![]() I'd be a marked man, peppered with questions, the moment this latest news circulated the party. And there was my goddamn name in quite a few articles. I closed the message and Googled Cordova, scrolling the returns. Only a summons from the hostess to show Birdie her newly renovated kitchen had pried the woman from my side. Every now and then, her hand squeezed my arm - a signal that her husband, some hedge-fund guy ( hedge fungi) was out of town and her three kids Guantanamoed with a nanny. Birdie was blond, forties, and hadn't left my side for the better part of two hours. I found it both amusing and flattering that, long after my wife had divorced me, swimming on to bluer seas, a dense school of her girlfriends swirled around me as if I were an interesting shipwreck, looking for a piece of rubble to salvage and take home. I was at this party thanks to one of my ex-wife Cynthia's friends, a woman named Birdie. Did they think I'd been exiled to Saint Helena, like Napoleon after Waterloo? "Didn't know you were still in the city." "Still teaching that journalism class at the New School?" ![]()
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