“What in the world are you doing?” Strad asks me, alarmed.

I’ve already come up with my excuse, so I confidently deliver it: “I’m about to serve the chocolate cake.”

“What does that have to do with handcuffs?”

“They go wild for that cake. Like beasts. I always have to handcuff them when I serve it.”

He stares at me.

“If I don’t restrain them, there’ll be no cake left for you,” I explain.

He still just looks on, not responding.

I continue—might as well prepare him: “And they must remain in the restraints not just for dessert, but until the end of the evening or at least until the effect of the cake has worn off. It takes a while.”

“The cake’s that good?” he finally says.

“Quite good.”

“I look forward to tasting it.” He frowns. “Why are you lowering the blinds?”

“It can get ugly once the cake kicks in, even with the handcuffs on. I’d rather the neighbors not see.” The truth is, the possibility of a sniper has only now dawned on me.

I also discreetly unplug the doorman intercom. I don’t want any more announcements of presents waiting downstairs, or, God forbid, visitors—hired visitors, hired killers, or even just innocent visitors who might be shocked at the sight of a dinner party with handcuffed guests.

I serve each of my friends a piece of chocolate cake and some fruit salad on a plate on their laps under the bar.

They begin eating the cake.

Strad watches them and starts laughing. “You guys remind me of cattle at the trough. It’s so degrading. Geniuses in chains. Well, at least some of you. I’ve got to take a photo of this. I brought my camera, actually. It’s in my bag.”

My friends look at him aghast, their gaping mouths full of chocolate cake. They turn their faces to me like spectators following a tennis match. In my court is where they think the ball is now. I’m sure they’re imagining this photo plastered all over the Internet.

“Are you out of your mind, Strad?” I say. “I’m horrified you would even suggest such a thing.”

“No need to get hysterical. I won’t take a photo, then. No problem. Actually, I’m honored that you’re letting me see your inner sanctum, your secret weirdness.”

Returning to the kitchen to cut Strad a piece of cake, I warn him: “And remember, stay away from them. They’ve had their first bite. They’re under the influence.”

“They seem very well-behaved to me.”

“They know they better be or they won’t get seconds.”

Strad and I take our seats at the table, facing the others. I nibble on my pear. He smokes and tastes the cake. He compliments me on it.

Strad tells us he read parts of Georgia’s novels aloud to his various past girlfriends.

“Oh, terrific,” Georgia says, sourly. “And how did they like them?”

“Depends on the girl. Some of them didn’t quite have the mental capacity to appreciate your work.”

“Really? You dated some dumb girls?”

“I’ve had my share.”

“Why?”

“They had other things going for them.”

“Like what?”

“Phenomenal looks.” Strad chortles smugly.

“That must be thrilling, dating a good-looking cretin,” Georgia says.

Penelope scornfully snorts.

“It can be, for a time,” Strad says.

“I suddenly feel less flattered that you like my books,” Georgia says. “Sounds like you’ve got bad taste. And you’re very shallow.”

He seems hurt, and in that moment, I catch a glimpse of what is the real problem with Strad (and by the same token, what the problem is for Lily): Strad is a somewhat endearing asshole. He’s a generally amiable guy with some odious opinions.

He finally responds to Georgia’s accusation with, “You feel that way because you’re a woman. It’s different for men. A man has to be physically attracted to a woman. If he can’t get it up for her, what is he supposed to do, shove it in with a stick?”

We’re all a little shocked. I steal a glance at Lily. She’s staring down at her plate, looking extremely uncomfortable.

Georgia recovers first and says to Strad, “Don’t worry, you’re not the only one in this room who has bad taste in romantic partners.”

“That’s good to hear,” Strad says, smiling at Jack with complicity. But then, noticing that Jack doesn’t return his smile, he says, “May I ask who it is?”

“No, you may not.” And then, after a beat, Georgia says to him, “Could you go for me?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, could you date me?”

He seems stunned. “You mean, considering how charming and charismatic you’ve been with me?”

“Whatever. Could you?”

“You mean if I could imagine there wasn’t a torrent of hostility coming from you to me?”

She rolls her eyes. “Just answer.”

“Well, I can’t imagine it.”

“Why do you think you always date physically beautiful women?”

“I like ’em.”

“Yes, but why aren’t you capable of falling for someone with other attributes?”

He looks mildly exasperated and doesn’t answer.

I glance at Lily, sitting there frozen and looking as though she wishes she could disappear. I disapprove of beauty conversations taking place in front of her, and yet, now that my pet peeve is being bounced about, I cannot, will not, be left out of the dialogue.

“Strad,” I say, “there are other aspects to a person. Even other physical aspects that can be sexy—apart from beauty.”

“Yes, of course. But . . . like what?”

“Anything!” I snap impatiently. “Body language, for example.”

“Body language doesn’t do it for me.”

“Then pick another.”

“None of them do it for me. What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know, practice. Eventually, you may acquire the taste. You may even wonder how you were ever satisfied with the straightforward, simple, dumb kind of beauty.”

Strad replies, “Most men don’t get turned on by ‘other attributes.’ In fact, if you want the truth, those ‘other attributes,’ especially brains, talent, higher education, accomplishments, impressive jobs, often make a beautiful woman less sexy in the eyes of many men. Not in mine—I’m not that way. But in the eyes of many. They would never admit it, of course. Anyway, why are you all pickin’ on me?” He turns to the only other man in the room. “I feel persecuted, Jack. Help me out here a little, will ya?”

Jack sighs. “What can I say? Many guys can get turned on by other attributes. Most jerks can’t.”

“Et tu, Jack? What’s going on here? Anyway, you’re full of it. I’m sure you go for the best-looking women you can get, and you probably do pretty well getting the better specimens.”

Georgia yanks on her handcuff. “Specimens? Are you for real?”

“Sorry, poor word choice,” Strad admits. He leans toward me and says under his breath, “I’m glad she’s chained, by the way.” He turns back to Georgia. “I’m not an artist with words, like you, Georgia, but you know what I mean.”

Georgia says, “Many years ago I met a guy at a dinner party and I thought he was really ugly. Pale skin, very thick lips, prematurely gray frizzy hair, puffy slit-eyes like a toad’s, and I was horrified when he sat next to me. Within probably five minutes of him talking to me, I was utterly charmed, completely under his spell to the point that I asked the hostess if he was single. The hostess said he was gay. That didn’t stop me having a crush on him for years.”

Eyebrows raised, Penelope says, “That’s funny, the same thing happened to me in college. There was a guy in my drawing class. I found him utterly repulsive. He was short, fat, had greasy stringy black hair plastered on his balding sweaty head. He complimented me on one of my drawings. Then I bumped into him in the coffee shop and we had a snack together. During that snack I developed a massive crush and started finding him beautiful. We became friends. My crush lasted for months, maybe years.”

“What happened?” Lily asks. “He didn’t like you back?”

“He was gay.”