There was a large, schmaltzy photograph of Annalisa and Paul on their wedding day. Paul was wearing a tux and was leaner than he was now.

Annalisa wore a small beaded tiara from which extended a lace veil.

They looked happy, but who didn’t on their wedding day? There were also some snapshots of Paul and Annalisa at a birthday party wearing paper cones on their heads; a photograph of Paul and Annalisa with what appeared to be her parents in front of a town house in Georgetown; Paul in a kayak; Annalisa on the Spanish Steps in Rome. All so disappointingly normal, Mindy thought.

She went into the bedroom. This room had a fireplace and built-in bookshelves. She admired the grand canopied bed, but the sheets made her shudder — gold! Mindy thought, How gauche, as she moved on to the bureau, on top of which were several bottles of perfume on a silver tray. Mindy picked up a small bottle of Joy. It was the actual perfume and not the eau de cologne, which James and Sam had given to her for Mother’s Day several years ago and which she never wore because she never remembered about girly things like perfume. But in here, in another woman’s bedroom, Mindy carefully pried open the stopper and put a dab behind each ear. She sat on the edge of the bed, looking around the room. What would it be like to be Annalisa Rice, to never have to worry about money? But those fantasies always came with a price, in this case the price being Paul Rice. How could a woman live with a man like that? At least Mindy could boss James around. James wasn’t perfect, but she could always be herself around James, and that had to be worth more in life than Pratesi sheets.

Mindy got up and, seeing the closet door was slightly ajar, pushed it open. Inside was a huge walk-in closet, at least three times the size of Sam’s bedroom. Along one wall were shelves stacked with shoe boxes; another shelf held handbags, scarves, and belts; and along the other wall was a rack of clothes, some still sporting their price tags. She fingered a leather jacket that cost eighty-eight hundred dollars and felt angry. This was but a tiny example of how the rich really lived. There was no longer any chance of keeping up with the Joneses, not when the Joneses could spend eight thousand dollars on a leather jacket they would never wear.

She was about to leave the closet when she spied a small cluster of worn, misshapen pantsuits on wire hangers. Aha, Mindy thought, these were Annalisa’s clothes from her former life. But why had she kept them? To remind herself from whence she’d come? Or was it the opposite: She had kept them thinking someday she might have to go back?

Mindy threw up her hands, reassuring herself that these rich people were nothing but dull. She and James were a hundred times more interesting, even with a hundred times less money. She left the bedroom and went upstairs to the ballroom. At the top of the steps was another marble foyer and two tall paneled-wood doors. The doors were locked, but Mindy guessed she had the key. She pushed open the doors and paused. Inside, the light was dim, as if the room were heavily curtained, yet Mindy saw no curtains. She stepped carefully into the room and looked around.

So this was what had happened to Mrs. Houghton’s legendary ballroom. She would be turning over in her grave. Probably all that remained of the original room were the fireplace and the ceiling. The famous paneled walls, painted with scenes from the Greek myths, were gone, covered over by plain white plasterboard. In the center of the room was the enormous aquarium, but it was empty. Above the fireplace was a black metal frame. Mindy moved in closer and stood on her toes to examine it. Inside the rim were pinhead-sized colored lights. It was a 3-D projection screen, Mindy decided, like something out of a futuristic spy movie. She wondered if it actually worked or was just for show. There was a closet on either side of the fireplace, but these were locked, and Mindy did not have the key.

She put her ear up to the wood and heard a tiny, high-pitched humming sound. Dammit, she thought. There was nothing here at all. Sam was right, it was just an apartment.

In annoyance, she sat down at Paul’s desk. The swivel chair was up-holstered in chocolate suede, very modern and sleek, like the desk, which was a long slab of polished wood. There was practically nothing on the desk, save for a small pad of paper from a hotel, a sterling-silver container holding six number-two pencils with the erasers neatly pointing into the air, and a silver framed photograph of an Irish wolfhound. Probably Paul’s childhood pet. No doubt Paul’s Rosebud, Mindy thought with disgust.

She replaced the frame and picked up the pad of paper. It was from the Four Seasons hotel in Bangkok. The top page was blank, but the next two were filled with mathematical equations written in pencil of which she could not make heads or tails. On the fourth page, she came across something written in English, in minuscule box letters. Holding it up to her face, she read: WE ARE THE NEW RICH.

And you’re an asshole, Mindy thought. She pocketed the pad of paper, thinking that when Paul Rice came home from vacation and found his pad missing, he’d know someone had been in his apartment, and that would be her little message to him.

Her own apartment felt cluttered and messy in comparison to the clean restraint of the Rice abode. The Rices’ apartment was like a hotel room, she decided as she sat down at her desk to blog. “Today I discovered another one of the joys of not having it all: not wanting it all,” she wrote with relish.

Don’t think, do, Philip reminded himself. This was the only possible philosophy when it came to women. If one thought about them too much, if one really considered a relationship and what it meant, one usually got into trouble. Someone (usually the woman) was disappointed, although (usually) through no fault of the man. A man couldn’t help it if he loved women and loved sex. And so this morning, he had finally capitulated and asked Lola to move in with him.

He immediately realized he might have made a mistake. But the words were out, and there was no taking them back. Lola jumped up and put her arms around him. “There, there,” he said, patting her back. “We’re not getting married. We’re only living together. It’s an experiment.”

“We’re going to be so happy,” she said. And then she went to her suitcase to dig out her bikini. Wrapped in a tiny sarong tied fetchingly around her hips, she’d practically skipped with him down to the beach.

