It was late in the afternoon. In his suite at the Dorchester Hotel, Jonathan Ransom studied the schedule he’d received upon checking in. A cocktail reception was to begin at 6 p.m. Business Attire Requested. A handwritten note added: “Dr. Ransom, I’m looking forward to meeting you there to discuss your speech. Colin Blackburn.” Blackburn was the president of the International Association of Internists, and it was on his invitation that Jonathan had come.

Jonathan showered and shaved. The bathroom was a vault of Carrera marble with towering mirrors and glamorous toiletries arrayed on the counters. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

He dressed in a pair of gray flannels, a white button-down shirt, and a wrinkle-proof blue blazer. Reluctantly, he put on a tie as well, and even spent the extra few seconds getting the knot just so. The result wasn’t half bad, he thought amusedly, looking at the stranger in the mirror. Someone might even mistake him for a doctor.

A sign in the lobby indicated that the cocktail reception was being held in the Athenaeum Ballroom. An arrow pointed the way. Opposite the ballroom entry, a woman was seated at a table handing out name tags. They were arranged alphabetically, but Jonathan wasn’t able to locate his own. He mentioned his problem to the woman and gave his name.

“One of our speakers!” the woman boomed. “We have yours in a special place. I’ll be right back.”

A lanky man with wavy gray hair took up position at Jonathan’s side. “You’d think that with so many advanced degrees floating around this place they could get things a bit more organized.”

“Usually I find it’s the opposite,” said Jonathan. “Something about too many chefs.”

“You’re Ransom?” inquired the stranger.

“Do we know each other?” asked Jonathan guardedly.

“No, but I recognized you from the program.” The man produced a brochure from his jacket and opened it to the inside page. Jonathan studied his photo. It had been taken in a passport studio in Amsterdam four years earlier. He wondered how they had gotten their hands on it. He didn’t remember sending it in. “The name’s Blackburn,” said the older man.

“Dr. Blackburn. It’s a pleasure.”

They shook hands.

“Good flight?” Blackburn was near sixty with dark, steadfast eyes and a no-nonsense manner. Jonathan liked him immediately.

“Early if you can believe,” said Jonathan. “These days that’s more than you can ask for.”

“Hotel taking care of you?”

“It’s too much, really. You shouldn’t have gone to the expense. The bathroom alone…”

“Like a Roman whorehouse. Between you and me, it suits my wife’s taste to a T I’m afraid you wouldn’t last long at my house.”

Just then the woman returned with Jonathan’s name tag and pinned it to his blazer. While the other name tags were printed on three-by-five paper encased in translucent plastic, his looked half again as large and sported a blue ribbon.

“You’re to wear it at all times,” the woman instructed. “Some of our members aren’t as good with names as one might like.”

“Thanks.” Jonathan shot a horrified look at his chest. He was pinned like a prize hog at the county fair. He turned to speak to Blackburn, but the older man had disappeared into the crowd.

The room was filling up. Jonathan observed that there were an equal number of male and female physicians present, most with their spouses in tow. All were dressed to the nines: the women in cocktail dresses, the men in dark suits. He headed to the bar and ordered a Stella. “No glass, thank you,” he said. The beer was ice cold, just as he liked it, and he quickly drank half the bottle. A trickle escaped the corner of his mouth and he wiped at it with his sleeve.

“There is such a thing as a napkin,” came a crusty British voice from over his shoulder.

“Excuse me, I-” Jonathan spun and looked into the face of a pleasantly chubby man with curly brown hair and merry blue eyes. “Jamie. What a surprise!”

“If you ever want to join me on Harley Street, you’ll have to clean up your act,” said Jamie Meadows. “My patients prefer their surgeon sharp. White jacket, polished shoes. Goodness, are those desert boots you’re wearing?”

Jonathan clutched Meadows in a bear hug. The two had been at Oxford together, each the recipient of a fellowship in reconstructive surgery, and had shared a flat on the High for twelve months.

“What are you doing here?” Jonathan asked.

“Think I’d miss a chance to lob a few tomatoes at my old roommate?” said Meadows as he pulled his own copy of the conference brochure from his pocket and slapped it in his open palm. “Continuing education. Your speech is going to earn me two hours of credit. I’ll give you fair warning. I’ve prepared several interesting questions guaranteed to raise a sweat when you’re on the dais.”

Jonathan smiled. It was the same old Jamie. “How have you been?”

“Not bad, all things considered,” said Meadows. “Been in private practice for six years now. I’m doing the cosmetic thing. Boobs, bums, and brows. Not enough hours in the day. I’ve got a surgical suite in the office.”

“What happened to the National Health Service? I thought you were headed off to the wilds of Wales to be an Accident and Emergency doctor.”

“Not Wales, Cornwall,” said Meadows in an injured tone. “Didn’t last six months. The government’s awful. Won’t pay for a new kidney, let alone a new pair of knockers. What’s a man with ambition to do?” He placed a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder and pulled him close. “I wasn’t kidding about the job. There’s plenty of room in my shop if you decide to cross the street. Hours are long but the pay’s handsome. Actually, it’s more than that. Pru and I just bought a little shack in St. Tropez.”

“I didn’t know they had shacks in St. Tropez.”

“They don’t. They charge you a million quid and call them villas.”

The two stood looking at each other, calculating the changes the years’ passage had wrought. In his worn flannels and blazer, Jonathan felt scruffy, and for once perhaps even a shade insecure, standing next to Meadows, who was decked out in Savile Row’s finest, his shoes polished to such a high gloss that Jonathan could practically see himself.

“Christ, we hated you,” said Meadows. “Better than all the rest of us put together and a Yank at that. To top it off, you’re actually still doing what we all promised. Tell me the truth: do you enjoy it?”

Jonathan nodded. “I do.”

“I believe you.” Meadows smiled, but it was a melancholy smile. “So, you still solo?” he asked, perking up. “Don’t tell me you never married. You were such a monk at Oxford. Lived in hospital morning and night.”

“No, I’m married,” said Jonathan. “In fact, I met her just a few months after finishing up. Unfortunately, she couldn’t make it.”

“Is she back in Kenya?”

Jonathan answered quickly, and his duplicity surprised him. “No, she’s visiting friends. I think she’s the only one who hates these things more than I do.” He added a larcenous smile to make the lie go down easier. “And you-kids?”

“Three girls. Eight, five, and one in diapers. Light of my life.” Suddenly Meadows stood on his tiptoes and waved across the room. “There she is. Prudence. Didn’t you know her up at Oxford? She was at St. Hilda’s, took a first in chemistry, worked at Butlers on the High. Pru, over here!”

Jonathan spotted a slender, dark-maned woman waving back and making her way toward them.

“Pru, here’s Jonathan,” said Meadows, welcoming his wife with a kiss. “Tell him he looks as fat and out of shape as me. Go ahead. No need to spare his feelings. He’s tougher than he looks.”

“You look marvelous,” said Prudence Meadows as she shook Jonathan’s hand. “Jamie’s been looking forward to seeing you.”