Page 303 - A Little Life: A Novel

The dinner winds down, and as everyone’s drinking coffee, Caleb
disentangles his legs from under the table. “I’m going to head off,” he says.
“I think I’m still on London time. But it was a pleasure meeting you.”

“You, too,” he says. “I really enjoyed it. And good luck establishing a
system of civil governance within Rothko.”
“Thanks, I’ll need it,” says Caleb, and then, as he’s about to stand, he
stops and says, “Would you like to have dinner sometime?”
For a moment, he is paralyzed. But then he rebukes himself: he has
nothing to fear. Caleb has just moved back to the city—he knows how
difficult it must be to find someone to talk to, how difficult it is to find

friends when, in your absence, all your friends have started families and are
strangers to you. It is talking, nothing more. “That’d be great,” he says, and
he and Caleb exchange cards.
“Don’t get up,” Caleb says, as he starts to rise. “I’ll be in touch.” He
watches as Caleb—who is taller than he had thought, at least two inches
taller than he is, with a powerful-looking back—rumbles his goodbyes to

Alex and Rhodes and then leaves without turning around.
He gets a message from Caleb the following day, and they schedule a
dinner for Thursday. Late in the afternoon, he calls Rhodes to thank him for
dinner, and ask him about Caleb.
“I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t even speak to him,” Rhodes says. “Alex
invited him very last minute. This is exactly what I’m talking about with
these dinner parties: Why is she inviting someone who’s taking over at a

company she’s just leaving?”
“So you don’t know anything about him?”
“Nothing. Alex says he’s well-respected and that Rothko fought hard to
bring him back from London. But that’s all I know. Why?” He can almost
hear Rhodes smiling. “Don’t tell me you’re expanding your client base from
the glamorous world of securities and pharma?”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Rhodes,” he says. “Thanks again. And
tell Alex thanks as well.”
Thursday arrives, and he meets Caleb at an izakaya in west Chelsea.
After they’ve ordered, Caleb says, “You know, I was looking at you all
through that dinner and trying to remember where I knew you from, and
then I realized—it was a painting by Jean-Baptiste Marion. The creative
director at my last company owned it—actually, he tried to make the

company pay for it, but that’s a different story. It’s a really tight image of