After his last book came out George called me to say that he’d had it—with the ringing phone, the idiotic interview questions, the ghastly parties—would I please run away to Mexico with him? 
He’d heard about an undiscovered hotel on an island in the Caribbean. “I know you like to swim, Mila, and of course you speak the language,” he said. “So I’ve reserved two rooms with sea views.”
I saw all the years, as a drowning person is said to, in which I’d been in love with George. There’d been a time when I was so enamored that I’d lie on his bed and watch him type. Sometimes he’d look up and then come over and make love to me, like someone who’s just remembered to walk the dog or move the car to the other side of the street. Lately we’d agreed to be friends, but I was surprised that he’d invited me to Mexico. Usually he had more than one love affair going, which was the same way he wrote his novels.
