, which Roger claims to despise above all else. He has always thumbed his nose at trend; whereas the city’s newer establishments boast imported light sconces and marble-painted walls reminiscent of Italian villas, Le P’tit is as plain as ever. It is a tiny place, seating only forty at its fullest capacity, with sooty tri-colored awnings flapping over the windows. Inside, the brick walls are whitewashed, the lights bright so as to be able to see the food. A Vivaldi string quartet plays quietly from somewhere overhead; when Roger is feeling wild and crazy, he will slip an Edith Piaf CD into the sound system, but normally the music is as muted as the decor. Nothing that will distract from la cuisine.
The dining room is empty at this hour, although in the kitchen, Trudy knows, the line and sous chefs will be sweating and swearing in an ill-tempered frenzy of dinner preparation. She finds a spindly server wedging napkins into wineglasses and asks the boy to let Roger know she is here. Then she waits by the hostess stand, looking around a bit sadly. Imagine, a whole decade of her adult life spent in this place as Roger’s helpmeet! Trudy can almost see a translucent version of her younger self, hair parted in the middle and tied back with a hank of yarn, moving among the tables to set tealights on them. These have been replaced, she notices now, by fat tapers sparkling with embedded glitter. Tinsel twines about their bases. A Christmas tree bedecked with gingham bows presides in the window. Trudy is startled by this display of seasonal kitsch, which—certainly not Roger’s idea—must be the doing of Roger’s current wife, Kimberly. Who at the moment is clacking quickly toward Trudy from the swinging doors to the kitchen.
Well, hi there, calls Kimberly. What a surprise!
I hope you don’t mind my dropping in like this—
Don’t be silly. Not at all.
Kimberly leans in to bestow air kisses on either side of Trudy’s face. She is a well-coiffed blond in her midthirties, her porcelain complexion and china-blue eyes so making her resemble a doll that Trudy fancies she can hear the click of lids when Kimberly blinks. She does so now, rapidly: click click click. But it is a mistake to underestimate the brain beneath that fashionably tousled hair; it is, Trudy knows from the post-divorce division of property, as relentless and practical as an adding machine.
Roger’s in the wine cellar, Kimberly says. Some mix-up with the Merlot delivery . . . But you know how that goes.
She winks, twinkling.
So I thought I’d keep you company until he comes up. Can I offer you a drink?
Please, says Trudy.
The pair cross the hall to the bar, a dark-paneled little room whose draperies exhale the breath of decades’ worth of cigars. Trudy settles onto a