A girl giggled at the apparent lie.

"Well," Bosk said, "carting it in. Same as chopping it. Just as much work."

Bosk leaned forward, his arm on Sebastian's shoulders. He whispered, "Jennie's here and she brought Billy-boy you can believe it?"

"No way! Is she totally fucked, or what?" Sebastian looked around uneasily. "And how 'bout Brittany?"

"Couldn't make it."

The lawyer's eyes were immeasurably relieved and Taylor remembered something from the club about unreturned phone calls.

Then Bosk's eyes danced to Taylor. "'Lo. You're?"

"Taylor Lockwood."

"Right, you're the one who won't marry me."

"True, but you're in good company." She nodded at Sebastian. "I won't marry him either. You have a nice place here."

"Thanks. I'll show you around later. Come on inside. We've got a fire going."

After she'd washed up she joined the crowd in the den. They were mostly in their twenties. Names went past – Rob and Mindy and Gay-Gay and Trevor and Windham and MacKenzie (the latter both female), clusters of contemporary syllables more distinct than the faces of the handsome men and pretty women they identified.

Taylor smiled and waved and forgot the names instantly. They were friendly but reserved and Taylor wondered what they were thinking of her – a woman with more wop and mick in her than Brit, with a mass of kinky black hair, not a pert ponytail, and wearing a long paisley skirt and a black blouse, not a J. Crew stitch upon her body.

Suspicion. That was the message from the women. From the men there was something very different. Something between casual flirtation and a knee-jerk invitation to hump. Taylor supposed that soon there'd be a lot of female fingers twining possessively through the belt loops of their men.

Bosk made martinis for the crowd but Taylor stuck with beer.

"Are you a lawyer?" one blonde asked.

"A paralegal."

"Oh," the woman said, blinking. "That's interesting."

"We need you folks," one handsome young man said as he tinkered nervously with his Rolex. "You save our butts every day." It seemed he wasn't being condescending, he was simply embarrassed for her and trying to salvage her pride.

"Where're you from? Boston, right? I detect Bostonian."

"Born on the North Shore."

"Oh, Locust Valley?" a pretty blond woman asked. The residence of the crème de la crème. J P Morgan's home.

"No, Glen Cove." A pleasant but strip-mailed city. "But we moved to Maryland when I was twelve."

"Is your father or mother in the business?"

"Which business would that be?" Taylor asked innocently.

"Law, banking?" As if no other businesses existed.

"He manages a convenience store," she replied.

Sebastian, who'd already commented about her father and his renowned law practice, glanced at her with a cryptic look.

"Well, retail," one girl finally said, nodding with robust approval. "Good margins in retail lately."

"Very good," somebody else added.

And to her relief, Taylor Lockwood ceased to be a human being as far as they were concerned and their own conversation – the real and important conversation – resumed.

Dinner was Ada 's jurisdiction.

She presided with the quiet authority of someone for whom social propriety is statutory. Somewhere, in a three-decades-old volume of Emily Post, this very layout of Waterford and Wedgwood was represented. Though the clothing was supposed to be casual, Ada's appearance in a rustling silk dress, black-velvet headband and necklace gripping a lemon-colored stone the size of a fat thumb made it clear that, whatever happened in the frat dining halls or eating clubs these youngsters were accustomed to, dinner in this particular house would be governed by a respectable modicum of formality.

Taylor tried a vain end run around the seating ("Oh, I'm sorry, was I supposed to sit there?"), Ada smilingly steered her away from Bosk's girlfriend (a potential source of information about the "project"), scolding, "Boy, girl, boy, girl.

Lobster bisque, a pear-and-Camembert salad, tiny veal chops surrounded by a yin-yang swirl of pureed peas and carrots, a green salad. A real butler served the meal.

Between polite words with the young man on her right Taylor tried to overhear the conversation between Bosk and Sebastian but Ada 's voice was too loud – she was a lock-jawed caricature of Long Island money. She touched the men's arms with her dark, bony fingers and flirted fiercely. Yet their hostess knew this game as well as she knew the proper wording for bread-and-butter notes. She had no intention of seducing these boys, the only organ at play here was her ego – though sex was a strong undercurrent of the meal and crude jokes, some of them really disgusting, flew back and forth (The upper class, Taylor remembered, had by and large not been Puritans.)

Halfway through the profiteroles and espresso with anisette, the doorbell rang. Bosk rose and a few minutes later returned with a man of about forty-five. He was introduced as Dennis Callaghan.

Taylor disliked him at once.

She wasn't sure why. What she might in fairness have read as groomed, discerning and charming she believed was vain (spun, sprayed hair combed forward, a close-fitting suit with shot cuffs, gold bracelet), pompous (a disdaining look at the children around him) and dishonest (a broad smile he could not have felt.)

He was also insulting. He ignored Taylor while he studied the bloused or sweatered breasts of every woman younger than herself at the table before turning a flattering smile on Ada with the respect due a matriarch.

Taylor then noticed that the climate at the table had changed considerably Sebastians expression was one of anger. He shot a dark, mystified glance at Bosk, who shrugged with a look that meant It wasn't my fault. When she saw that, Taylor 's interest immediately perked up. Perhaps Callaghan had some connection with the "project".

The visitor, whose beach house was apparently nearby, announced that he'd played hooky from Wall Street today to hold a couple of meetings out here and happened to notice the cars as he was driving back to the city. He thought he'd stop in and see Bosk and Sebastian.

The man glanced at Sebastian, and Taylor saw another finger wag, just like the other night Callaghan nodded subtly.

And so the conversation remained social. As he sat down at the table and took a glass of wine – he'd eaten already – they talked about problems in finding grounds-keepers and the advantages and risks of helicoptering into Manhattan. Sebastian remained nervous as hell and when Taylor asked Callaghan what he did for a living the young lawyer answered for the businessman, offering quickly, "Wall Street, darling. Everybody out here's on Wall Street. Well, you've got an artist or two from time to time – Taylor 's a musician, by the way."

"Really?"

The conversation turned back to her momentarily and before she could ask anything more about Callaghan, dinner was over and Sebastian had quickly shepherded Bosk and the businessman downstairs, explaining that they were going to check out Bosk's cigar cellar.

No one else was invited but the herd of preppies didn't take any offense. Ada nodded toward the port, sherry and liqueur and, armed with yet more alcohol, this contingent ambled into the panoramic living room for more gossip.

It was then that Taylor recalled. She hadn't told Sebastian that she was a musician.

Soon several people lit up cigarettes, Ada among them.

The smoke gave Taylor an excuse to drain her Grand Marnier and say she was going to step outside to get some air. Whether anyone thought this was rude, or suspicious, didn't matter, they all seemed relieved that the 7-Eleven heiress was leaving and they could spend some time dishing in earnest.