Sebastian:

Click, click. I hear her footsteps coming up the stairs. That sharp sound that is nothing like the footsteps of Tiffany, Mei-Le, the cook, Annette or any of the other girls I've brought here. I am in my room with the door locked against the world, despite being alone in the house, finishing up my homework early—another attempt at reform—and thinking about buying another journal. Not one like before, another record of my conquests, but just to put down my feelings and thoughts. The things I still can't tell Annette.

The philosopher Chuang-Tzu envisioned a scenario where he dreamt that he was a butterfly and then woke up. And he asked himself: which was real? And that's what I think about when I hear that familiar sound, because she comes into the house like it's still hers, still ours, and in that moment I can easily deceive myself into thinking that nothing ever changed. That this summer never happened: Annette, "war", my sojourn in Thailand, her humiliating reversal of fortune, all fading away, insubstantial and unremembered as last night's dream.

I know that she'll go first to her room and sit down at her vanity table, do her makeup over again, scrutinizing her face and hair for the tiny imperfections most would never even notice. I've caught her by surprise enough times to know for sure she's just as beautiful disheveled, but try telling her that. If she's not feeling satisfied she may do a bump of coke. Just one; she's careful to never do more than just one.

Toilette done with, she'll come out of her room and enter mine, or go into the living room and slink up next to me on the sofa. She'll make a playful grab for my journal, or prod me for details of my latest conquest. I know part of it is just pumping me for information she can use later in her social scheming, but the avid look on her face sometimes made me wonder if she got off more on my stories than she did with her actual boyfriends. We'll talk for a while, not always about sex. She'd often ask about the books I was reading, pour herself a shot of cherry brandy and settle in for a discussion of Tolstoy (she hated him), Nietzsche (she loved him but hated most of his followers), Chuang-Tzu (who she simply loved).

...And nothing ever changes. Because as soon as I hear her come up the stairs I'm hard, instantly, painfully so. And as usual, I silently curse her for having this effect on me.

I know that she'll be out of her room soon, it's been ten minutes, and her afternoon toilette rarely takes more than fifteen. Will she enter mine? Probably not, this time. Or if she does it'll be in order to deceive me, false kindness before the blow. I could tell her the funeral debacle was all Annette's doing, but she wouldn't believe me. I wouldn't believe it, in her shoes.

Last weekend I took Annette for a drive upstate in my Jaguar, we parked at the entrance to a nature spot and talked for a few minutes in my car. She said she hoped I'd forgive her for spreading my journal around the school, for using it to ruin the life of her worst enemy. "I know you care a lot about her," she said. I told her she was talking to the wrong person, that she'd confused me with someone far more noble.

As if on cue, the phone rings: a short, strangled sound. Kathryn comes in, says "Phone's for you" and leaves just as quickly. Her expression is blank and serene. She's wearing her black pantsuit and a new perfume, bought at the duty-free shop I suppose. It's Chanel, to judge by the basic elements; not Tiffany's No.5, a new Chanel.

It's Annette on the phone, wanting to plan our upcoming Christmas dinner. I tell her to shush, and wait until I hear a click on the line. When it comes, it's just one click not two, a good sign, but still I don't stop holding my breath until I hear Kathryn's door swing open and sounds of her futzing around in the kitchen. Mixing some fancy cocktail, probably—she attempts to be conservative with cocaine but will happily drink herself into a stupor whenever she gets the chance. Annette's excited and nervous about my spending the holiday with her family, reassures me over and over that it won't be a "Meet the Parents" scenario, that her father "tries to be all intimidating at school because he's Headmaster, but at home he's nothing but a giant teddy bear." Again I think, has she forgotten who she's talking to? I've seduced and ruined countless Daddy's Little Angels, enough to know that the overprotective father act is just that, an act. On the Upper East Side, it's the mothers you have to watch out for. But the fact that I'm even invited there for the weekend is a sign that Annette's mother has accepted the inevitable. I'm just glad that I'll be spending Christmas with a real family for once, looking forward to doing the corny kiss-under-the-mistletoe thing with Annette and playing video games with her adorable kid brother. Annette really has no idea how lucky she is. I open the door just a crack, to better hear as the living nightmare turns on the stereo and puts on some Edith Piaf, which is about as close she ever gets to being sentimental. When I first met her, she was French and wouldn't let anyone ever forget it. She doesn't do that so much now.

