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fact, our line of work became mildly infamous. Anyone familiar with the financial news of the last few years, or indeed the front page of the
New York Post,
may remember the scandals that exposed certain practices of stock tipping, and I imagine the names Jack B. Grubman and Henry Blodget still ring bells in the minds of a number of so-called ordinary investors. I wasn’t personally involved in these controversies. Blodget and Grubman worked in telecommunications and technology; I analyzed large-cap oil and gas stocks, and nobody outside the business knew who I was. Inside the business, I had the beginnings of a reputation as a guru: on the Friday of the week Rachel declared her intent to leave for London,
Institutional Investor
ranked me number four in my sector—a huge six spots up from the year before. To mark this accolade, I was taken to a bar in Midtown by some people from the office: my secretary, who left after one drink; a couple of energy analysts named Appleby and Rivera; and a few sales guys. My colleagues were both pleased and displeased with my achievement. On the one hand it was a feather in the bank’s hat, which vicariously sat on their heads; on the other hand the feather was ultimately lodged in my hatband—and the supply of feathers, and the monetary rewards that went with them, were not infinite. “I hate drinking this shit,” Rivera told me as he emptied into his glass the fifth bottle of champagne I’d bought, “but seeing as you’ll be getting most of my year-end fucking bonus, it gives me satisfaction on a wealth-redistribution basis.”
    “You’re a socialist, Rivera,” Appleby said, ordering another bottle with a tilt of thumb to mouth. “That explains a lot.”
    “Hey Rivera, how’s the e-mail?”
    Rivera was involved in an obscure battle to keep his office e-mail address unchanged. Appleby said, “He’s right to stand his ground. Goddamn it, he’s a brand. Have you registered yourself down at the trademarks bureau yet, Rivera?”
    “Register this,” Rivera said, giving him the finger.
    “Hey, Behar says he’s going to tell the funniest joke he ever heard.”
    “Tell the joke, Behar.”
    “I said I’m
not
going to tell it,” Behar said slyly. “It’s offensive.”
    There was laughter. “You can describe the joke to us without telling it,” Appleby counseled Behar.
    “It’s the nigger-cock joke,” Behar said. “It’s hard to describe.”
    “Just describe it, bitch.”
    “So the queen’s on
Password,
” Behar said. “And the password is ‘nigger-cock.’”
    “Somebody tell Hans about
Password.
”
    “Somebody tell Hans about nigger-cock.”
    “So the queen says”—here Behar went into a twittering English-woman’s voice—“‘Is it edible?’”
    Rivera said, “Jesus, Hans, what’s going on?”
    Panicking, I had suddenly lurched to my feet. I said, “I’ve got to go. You guys keep going.” I gave Rivera my credit card.
    He said, stepping away from the others, “You sure you’re OK? You’re looking…”
    “I’m fine. Have fun.”
    I was sweating when I arrived back at the hotel. After a tormenting wait for the single working elevator, I hastened to our front door. Inside the apartment, all was quiet. I went directly to Jake’s room. He was askew in a mess of sheets. I sat down on the edge of his IKEA child’s bed and righted his body and covered him up. I was a little drunk; I couldn’t resist brushing my lips against his flushed cheeks. How hot his two-year-old skin was! How lovely his eyelids!
    I went to my bedroom in a new state of excitement. A lamp burned by the bed, in which Rachel, prone, motionlessly faced the window. I circled the bed and saw that her eyes were open. Rachel, I said quietly, it’s very simple: I’m coming with you. Still in my coat, I knelt beside her. We’ll all go, I said. I’ll collect my bonus and then we’ll head off together, as a family. London would be just fine. Anywhere would be fine. Tuscany,