The Secret
BY JAMES BEMBRIDGE 12:30 pm, The Beaujolais, Soho. A meeting with Cloe. Behind us, a table of lunching women – that is, women who don’t lunch. About their bones, dresses hang like sheets caught on a telephone pole. One braves a grain of mozzarella, hesitates on it, and then returns it to the plate. ‘Filling, isn’t it?’ she asks. The plate is one of two … Continue reading The Secret

