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singers and guitarists and drummers and bassists bedding groupies and fans and hot young things after a gig. I became pregnant that night.
    He was a gentleman when I delivered the news, insisting we make it official and become a family. We tied the knot a few months later, and we went on like that, Mr. and Mrs. Aidan Stoker and Jane Black, a history teacher and struggling singer, him moonlighting as a sort-of manager for my career, until that night a year ago when both my husband and the truth of our marriage came out.
    “And I’m proud of you. I knew you had it in you all along,” Aidan says as the phone message continues playing. “So listen, I’m calling because I wanted to see if you’d be willing to come to a meeting of Gay Men With Straight Wives, that group I still go to. To talk about your experiences when I came out and maybe help some of the other wives who are going through the same thing, because there are women who attend the meetings, too. And a lot of them are really looking for someone who understands their situation and could give them some honest and true support.”
    I groan loudly, then delete the message. I don’t want to be the poster child for dumped straight wives. I don’t want the reminders of the ways I’d been fooled, the ways I was stupid. I’m not at all ashamed he’s gay. I’d be just as ashamed if he left me because he was doing it with the nanny or banging his assistant. I’m ashamed for being so goddamn blind for so many years. I’m embarrassed that I was so stupid I missed all the signs, all the way to the first night when he kissed my hand. I’m annoyed that I’ve been unwanted for so long.
    Untouched, unkissed, undesired for years.
    There’s one more voice mail, and it’s from Matthew Harrigan. “Remember that interview I asked for? I hope it’s not too much to request a bit of time with you for a feature article. About your music . Call me on my mobile.”
    He leaves the number. I don’t remember ever giving him my home number or Jonas or Star or In Touch . Though evidently all of Manhattan and all my past lives have found it.
    But Matthew is the first one who’s getting a call back. Matthew’s voice is the one I want to hear most right now, even if he’s a reporter. At least he’s not a reminder of all the ways I was fooled. I grab a sweatshirt, make my way through the living room and open the sliding glass door to a tiny balcony that overlooks my quiet block. It’s chilly, but I’m a Maine girl at heart, so I don’t mind the cold.
    I pick up the phone and dial.

Chapter Five
    I’ll admit I have a big thing for British accents. When my brother produced an album last year for British singer-songwriter Jamie Withers, Owen kvetched that it wasn’t fair that Jamie was not only a musician, but also a Brit. “I have no chance when I hang out with him,” Owen said. “If the women aren’t already falling all over him because he’s a rock star, they’re swooning for that oh-so-proper accent. American guys have zero chance against that.”
    I nodded and laughed. Because it was true.
    “Hello,” Matthew says in his oh-so-proper accent, which instantly makes me want to flirt with him against my better judgment.
    “You know, I know you were listening to Johnny Cash,” I say, after hearing the faint sounds of “Folsom Prison Blues” fade away as Matthew says hello.
    “Oh, you do?”
    “Yes. You see, when you turn down the volume after you’ve picked up the phone, the other person can still hear what you were listening to.”
    “Really? I did not know that. I suppose next time I’d better be more surreptitious.”
    “Yeah, you don’t want anyone to know that a music critic might actually have personal preferences.” I sit down in my deck chair. “By the way, it’s Jane Black.”
    “Yes, I know. Caller ID is a beautiful invention, don’t you agree?”
    “Speaking of, and not that I care, but how did you get my home number?”
    “The day you called