“Oh, it’s not a Tommy song,” Lana said. “I’ve heard her sing it in the shower though. She said she used to sing it years ago, back when she was Theresa Scafani, Ingénue of North Beach.”
“Ingénue of North Beach!” Claire giggled. “I wish I’d seen her then.”
“Theresa Scafani was only a mediocre lounge singer,” Lana said. “They’re a dime a dozen, you know. There’s less competition for Tommy Andrews.”
“How did she pick that name?” Claire asked. “I’ve always wondered.”
“She said she thought of herself as the long-lost Andrews sister. Isn’t that ridiculous? She wanted to sing in uniform, as if she were a soldier.”
“Well, the girls would love that. Maybe she can do a number in uniform sometime.”
“D’you still know that girl in the army?”
“Barbara Hawkins? No, we’re not in touch anymore. Last I heard she shacked up with some nurse.”
Lana laughed, propping herself up on an elbow so she could look at Claire. “She was your first, wasn’t she? I remember you mooning over her. Barbara Hawkins—how funny.”
Claire shot a grin at Lily. “You never quite get over your first one. Honestly, if Barb ever showed up I might go out with her again, Paula be damned.”
Lana sat up, leaning against the coffee table. “Do you really like Paula? Really? She’s so . . .”
“Solid?” Claire suggested, and broke into laughter. “She’s good to me. She’s not the dangerous type I know you go for—”
“I don’t!”
“There was Nicky, and then Kate, and now there’s Tommy Andrews. Do you always call her Tommy?”
“Of course.”
“But isn’t it a stage name? I’ve always thought it a little odd that you call her that.”
“I’ve never known her as Theresa. Some folks call her Terry—Sal does. You remember Sal?”
“The dyke in the motorcycle jacket?”
“Yes. But I never knew Terry. I’ve only known Tommy, so that’s what I call her. I think she’s more of a Tommy anyway.” Lana’s gaze flickered over to Lily, who had been listening quietly, and said, “You look sleepy.”
“I’ve had too much to drink, maybe.”
“Who’s your first, Lily?” Claire asked, turning to face her. “Your first love?”
Kath. But she couldn’t say it. She thought of Shirley and how certain she’d sounded. “How am I supposed to know?” she asked instead. “What’s it supposed to be like?”
Lana and Claire traded tiny smiles, and Claire asked gently, “What’s what supposed to be like?”
Lily slumped back against the sofa, feeling boneless and muddled. “Falling in love, I guess.”
“You’ll know,” Claire said. “It’s unmistakable.”
（How she could recognize Kath at the other end of a crowded Galileo hallway by the way she walked.）
“It’s like . . . well, it’s like falling,” Lana said. “Falling, or floating, or sinking.”
（Every time they kissed.）
“You won’t know which way is up.”
“It’s like having a fever.”
（The way the world seemed to narrow down to the tips of Kath’s fingers.）
“It’s like being drunk—drunk for days.”
“But this is all so unspecific,” Lily said. “How did you know when you fell in love with—with Barbara Hawkins, or with Tommy?”
She knew she sounded petulant, like a child, but her head was fuzzy and the smoke was swirling through the room toward the window and she didn’t care. Impulsively she reached for the pack of cigarettes. It was almost empty, but Lana knocked it over to her and she pulled one out, placing it between her lips. Claire handed her the table lighter, and her thumb came to rest on the nude woman’s breasts as she pressed the switch. The flame leaped up, hot and bright, and caused the end of the cigarette to sizzle. She inhaled clumsily and coughed.
“Here, take a breath like this,” Claire said, demonstrating.
Lily copied her, and the smoke felt awful going into her lungs, but it also felt necessary, as if it might burn away the haze of wine and the horrible day she’d had. She exhaled, and the stream of smoke emerging from her mouth made her remember Tommy smoking in this very room on the night of the party. And now here she was, and everything important had changed.