Coincidence by David Ambrose Page A

string of celebrities paraded before us doing
     their various party pieces.
    There was a dinner afterward, which I got through on automatic pilot as I always did those affairs. It was when we were leaving
     that I saw Sara talking to some woman I didn’t know, a statuesque blonde in an elaborate brocade dress and some ostentatious
     jewelry. Not someone with a gift for understatement. Sara waved me over and introduced me.
    “This is my husband, George,” she said to the woman. “George, this is Linda Coleman.” We shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.
     She was a good-looking woman, but behind the fixed smile she wore as a social mask I sensed an ice-cold nature and a will
     of steel. I wondered who and what Linda Coleman was. As we talked, her gaze wandered off to one side where she had seen someone.
     “You must meet my husband,” she said.
    I turned—and saw the tall blonde man I’d seen with Sara, or her double, the previous day.
    “Darling,” Linda Coleman said, “come over and meet Sara’s husband, George.”
    Steve Coleman and I shook hands. The four of us chatted for a while. I didn’t say anything about having seen him yesterday,
     and of course absolutely nothing about having seen him with Sara’s double. I did, however, say that he seemed vaguely familiar.
     His wife seemed pleased by that and told me proudly that I might have seen his picture in the papers or on television. He
     was a lawyer who had been involved in a number of high-profile cases and was now about to enter politics. He would be a candidate
     the following year for state Senate, and she managed to imply that this was only the beginning of what promised to be a glittering
     career. I sensed at once that her ambitious eyes were already fixed on the ultimate prize: the White House, no less.
    Sara and I didn’t talk much in the car on the short ride home. She seemed a little tense, I thought, though trying not to
     show it. She was avoiding my eyes, looking out of the window, pretending to be preoccupied. At least that was how I read her
     mood. It was only when we stepped into the apartment and I closed the door behind me that I said, “So that was the great love
     of your life. Steve Coleman. Right?”
    She turned with a gasp. “How did you… ?”
    I smiled. “We’ve been married a long time, Sara. I think I’m getting to know you a little by now.”
    She relaxed and smiled back. “It was a long time ago.”
    “The thrusting young lawyer of legend.”
    “That’s the one.”
    “So what happened? He ran off with the ice queen?”
    She shrugged. “It just petered out. The way these things do.”
    “Lucky for me,” I said, and took her in my arms. “I love you, Sara.”
    “Careful, darling,” she said softly, “you’re getting makeup on your jacket.”
    Next morning I checked the yellow pages for a detective agency. I found an advert that read “Overseas Investigations Undertaken.”
     Their address was some way downtown between Broadway and Fifth. That was good too. Less chance of being seen going in or out.
    I felt quite strongly that I wanted to keep this whole thing to myself for the moment. I had decided against saying anything
     even to Sara, and in fact was quite relieved that she had never asked anything more about the strange photograph I had told
     her about of myself with Jeffrey Hart and Lauren Paige. Fortunately she seemed to have forgotten that whole conversation we’d
     had on the day of my father’s funeral, and I was glad to leave things that way. Partly, of course, it was because I had made
     up my mind to write a book about coincidence, using my own experiences over the past few days as a way into the subject. Like
     most writers I had an almost superstitious fear of talking too soon about something I was working on. It’s a fact that if
     you talk too much about it, you’ll never write it. I’ve known very few writers who’ve felt otherwise.
    But there was another element to my thinking. I