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"Of course not!" he cried. "I promised to show vou some of the Palm Beach nightlife. We're going over to the Leopard Lounge at the Chesterfield Hotel, It should be jumping enough by now. And don't worry about drinking. You put ginger ale in a champagne glass like some of the women do at affairs here, and no one will know the difference."

He signaled for the waiter before I could offer any resistance, and soon after, we were pulling up to the Chesterfield on Cocoanut Row. Everyone seemed to know Thatcher there. We couldn't move a foot without someone reaching to shake his hand or a young woman trying to hug him or kiss him on the cheek. The music was loud, everyone trying to talk and laugh over it.

Of course, it was easy to see why the bar was known as the Leopard Lounge. Everything had spots on it: tablecloths, drapes, rugs, wallpaper, chairs, even the vests the waiters wore. Overhead was a painting of red satyrs with voluptuous nude women. I thought I spotted a famous female pop singer sitting at the corner of the bar, and later. I was positive I saw an actor who was in the most recent blockbuster. Money, celebrity, glitter, and excitement flowed in waves through this club, and Thatcher seemed accustomed to it and quite at home.

He pointed out a Saudi billionaire, two bestselling female authors, and a British lord, Everywhere I looked, there were attractive young women dressed in suggestive, abbreviated clothing. People around me seemed to be competing with jewelry and designer garments. When I made a remark about it to Thatcher, he pulled me back so we could talk and look at the crowd,

"I don't want to write your paper for you, but if you observe with any sort of objective eye, you can see that despite their wealth, people here are very insecure."

"How do you mean?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Older women, even the very rich ones, are threatened by the more attractive younger ones capturing their husbands' eyes. Everyone worries about his standing on the social ladder, even to the point of what table they are given at restaurants and certainly where they are seated at events.

Disappointment over things like that can lead to deep depression. You could do well starting your career here." he said. "But for now, just enjoy it," he declared, and pulled me out onto the dance floor,

Was I wrong to be having such a good time? When we went to order another drink. I opted for a vodka and tonic instead of the ginger ale. He raised his eyebrows but smiled and ordered it A little while later, we were dancing again. It did seem as if I were at some great party, even a New Year's celebration.

"Does this go on every night?" I screamed,

"During the season, yes." he shouted back. "But I'm not out every night. You heard my parents. To them. I always have my nose to the grindstone and don't enjoy myself enough."

"That doesn't seem true." I cried,

He drew closer to me. "Enough to them is ninety percent play and ten percent work. Everyone says life's too short and justifies the hedonism and partying with that. You can practically hear it in the music and see it in their faces: life's too short."

"Isn't that true?"

The more they say it, the shorter it gets," he said, and we both laughed.

For a while. I lost myself in the music. I had another drink and then felt myself sink in the chair. My eyes seemed to have a mind of their own and kept trying to shut.

"I guess I had better get you back to your hotel," he said, gazing at me. "I 'mow that look when I see it. I've seen it enough."

"What look?"

"Trust me," he said, taking my hand. He put down money for the bill, and we made our way out.

When we stepped outside. I felt as if I had just popped out of a womb of madness. The music was still ringing in my ears. The whole world seemed to go topsy-turvy. He helped me into the Rolls, and we flew off. The warm night air flowed around me, through my hair, caressing my face.

"So, what do you think of Palm Beach nightlife so far?"

"I can see why everyone wants to be rich and ignore reality," I declared.

"Do you? Really? After so short a visit, you've made that conclusion?"

"I don't know," I said. "I'm too tired to think."

He laughed and drove on. When we reached the hotel. he insisted on escorting me to my room.

"I don't want any more geriatric Don Juans making passes at you, especially now," he said, "when you're so helpless."

"I am not helpless," I insisted, but nearly tripped over my own two feet.

He held my hand, and we went through the lobby and into the elevator. Moments later, he was standing with me at the door.

"Allow me," he said when I took out my key. He opened my door for me.

We both looked into the room and then at each other. Was he going to suggest he come in? Was I going to let him? My good old inner arguments were starting, a part of me hoping he would, a part of me bawling myself out for having that hope and reminding me why I had come here in the first place.