THINGS STARTED LOOKING UP. My editor moved from Viking Penguin to Houghton Mifflin, which decided to bring out the paperback of While England Sleeps, as well as my new novel. “So it’s a done deal,” my agent said on the phone. “Oh, and by the way, I’m putting down a March of ninety-six delivery. Is that feasible?” “Sure,” I said. “Why not? I’m working harder than I have in years.” Which was true. The quarter was drawing to a close, and I had two term papers to finish: “Mirror Imagery in Virginia Woolf” for Maty Yearwood, plus “Changing Attitudes toward Sex and Sexuality in 1890s England” for European History. Also, the day before I’d come home from the library only to get a message that someone named Hunter had called. Needless to say, I’m not of the generation that knows many people named Hunter. Still, I called back. Hunter told me he was a sophomore, a buddy of one of Eric’s roommates. Could I meet him for lunch at the Fatburger on Santa Monica? he wanted to know.
