When she got to Heaven, Diana Dashwood, daughter of the sky god, walked past the winepress—think beautiful angels dancing on grapes—to a small table where the bottles lay. The table had once belonged to Vincent Van Gogh. In Diana’s first paradisal impressions, this was how it seemed. Maybe daughter of the sky god is a slight exaggeration; her father had been a big cloud in the city’s meteorological office; a dictatorial depressive, killed in the end by alcoholism. Coming in, the whole business with Saint Peter at the gate had proved relatively straightforward. In fact, it was just like Diana always imagined it would be. The hallowed saint seemed eminently approachable, his manner not half as stern as his station might warrant. There was barely any gravitas whatsoever. In fact, he gave all the appearance of merely going through the motions. “En...