25 Of course it did not rain on New Year’s Day in the Los Angeles area, since it never rains on the Rose Parade. But soon thereafter January became one of the wettest on record. Its last days, however, brought to the region a spell of warm weather that some commentators – who should have known better – called unseasonable, when in fact the phenomenon of such a spell happens in most years. Southern Californians think nothing of seeing roses, magnolias and birds-of-paradise in bloom as they stroll by in their tee-shirts at a time when other North Americans – north of the thirtieth parallel, that is – slog in snow. But on Mario Farga’s last morning in Los Angeles, which he and Jenny spent making love until the very moment when the clock radio on her nightstand told them at it was time to get up so that she could drive him to the airport, the weather outside mattered to them not a whit. It was only when she was driving her Spider back from the airport, for the second time in six weeks, that she noticed how warm it was outside. She rolled both windows down and felt the tepid wind blow on her face. The sound of wind and traffic made a good background noise for her thoughts, which were mostly about Mario. For the past two months, except for his five-day Christmas trip to Catalonia, they had been inseparable. And they had been insatiable with each other. His trip had, not quite fortuitously, coincided with her December period, but the one in January had not stopped them. “A little blood doesn’t bother a Spanish man,” he had told her. “We go to bullfights.” The last part was a joke, because Mario, like most Catalans (as he told her), detested bullfighting. As planned, she had taken him to Fresno for Armenian Christmas and presented him to her family as her boyfriend, the first time she had done such a thing since leaving home. Mario was, naturally, the perfect European gentleman, and charmed everybody in sight. He, in turn, was to take her to Park City for the film festival. She had not been in snow since high school, when she, Rachel and some other friends – adventurous girls like them, and of course boys – would go winter-camping in Kings Canyon. And so, while in Fresno, she had dug out her parka and other cold-weather clothing from a chest in the attic of her parents’ house. Rachel had been with her; in her eighth month, climbing up to the attic had been a chore for her, but well worth it: their time for confidences was precious. They reminisced about their teenage adventures, and then Jenny told Rachel, “There is sex – and you know much I like it – and then there’s sex with Mario, which is like nothing else in this world.” “Are you in love with him?” Rachel had asked, and Jenny could only say, “That’s an understatement.” Not much had happened in Park City. Gina George was recovering from breast-cancer surgery and had been unable to go. The showing of the Albert Bosch movie had been canceled for some stupid reason. Mario had introduced her to Bosch, but Bosch only congratulated Mario on his good taste in women. They were approached by a woman from a major Hollywood agency about representing them – Mario was courted far more assiduously than Jenny – but they told her that they already had commitments that they were not at liberty to disclose. Shortly after their return, two days before this one, Alan had called her to relay a message from Barry to both of them. Everything was going swimmingly with the Dangerous Acquaintances project: money, facilities, locations, supporting cast, staffing – even the Mexican director was just right for the job. Barry already had his studio writers working on the script, and pre-production, including costume fitting and rehearsals, could start in the latter part of March, as soon as Mario was back from Barcelona. For Jenny, Mario’s time away would be six weeks of freedom from any kind of commitment, from work, from love... Well, of course she would do some reading, especially a thorough reading of Dangerous Acquaintances, and she would talk to Mario on the phone. She would catch up on her jogging; mornings in bed with Mario had made her less assiduous about her favorite exercise. Mario was naturally strong and fit; his only activity in Spain had been fútbol, and he had not yet found a team in Los Angeles. Occasionally he went jogging with her, and he had no trouble keeping up with her on her five-mile runs, except when going uphill. She might even fly out to Barcelona, where she had never been, to visit Mario for a few days. He had urged her to come and see his city before it was ruined in preparation for the Olympics. But she wasn’t going to make any plans yet. Not while it was still January. With the coming of February the snow in the Jura had turned slushy. While an experienced skier such as Margaret could find some decent runs at the higher elevations, the slopes available for a beginner, even an enthusiastic one like Nigel, were useless. They packed up their gear, made a brief stop at Margaret’s house to drop it off and proceeded to Nigel’s flat in Geneva with the intention of spending the rest of the weekend in town. The Orchestre de la Suisse romande was to play the next evening, with André Watts playing Brahms. Nigel called the Victoria Hall to reserve seats. They spent Saturday evening walking in the rain through the old city, wandering from one wine bar to another, remembering their first encounter, some three months earlier in London. Madeira was hard to find in Geneva, but there was plenty of nice port. The air outside was colder, but not hugely so. And the warmth that Margaret felt inside more than made up for the difference in temperature. Having him living in Geneva had proved not only pleasant but also convenient. Spending an evening in the city and the night in his flat, and then going back to her house – a half hour’s