When we returned to the penthouse, I barely had time to help Evelyn out of her coat before the other three descended on her like a pack of curious wolves. They surrounded her on the living room sofa, their questions coming so rapidly that they overlapped into an incomprehensible barrage of excitement.
"How was it?" "What did you do?" "Was he romantic?" "Did he hold your hand?" "Tell us everything!"
I retreated to the kitchen, ostensibly to give them privacy for their conversation but mostly because I had a feeling that interrupting what Camille called "girl talk" was a mistake that could result in being banished from entire sections of the penthouse for hours. Instead, I busied myself cleaning up the breakfast dishes that were still in the sink while listening to fragments of their animated discussion.
