Mitch has made his way to them by now, and Natalie begins to simper, at least in Phoebe’s eyes. It isn’t jealousy. Phoebe isn’t gay, and if she were she wouldn’t want Natalie. No, even though one friend tried to accept Phoebe’s love-reluctance by giving her “permission” to be gay (“I just want you to know it would be okay with me if, I mean I wouldn’t respect or honor you any less if …”), she knows she can’t change her orientation (sexual disorientation is more like it, she thinks). And Phoebe just isn’t lonely enough, or needy enough, or poor enough, or young enough, to be willing to give much for another one of those woman-man relationships. Apparently, Natalie feels differently about the issue, but Natalie is ten years older than Phoebe, better shaped, less bright, more vain. She had her first face lift three months ago, and she thinks she’s looking good. Phoebe thinks Nat’s face is okay, but that the process made her hair appear older by contrast. Phoebe doesn’t think she’d have a face lift for love or money.

“So when are you going to run away with me, good looking?” Mitch is speaking directly to Phoebe now, so she has to attend to him. He’s short and insincerely jovial; he reminds her of one of those dolls with a spring-floating head. He also reminds her of boring alcoholics she talked to in bars, twelve years ago when she was married and restless. Mitch may be a psychotherapist, Phoebe thinks, but he talks, looks, and acts like a hound. His nails are buffed, and his watchband is too thick and too gold. He wears a pinky ring on a stubby little finger. He holds a scotch-and-soda in his fat hand.

“How are you, Mitch?” Phoebe counters. And “How long will Tim be with you?”

“Just fine. Just fine. Always looking for a tennis game: you know me. I’m still planning on moving here soon, so Tim and I are scouting condos this weekend. Gotta have courts. We like that Watergate.” He swallows half of his drink. “Tim and his mother are having a bit of trouble right now. He’s finding her too restrictive, and she’s, well, I think she’s too controlling. Always was. Anyway, he’s at that age, you know, 13. Needs to have some freedom. So we’re working out a way for him to be with me more.”

“What’s going on with you two?” Natalie descends on them, smelling of tobacco, and really wants to know. She sidles up against Mitch, and Phoebe gets away from them as soon after that as she can. She moves into the living room, tries and eschews the ersatz-chicken, and gets sucked into a tangle of attorneys. They’re talking about audits, wines and lawsuits, and each is trying to be hipper than the others by clever necktie or wristwatch or one-liner.

Phoebe moves through the room and does her best to be gracious and interested, but this afternoon is her idea of one of the circles of hell. Her eyes start to cross with fatigue. Her jaw is sore from stifling yawns. She would never wish ill on her friend Natalie, but after it was all over she had to admit to herself that she was relieved when the smoke alarm went off and started the chain of events that ended the party. Anyway, Phoebe thinks the “ill,” if there turns out to be any, was brought on Natalie by herself.

Natalie was the one who wanted the kids to get together. It was her cigarettes they swiped. Neither Tim nor Emily would say why they opted to do their smoking in the windowless bathroom (the fan advantage?), but it was Natalie who put those artificial flowers in there. The kids say they didn’t mean to ignite the flowers; in any event, no one knew the things weren’t silk after all, or that they would melt so quickly and noxiously. And the kids might have gotten out of there before the alarm was tripped, except it took them a few extra moments to find the door, because it was so well-papered it camouflaged with the walls.

Even with all of that, Phoebe thinks the embarrassment could have been contained if Natalie hadn’t made such a fuss about the lipstick. The stuff was very bright red and did look like blood. But if Natalie had given herself a moment before starting to shriek, she would have seen that Emily’s mouth wasn’t injured, and the marks around Tim’s waistband weren’t from any cut.