drive – or not, as their fancy (or the weather) dictated, was delightful. Fribourg, where Albert lived when he was not on location or traveling, was too far for such an easy back-and-forth movement, and she had forsworn going there after getting caught in a blizzard one morning when she was driving home alone. In the first half of January Nigel had flown back to London twice to talk things over with his partners, but by the middle of the month the Geneva office seemed to be running smoothly, and he could stay in place; he didn’t think he would need to go again before April. Louise, the beautiful London-educated Cameroonian girl he had hired as secretary, turned out to be an excellent office manager. In addition to the companies that were already the firm’s clients and that quickly turned their Continental bookkeeping over to Nigel’s office, new clients were beginning to sign up. To Nigel’s and his partners’ surprise, their firm was well known to British business people on the Continent, with a reputation for efficiency and integrity. He thought that he might soon have to hire another staff person. Margaret, for her part, no longer doubted that she was in love with Nigel. She marveled at his ability to make her feel loved, protected and respected at the same time, a feeling that she had previously experienced only from her father. But Nigel’s respect for her included an enthusiastic willingness to learn from her, and the fruits of his enthusiasm could be observed on the slopes and in bed. She also marveled that this charming man, in his forties, had turned out to be hers for the taking. In a place like London, teeming with lonely women, how had he escaped getting snatched up? He had hinted at fleeting, inconclusive love affairs. There were scattered references to “my girlfriend at the time” accompanied by a self-deprecating laugh, as if to say “How could I have been so daft as to fancy someone like that?” But there seemed to have been no lasting relationship, unless there was something he was holding back from her. And if that was so, it was all right with her. By nine they were ready to return to his flat. It was no coincidence, he had assured her, that the number on his building was seven. “Now I understand,” Nigel said the next morning, glancing up at Margaret from the Sunday Telegraph that he had picked up at a kiosk down the street from his building. “Now you understand what?” she asked. “About that film, Lady G in Paradise. Why it was that I saw lots of real sex in it, and you didn’t.” “But I didn’t see the whole thing, darling.” “Even so, even in the parts that you did see. You see, I’ve just read about that festival in Utah, USA, where the film was to be shown, but the showing was cancelled. Listen to this, darling: ‘It was rumoured that when the film opened in London, Barcelona and Paris, the hard-core footage was temporarily replaced by a soft-core version, to mislead the reviewers.’ What d’you think?” “Did Albert do that? It seems most unlike him. Perhaps I didn’t really know the man.” “Tell me about it.” Did he mean it literally, or was he using the expression colloquially to confirm her experience? She waited for him to go on. And he did. “I haven’t told you, have I? I was married for a bit, when I was young, to a girl I’d known for years, or so I thought. It didn’t take me long to find out that I didn’t know her from Eve.” Margaret didn’t really feel surprised. His tale explained what might have been an aversion to committed relationships, one that evidently had lasted a long time. Until she came along, she thought, flattering herself. “How long were you married?” “Just long enough for the baby to be born in wedlock.” “So... so you have a child?” “Yes, a daughter, called Ruth. She’s eighteen, still in Manchester, living with her mum. Wants nothing to do with me. I send her birthday cards and Christmas cards, but she never responds. I’ve no idea of what she looks like.” “Did you support her – I mean financially?” “No. Barbara, my ex-wife, didn’t want it, didn’t want anything from me. Her family’s got money. And she remarried. Ruth probably thinks of the chap as her dad. That’s why I sign my cards to her as Nigel, not dad, so as not to confuse her.” How considerate of him, Margaret thought. She wondered if the tinge of sadness that she thought she was detecting in Nigel’s account was really there, or if it was something that her imagination was supplying because it seemed appropriate, because she could not fathom having engendered a child and not missing them. “Do you mind not being a dad for her?” she asked him. “You know,” he answered, “in my firm everybody, except me and one other chap, has kids, and all I ever hear about is the problems they’re having. And that’s in stable families, mind you. So I suppose I don’t really mind.” She didn’t feel convinced. But before she had a chance to formulate a follow-up question, he posed one to her. “What about you, Margaret? I take it you’ve got no kids.” He waited for her to deny his assumption, and when she didn’t he went on. “Do you miss being a mum?” “Oh, on occasion, I suppose, but not much.” She smiled. She chose not to tell him at this time that the frequency of such occasions had begun to increase when her thirties entered their second half. But when she searched her memory for the last one, it struck her as curious that the one she remembered had occurred on her thirty-eighth birthday, which she had spent alone in her house between her two trips to London, shortly before meeting Nigel. ‘I’m thirty-eight, it’s not too late,’ she remembered singing to herself. Nigel seemed to notice that she had fallen into a reflective state, and kept silent while looking at her intently. They smiled at each other, and it felt to both of them that the only way to conclude this inconclusive conversation was with a kiss.