And now she was frolicking in the waves like a puppy, looking back at him over her shoulder and gesturing for him to join her. “It’s too early,”

he called from his lounge chair.

“It’s eleven o’clock, silly,” she said, splashing water at him.

“I don’t like to get wet until after lunch,” he replied.

“You shower in the morning, don’t you?” she said playfully.

“That’s not the point.” He smiled indulgently and went back to reading The Economist.

Lola was so literal, he thought. But did it really matter? Don’t think, he reminded himself. She was moving in with him, and if it worked, great, and if not, they’d move on. It wasn’t such a big deal. He flipped the pages of the magazine — Time Warner was breaking up, he saw — and then put it down in the sand. He closed his eyes. He needed a vacation.

With Lola sorted out now, perhaps he could finally rest.

The prospect had appeared unlikely when he’d met Lola at the airport in Barbados two days ago. Amid the bustle of holiday travelers in gaudy resort wear, she was sitting forlornly on her suitcase — a Louis Vuitton rollerboard — her hair fallen across a pair of large white-framed sunglasses. As he came up beside her, she stood and removed her sunglasses.

Her eyes were puffy. “I shouldn’t have come,” she said. “I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to call you, but I didn’t want to ruin your Christmas. And I didn’t want to disappoint you. There was nothing I could do, anyway. It’s all so depressing.”

“Did someone die?” he asked.

“I wish,” she said. “My parents are bankrupt. And now I have to leave New York.”

Philip didn’t understand how her parents could have lost all their money. Didn’t people have savings? His impression of Fabrikant mère and père was that, while superficially silly, they were simple, practical people who would never allow themselves to be involved in any kind of scandal.

Especially Beetelle. The woman was too voluble, too impressed with her narrow circle of life, but also far too judgmental to get into a position in which she might be unfavorably judged herself. But Lola insisted it was true. She would have to leave New York; she didn’t know where she would go, but not with her parents. Worst of all, she wouldn’t be able to continue to work for him.

He understood immediately what she was angling for. With a word, he could solve all her problems. Taking care of Lola wouldn’t be a burden financially, as he had plenty of money and no children. But was it the right thing to do? His instincts told him no. She wasn’t his responsibility; if she moved in with him, she would be.

When they arrived at the Cotton House hotel in Mustique, they immediately made love, but just as he was about to come, she started crying silently, turning her head away as if she didn’t want him to see. “What’s wrong?” he said. Her legs were over his shoulders.

“Nothing,” she whimpered.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “Am I hurting you?”

“No.”

“I’m about to come,” he said.

“This might be one of the last times we make love. It makes me sad,” she said.

His hard-on dissipated, and he lay down next to her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, stroking his face.

“We’ve got a whole week to make love,” he said.

“I know.” She sighed and got off the bed and went to the mirror and distractedly began brushing her long hair over her naked breasts, wistfully looking at herself, and him, in the background. “But after this week, we might never see each other again.”

“Oh, Lola,” he said. “That kind of thing only happens in movies. Or Nicholas Sparks’s books.”

“Why do you always make a joke when I’m being serious?” she asked.

“Obviously, you don’t care if I stay in New York or not.”

“That isn’t true,” he said.

Thinking it would make her happy, he took her to Basil’s Bar, famous for being one of Mick Jagger’s favorite haunts. Mick Jagger was even there, but Lola acted as if she didn’t notice or care, drinking her rum punch through a straw and staring determinedly out at the harbor, where several yachts were anchored. She answered his questions in monosyllables, and finally, he got up and talked to Mick and got him to come over and meet Lola, but she only looked up at him with big, sad eyes and limply held out her hand as if Philip were secretly abusing her.

“You met Mick Jagger,” Philip said after Mick walked away. “Aren’t you excited?”

“I guess.” She shrugged. “But what difference does it make? It’s not like he can help me.”

They went back to the Cotton House. She took a walk on the beach alone, saying she needed to think. He tried to take a nap. The bed was surrounded by a canopy of mosquito netting, but he couldn’t manage to get it closed properly, and after being bitten three times, he gave up, went into the bar, and had a few more drinks. At dinner, Lola ordered a three-pound lobster and picked at it.When the waiter saw the uneaten lobster and came over to ask if anything was wrong, Lola began to cry silently.

The next day wasn’t much better. They went to the beach, where Lola alternately moped on her towel and tried to make him jealous by flirting with two young Englishmen. Philip realized he would either have to give in or let her go. Why did women always have to force the issue?

In the afternoon, while he was having a massage, she said she was going to take a nap. When he got back to their bungalow, she wasn’t there.

He panicked. What if he’d underestimated her and she had done something after all? He tried calling her on her cell phone but found she’d left it in the room, along with her purse. This was more troubling, and he went to the main house and found a porter who drove him around the property in a golf cart, looking for her. They searched for an hour; Lola, it seemed, had mysteriously disappeared. The porter reassured him that she couldn’t have gone far — they were on an island, after all. But this only made Philip more nervous, bringing to mind the American girl who’d disappeared on a small Caribbean island two years before. Perhaps she’d gone shopping, the porter suggested. Philip took a taxi to the port, searching the bar and the row of tiny shops. He returned to the Cotton House, defeated. What was he supposed to do now? Call her parents and say, “I heard you lost all your money, and I’m sorry about it, but you just lost your daughter as well”? He called her cell phone again, for the hell of it, hoping she’d come back to the room while he was gone, but it only rang and rang in her purse. He hung up, unable to tolerate the abandoned electronic bleat.