Kit and Honey are having dinner in a small, dimly lit café near the ocean. A tall white taper burns on their table and, shining through their wineglasses, casts soft burgundy shimmers on the linen tablecloth. Across the narrow room is a stage made of scuffed green tiles. Lively North African music, distorted and shrill, plays too loudly through invisible speakers; hovering just an inch or two above the stage is the holographic figure of a demure-eyed, big-hipped belly dancer. There are streaks and scratches on the woman's face and body, as if this recording had been played many times over many years.
Honey Pílar sips some of the wine and makes a little grimace. "How are you thinking?" she asks in a soft voice.
"It was all right," says Kit. He looks down at his broiled fish. "What do you want me to say? It'll sell a million, you outdid yourself. Your climaxes made the dials go crazy. OK?"
"I never know you telling me truth." She frowns at him, then picks up a delicate forkful of couscous and eats it thoughtfully.
Kit tears a chunk of the flat bread and puts it in his mouth, then takes a gulp of wine. Communion, he thinks. I'm absolved. "If you didn't believe me a minute ago, what can I say or do that will make you believe me now?"
Honey looks hurt. She puts her fork down carefully beside her plate. Kit wishes the shrieking Arab music would die away forever. The café smells of cinnamon, as if teams of bakers had been making sweet rolls all day long and then hidden them away, because nothing on their plates or on the menu contains the least hint of cinnamon. Kit knows that Honey wants to go back to the house in Provence. She's not comfortable in public places.
Kit finishes his glass of wine. He reaches for the bottle, tops up Honey's glass, then fills his own. He takes out a beige pill case from his shirt pocket, finds four Paxium and drinks them down with a Château L'Angelus that deserves better. "What next?" he says.
"What next now?" asks Honey. "Or what next we make another moddy?"
Kit squeezes his eyes shut and lets his head fall back. He opens his eyes and sees black beams made of structural plastic crossing the space overhead. He wishes that something, anything, with Honey could be simple, even dinner, even conversation. So she's the most desirable woman in the world, he thinks. So she makes more money in one year than the C.E.O.s of any ten major corporations you'd care to name. So what? His private opinion is that she has the intelligence of three sticks and a stone.
He lowers his gaze and forces himself to smile back at her. "What do you want to do, sweetheart? Stay here, go back home, take a trip? You've earned a vacation, baby. We've got your next blockbuster in the can. The world is at your feet. You name it, chiquita. Someplace exotic. Someplace you've always wanted to go."
He knows exactly what she will say next.
She says it. "I rather only go home."
"Home," he repeats quietly. He finishes the wine in one long swallow and signals the waiter.
"Kit," she says, "I was in happy mood."
I was in happy mood, thinks Kit. But don't let me kid you, sweetie. It's been great.
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