Now, I thought, as we crossed the intersection at Memorial Drive. Now’s the time to tell him. But Jonathan was telling a story about something that had happened in class that day, and it seemed rude to interrupt.

Now, I thought again, as we turned off JFK Street onto Eliot Street, and I could see the outline of the hotel ahead of us. But I was in the middle of a story about something similar that had happened to me when I was a student.

The next thing I knew, we had arrived at the small plaza in front of the side entrance to the hotel and I was feeling a level of awkwardness that eclipsed any sense of awkwardness I’d experienced previously. Which was a pretty high bar.

“So, here we are,” I announced, still trying to figure out how I could casually mention Peter.

“Yes. Here we are,” Jonathan agreed, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Listen, Jonathan-” I began, but he started speaking at the same time.

“So, I know it’s another last-minute invitation, but any chance of dinner after your cocktail thing?”

“I can’t,” I explained, and what was left of my character was glad to be able to demur. I’d told him about my roommate reunion at dinner the previous night. “We have the kickoff to our reunion tonight.”

“That sounds like fun,” he said.

“It will be,” I answered. I was looking forward to my friends’ help in sorting out what had happened to my relationship with Peter and hearing what they thought I should do about Jonathan. Although, I wasn’t sure I was going to be happy with what they told me.

I could have invited him to join us. Significant others were included in the reunion. But technically, I already had one S.O. And having Jonathan at dinner would make a discussion of my current S.O. issues impossible.

I knew I had to tell Jonathan about Peter. And I knew I should do it before things got any more tangled. I took a deep breath and was about to open my mouth to spill it.

But this time it wasn’t Jonathan’s lips that interrupted. It was an all too familiar nasal voice.

“Hi, Rach!” Scott Epson seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. “Ready for the big Winslow, Brown shindig?”

I’d never thought I’d be so happy to see Scott. I introduced him to Jonathan, and we engaged in some meaningless conversation as a threesome. Not only would I not be able to have a discussion with Jonathan about Peter, there was no chance that Jonathan would try to kiss me again, here, in front of my colleague, thus adding to my list of transgressions.

From somewhere the bells of a clock rang out, indicating that it was half past five. I told Jonathan I’d talk to him soon, gave him a quick peck on the cheek and followed Scott through the revolving doors into the hotel.

T he party was due to start at six, so I dashed up to my room to change and get organized. The event called for business casual, rather than straight-out business attire, and with relief I exchanged my pantsuit for a less formal pair of trousers and a cashmere sweater, and my high heels for a pair of suede flats. I was in front of the mirror, making the usual vain attempt to tame my unruly hair, when I heard the hotel phone ringing.

I was hoping it was Peter, but it was Emma, which was just as well. “I tried you on your cell phone but it wouldn’t go through,” she said. “Luisa’s been filling us in on everything that’s been going on with your client and with Peter and with Love Story guy. It sounds like you have a lot to tell us.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “I think I’m becoming a skank.”

“I doubt that.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“Well, we’re all looking forward to talking it over. Everyone’s here at Jane’s, and we’re already cooking. Will you be here soon?”

“I need to put in an hour at this Winslow, Brown event, but I hope to get there a little after seven.”

“With Peter?”

“Peter who?” I asked, striving for a lighthearted tone.

“Peter ‘Too Good to Be True’ Forrest.”

“No,” I said, and sighed. “I’m beginning to think he is too good to be true. He’s with Abigail, wooing a potential client. Or,” I added dejectedly, “just wooing her.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“Who knows? He’s been completely missing in action.”

“I’m sure everything’s fine. He’s Peter, after all. Of course, you could always bring Love Story guy instead.” Her voice had a teasing edge to it.

“Listen, no jokes about this. At least not yet. I actually thought about inviting him, but it just seemed like I’d be tangling the web even more. But I do have some good news. For Hilary, at least.”

“Oh?”

“Remember our friend Detective O’Donnell?”

“Sure. The one Hilary tried to make a play for last summer.”

“Well, his identical twin is alive and well and investigating the attack on Sara Grenthaler.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. And guess what his name is.”

“What?”

“O’Connell.”

Emma giggled. “I’ll tell Hil. We’ll have to figure out a reason to get her hauled down to the police station this weekend.”

“Knowing Hilary, that shouldn’t be too hard to pull off.”

I was nearly out the door, some semblance of order restored to my hair, which hadn’t been responding well to the various gusts of wind and snowflakes it had endured that day, when I noticed a pile of papers sitting on the fax machine’s output tray. I grabbed them up and switched on the desk lamp.

Jessica had forwarded me the list of buyers and sellers in Grenthaler’s stock. I scanned the list to see if I recognized any names. As far as I could tell, they seemed to be the usual collection of financial institutions and money management firms, but a few unfamiliar companies had popped up on the buy side several times over the past few weeks.

I checked the time. I still had a couple of minutes before I became officially late. I used my Blackberry to submit a request to Winslow, Brown’s Research Services office, asking for profiles of the companies that seemed to be steadily buying. It would be good to know who was behind them.

The party was taking place at Noir, the lounge bar in the lobby of the Charles. The décor was strangely incongruous with the rest of the hotel: dark and minimalist, with odd red phallic-shaped lamps hanging over the bar. The decidedly un-hip garb of the aspiring Wall Streeters we’d invited was similarly incongruous. By a few minutes after six, the room was packed. Clearly, the various students who’d been invited hoped that their punctuality would be interpreted as a sign of their commitment to a career in investment banking.

I accepted a glass of white wine from a passing waiter, and dutifully began chatting to our guests. My objective was simple: to give everyone I spoke to the impression that Winslow, Brown was a wonderful place. At this stage of the recruiting process, we started shifting into “sell” mode, recognizing that a significant proportion of the students who were here tonight would receive offers not only from Winslow, Brown but from other firms with equally impressive reputations. I fielded questions about the work, the culture and the lifestyle one could expect at the firm as honestly but positively as I could. Of course, most of the students were still in interview mode, and many of their questions were thinly veiled attempts at schmoozing, something I’ve never had much of a stomach for. And none of them asked about the real reason they were interested in banking-the money. For some reason, talking about money as a motivation was a no-no, at least until after you had a job offer.

Scott Epson was in his element. Being schmoozed gave him the sense that he was everything he wanted to be: important, powerful, interesting. He seemed to be holding forth at length about something, so I headed in his direction to see if any of the students trapped by his monologue were in need of rescue.