A Charge D’Affairs speaks to me in French; it is not his nor my first language, but we are both fluent. We speak of nothing and everything until his silly wife appears. She suspects me; well she may, but has never given us a chance. How kind. Men of fifty look so much better with their clothes on. I prefer to imagine a sleek body, not unlike Cat’s, instead of the flabby pink flesh which my D’Affairs would no doubt expose. He leaves with his wife, a sharp plain woman who does not realise that yellow is not a proper colour for all but the most dark of skin.

Cat is on the prowl. Has Cynthia made it clear she has filled the position? Or has she left to meet her lover? Cat turns towards me, I call the Auerbachs, giving Cat the nape of my neck, and move to sit in an alcove where I can no longer see him.

I have spent two hours of my life at this cocktail party, it is time to leave. I ring my driver on the cell phone, giving him a few minutes to insure his composure. Marianne walks with me to the door, I air kiss the host and hostess and they hand me off to security who escorts me the short distance to my car.

“Foster, who was that young interloper I saw?”

“He was invited by the Ericsons, he’s their houseguest.”

“Oh, I thought he’d crashed.”

“Mrs. Lambert! I’m not the only guard on duty!”

“Just joking Foster.”

“Here you are Mrs. Lambert.” He says giving me over to my driver.

“Goodnight Foster.” “Goodnight Mrs. Lambert.”

My driver is a very quiet gentleman about my age. He was hired when my previous chauffeur was murdered. It was quite a scandal when it happened. Most have forgotten it, or at least do not mention it, but I carry a small firearm, my driver a larger one.

Of course the murder has nothing to do with driving me about. John Braket was shot one night on a beach in Queens during the cold early spring.

John Braket had never been late to work. I had an appointment, he was not there. My husband rang Braket, no response, so took me in his car. How kind.

When I arrived home by taxi my husband told me he had bad news and poured me a sherry. “I know how fond you were of Braket,” he began, to which I made a quizzical face. “He was found dead.”

“Dead?” I asked, for men of thirty aren’t often found dead. My husband explained he had been murdered at Bay 1 of Riis Park. Bay 1, I was told, was a known “gay” strip.

“I didn’t know that about him.” I muse.

“Obviously he was discreet.”

“Yes, he was.” I agreed.

There was no reason for me to carry a gun, after all, the death of my Cat had nothing to do with his driving. Yet I liked the feel of the pistol and kept it as a reminder.