Annette's heading down to Kansas to reconnect with old friends for part of the holiday break, then coming back up to New York to spend the actual holiday with me. She tells me she'll call me every day on the phone while she's in Kansas. "Be good," she says teasingly, flirtily, but there's real fear behind it. "I promise," I tell her, a bit annoyed—we've already had this conversation.

When I get off the phone and enter the living room, she's there, sitting straight-backed on the sofa, her feet dunked in some kind of herbal foot soak, palms and chin facing up in a faux-meditative pose, eyes closed as if in a very seductive trance. I turn down the Edith Piaf. She shows no sign of noticing. I'm about to leave again when I hear her speak softly, her eyes still closed. "Admit it," she says.

She wants me to ask, Admit what? I won't do it. Sorry Kathryn, I'm too mature now for your little games.

And then I realize not saying anything is another immature game. She obviously wants to bait me, might as well get this over with. She's opened her eyes now and is staring right through me, feet out of the tub, meditative pose dropped. "Admit it Sebastian. You're bored with her."

"No, actually I'm deeply happy with her. If you can't recognize real love when you see it, that's your problem, not mine."

"Really now. You didn't sound so happy on the phone."

"So you were listening in. What's the matter, poor baby doesn't have a sex life of her own anymore?"

"I heard less than one sentence. You were shouting at her about some 'promise' you made, I suppose to not cheat on her insecure ass. Four months in and already she's nagging you to death. Can't say I didn't predict this."

"You also can't say it's anything that even remotely concerns you." I lean in close to her face, looming over her, I want there to be no mistake. "I don't care what you do to me. But I'm warning you: Leave. Annette. Alone."

Her face rises up slightly towards mine as I pull away, a small involuntary movement.

Then she runs her fingers through her hair and sighs. "I'm not your enemy," she says. "I know you think I hate you, but really, I don't. I didn't realize it at the time, but you did me a favor. Getting kicked out of Manchester was the best thing that could have happened to me. The place I'm at now is preparing me for the bac, you understand? If I score high on that exam I'll be able to attend any university in Europe. I'm already relishing the prospect of putting an entire ocean between myself and Mother."

It sounds plausible. But then again, her lies always are.

I notice she didn't mention the new boyfriend.

I'm standing by the Louis XIV chair, gripping it so hard the paint starts to flake off, trying to read her face. "So you're saying we're not at war."

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Truce?" I hold out my hand.

And I know it's a lie, but I want to hear her say it.

Or maybe I just want to touch her again.

"Truce." She shakes it. It doesn't change anything—I know my Kathryn will want revenge. I know this as surely as I know the timbre of her voice, the texture of her skin, the amount of cocaine she consumes in a typical day. She says she has some phone calls to make and abruptly turns and disappears into her room, leaving me here with the herbal foot soak and half-finished drink, the music on the stereo, her presence.

In the evening, just as I'm about to go out, she comes into the living room.

"Now that we're friends again, perhaps you could do me a favor and give me a ride?" Her mocking smile, which was once mine. "As in, a ride in your car. I'm meeting Maurice tonight for a bite or two at Cipriani before we hit the clubs."

"So you're staying out all night after a flight through six time zones?"

"I can afford to be jet-lagged tomorrow morning. Didn't you know? Mother is taking me down to Aunt Helen's tomorrow for a little brunch get-together with friends. They're all dying to hear my recovery story."

"Wow. And you call me pussy-whipped."

She steps up to me and slaps me without warning.

I maintain my composure, merely telling her, "I'm afraid I can't take you anyway. I'm only going down as far as 34th Street."

Already leaving, fur coat swishing as she unlocks the door, she says "I thought that after years of living in the same house with me you'd have some conception of my life. Clearly I was wrong. I'm taking a taxi." And slams the door in my face before I have the chance to walk with her to the curb.

At Macy's, fingering desultorily through necklaces and scarves, trying and failing to find something that will look good on Annette, it hits me: she didn't have to come back. She could have spared herself the round of social bullshit, the charade of a family Christmas dinner. The only reason she has to subject herself to all that crap is me. It's not a sentimental realization, merely a true understanding of the depth of her hatred for me. At the register there's a pile of rather generic-looking blank notebooks on sale; I pick one up without thinking. When I get home I scribble down:

In mourning for what was lost