“Julia Margaret Robertson!” Ellen sat up quickly, half pretending and half genuinely shocked. She looked at her friend, who was still lying with her hands clasped on her front. Julia had been school captain of the snooty private girls’ school they’d both attended. She’d been slumming it with the butcher.

Julia didn’t open her eyes. She smiled devilishly.

“I was thinking about your stalker and I remembered it,” she said. “I hadn’t thought about it for ages.”

“But it’s so unlike you!”

“I know, but I was shattered when he dumped me. I couldn’t stop thinking about her, about why he chose her over me. I felt as if I didn’t exist anymore. Ringing her up somehow made me exist. It was like an addiction. I hated myself afterward, and I’d think, I’m never doing that again, but then next thing I’d find myself dialing her number.”

“How did you stop?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just got over him.”

Julia paused and said, “You know what? Eddie the butcher was a beautiful kisser.”

“Didn’t he have a goatee?” said Ellen. “A really wispy one? Like a bit of fairy floss hanging off his chin?”

“Yes, and do you remember how he kept his packet of cigarettes stuffed into the sleeve of his T-shirt?”

“It looked like a growth on his arm.”

“I thought it was unbearably sexy.”

They didn’t say anything for a few seconds, and then they both dissolved into the sort of helpless, wheezing laughter unique to women who had spent their school days together.

“You should look Eddie up on Facebook,” said Ellen when they’d stopped laughing. “He probably has his own butcher shop by now.”

“Oh, God, I’m not that desperate,” said Julia. “Anyway, I am perfectly happy being single.”

You’re lying, my dear friend, thought Ellen, covertly observing Julia’s body language: clenched hands, compressed lips. It had been two years since Julia’s ex-husband had upgraded to the brunette.

Julia lifted her head suddenly. “You didn’t just make up that whole story about the stalker, did you? Is it a fable you’ve made up and the subliminal message is that I’m like the crazy stalker and I need to move on and start dating?”

“What are you talking about?” But Ellen knew exactly what she was talking about.

“I remember you told me once about that famous hypnotist, your hero or whatever, the guy who wore the purple cape.”

“Milton Erickson,” sighed Ellen. “Gosh, you’ve got a good memory.”

People were always underestimating Julia. It was because she was so beautiful, and also because she had the sense of humor of a fourteen-year-old boy.

“You said he used to treat patients by telling stories,” continued Julia.

“He used therapeutic metaphors,” murmured Ellen.

“Well, I’ve noticed that ever since William left me you’ve been casually telling me these little motivational stories about people overcoming obstacles, finding happiness after heartbreak.”

“I have not,” said Ellen. She had.

“Mmmm,” said Julia.

She lifted her chin and smiled at Ellen; Ellen grinned sheepishly back at her.

“So Patrick’s stalker isn’t a therapeutic metaphor?”

“She is not,” said Ellen.

They lay in silence for a few seconds.

“So this Patrick has a crazy ex-girlfriend and a dead ex-wife,” said Julia. “Sounds like a real catch. No complications whatsoever.”

“It doesn’t feel complicated,” said Ellen.

“Yet,” said Julia.

“Thanks for your enthusiastic support,” said Ellen.

“Just saying.”

Julia sat up and took her towel off her head and dabbed it against her pink, shiny cheeks.

“I bet you love the fact that he’s a widower, don’t you?” she said. “It makes him seem like a romantic tragic figure. It’s just like Miles.”

“Miles?”

“Miles. That one-legged boy you fell in love with in high school.”

“Giles,” said Ellen. “And we all fell in love with the one-legged boy. He was gorgeous.”

This was the problem with being friends with someone who knew you when you were a teenager. They never quite take you seriously because they always see you as your stupid teenage self.

It was true that she wasn’t unhappy about Patrick being a widower. She quite liked the fact that it made things more complicated. It made her feel like she was part of the rich tapestry of life (and death). Also, it gave her a chance to demonstrate her professional skills. She imagined people saying to her, “Do you worry about his feelings for his wife?” and she’d say serenely, “No, actually, I don’t.” She would understand completely if he still had feelings for his wife. She would know instinctively when to draw back, when to let him grieve for her.

“I never fell in love with the one-legged boy,” said Julia.

“No, you were too busy breathing down the phone line to your ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend.”

“Aha! Touché!” Julia expertly flourished an imaginary sword. She’d been the school’s fencing champion. She twisted the towel back around her head and lay down on the bench again.

“Anyway, I’ve got an excuse for my stalkerish behavior,” she said. “I was seventeen. Teenagers don’t have properly formed brains. It’s a medical fact. How old is your stalker?”