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“Work,” I said. “You?”
He shrugged. “Forty-two percent work, fifty-eight percent personal,” he said. “Approximately.”
“Just approximately?”
“I’m excellent with percentages,” he said.
I smiled and went back to the paper, turning the page to the national news.
“So when I saw you at Melinda’s party . . .” He pointed toward the ceiling, as if doing the math, figuring out the percentages on that. “It must have been right when you arrived, yes?”
I looked up at him, confused. “Excuse me?”
“Melinda Martin. You work for the newspaper, I assume.” He pointed down at my copy of the Guardian. “I won’t tell.”
“Who are you?”
He reached out to shake my hand. “My friends call me Aly,” he said. “I was going to try and talk to you that night, but you were outside on your telephone. And you looked pretty miserable. Even more miserable than now.”
“At least I’m improving,” I said.
“Exactly,” he said.
I shook his hand. “What do you do for the paper?”
“Nothing. I’m an environmental lawyer, actually. For the good side though,” he said. “You know, the misunderstood corporations.”
I laughed, picking up my drink. “Making the world a better place?”
“Doing my share.”
“What were you doing at the party, then?”
“My wife works for the newspaper.” He paused. “Well, ex-wife, more accurately.”
I gave him a curious look. “If you don’t mind my asking, why were you going with your ex-wife to a work function?”
He took a long sip, considering.
“Life is messy,” he said.
“Is that your mean law firm’s slogan as well?”
“Could be,” he said. “Could be. . . . But how about you? Have you ever been married?”
I nodded, as he looked down at my empty ring finger, which I felt the need to cover up. “And now separated. But that’s not why I’m not wearing the ring. My nephew ate it.”
He tilted his head. “I’m going to let that go,” he said.
“Probably a wise move.”
Then he gave me a smile—a very kind smile. “I’m sorry, though,” he said. “It’s hard. But it gets less hard.”
“You sure about that?” I said.
“Very sure,” he said. “Being in a city as great as London helps . . . being near cities as great as Dublin and Edinburgh and Rome help. The rosemary potatoes here really help.”
As if on cue, my double order of rosemary potatoes arrived—piping hot and smelling a little like heaven.
