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author.
Looking for Mr. Darcy: The Myth of Happily Ever After
was the first. Clare Abbott was the second. She would be reading and speaking at Bishopsgate Institute; women were encouraged to attend; men were dared to accompany them.
    SPITALFIELDS
    LONDON
    Barbara made the decision to attend the reading at Bishopsgate Institute for two reasons, the first of which was a very late lunch with Dorothea at Spitalfields Market. There they tucked into specialtycrepes at a small café with artsy tables topped with stainless steel and chairs that looked like stretched-out colanders. Delicately unfolding her paper napkin, Dorothea blithely launched into the kind of conversation that Barbara had managed to avoid having with another human being for her entire adult life.
    Dorothea speared a slice of chicken-and-asparagus crepe, and she said to Barbara, “Detective Sergeant, let me be blunt and ask you something: When was the last time you had a truly decent bonk? I mean a grabbing-the-bedposts-and-howling session orchestrated by a bloke who knows what he’s about. This does, of course, eliminate any male who went to boarding school, but you know what I mean.” She chewed for a moment as Barbara attempted to ignore her by studying the mother and child at the next table who were engaged in a battle of wills over a miniature lorry that the child wished to plough across his plate of food. When Barbara didn’t reply, Dorothea said, “Do not make me drag the truth from you,” and tapped Barbara severely on the hand.
    Barbara turned back to her. “Never,” she said.
    “Never as in you’ll never answer me or never as in . . . you know.”
    “As in you know.”
    “Are you . . . You aren’t saying you’re a virgin, are you? Of course you’re not.” She cocked her head and examined Barbara, and a horrified expression upon her face indicated that a dawning thought had struck her. She said, “You
are.
Oh my God. No wonder. How
stupid
of me. When Detective Inspector Lynley mentioned—”
    “The
inspector
? Oh, that’s brilliant, Dee. You and DI Lynley are discussing my sex life?”
    “No, no, no. I mean, he’s worried about you. With your friends being gone to Pakistan. We’re
all
worried about you. And anyway, don’t let’s get off the subject.”
    “Dee, this is cringe-worthy. I reckon you know that because you’re not an idiot. So let’s cut to the chase. I have a busy life, so when it comes to sex, I just don’t have—”
    “Do
not
say what you’re about to say because no one on earth is too busy for sex,” Dorothea said. “Good Lord, Detective Sergeant, how long does it take? Ten minutes? Twenty? Thirty if you want ashower as well?” She looked thoughtful and added, “An hour, I suppose, if you require lengthy seduction. But the point is—”
    “The point is changing the subject,” Barbara told her. “Let’s talk about films. Or the telly. Or books. Or celebrities. Or absolutely any member of the royal family, with or without prominent front teeth. You choose. I’m easy.”
    “I have to ask, then. Do you
want
a man? Do you want a life beyond the Met?”
    “Cops leave ruined marriages in their wake,” Barbara pointed out. “Just look at our colleagues.” She picked up the menu and studied its possibilities. Another crepe or possibly a dozen sounded good at this point.
    But Dorothea plunged determinedly on. “Good heavens, I’m not talking about marriage. Am I married? Do I look married? Do I look like someone desperate to
get
married?”
    “To be honest? Yes. Aren’t you the bird who said not an hour ago that there’s some bloke you want to impress at a party?”
    “Well . . . yes, of course. That’s exactly what I said. But the point is: impress, date, bonk, whatever. And if that leads to something more at the end of the day, I’m on board with the idea. We all want marriage eventually.”
    “We do?”
    “Naturally. We’re only lying to ourselves if we say we don’t.”
    “I