Back in our apartment, I prepared a couple of martinis. Bridget had commented on several previous occasions that fairness dictated that she take a turn on bartender duty, but I insisted that I didn’t mind. The truth, which I would never mention, was that she was terrible at it. How you could screw up a straightforward process that involved known ingredients and simple measured quantities was beyond me. I suspected she might be deliberately sabotaging her efforts—another thing I would never, ever bring up.
