Maybe they’re friends of Kathleen’s. Perhaps they know me through Mal, who told people about my birthmark, even though he knows how self-conscious I am about it. Either way, it’s in poor taste, and at least one of them—the leggy blonde with the familiar English accent—is in no position to judge me, seeing as she sleeps with a married man. I grab a napkin from the register, stuff it into my pocket, turn around, and flash them a smile. “Let me give you a direct answer: yes, I am her. What did you hear? That I stole Mal from
