fifty-two

When Nigel and I returned to our hotel room, we found that an enormous bouquet of flowers had been delivered. Attached was a note addressed to me. Nigel went to make us two dirty martinis while I read the note. It was from Nina. Dear Nic, it read, Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your discretion. Tell Nigel he’s a lucky man. Much love, Nina.

“Who are the flowers from?” Nigel asked as he mixed our drinks.

“Nina,” I said. “She thanked me for not telling Fletcher about Brooke and to tell you that you’re a lucky man.”

Nigel laughed. “That, my dear, is what they call ‘burying the lede.’”

“I wasn’t aware that you were so well versed in publishing,” I said.

“I spent a summer interning for The Times,” he said as he handed me my martini. “I learned quite a bit actually.”

“Really,” I said with a smile. “About burying the lede?”

Nigel winked. “Among other things. If you’re nice, I’ll explain what ‘below the fold’ means.”

“Sounds quite titillating,” I said as I took a sip of my drink.

“How’s your martini, by the way?” Nigel asked. “Dirty enough for you?”

I smiled. “Never.”