Jay McInerney - Bright, Precious Days

“Well, we’d try for foreign and first serial.”

“Let me look at the proposal one more time.”

When Matthew returned with a second bottle of white Burgundy, Russell told him, “Kip thinks sex is overrated as a human motivation. What do you think?”

“I’m English,” he replied. “Of course I have to agree.”

“You misrepresent me,” Kip said. “I proposed that at a certain age it ceases to be the predominant, overarching drive.”

Matthew bobbed his head, his weathered face glowing red in the candlelight. “Can’t possibly argue with that.”

“So what’s your secret?” Kip asked.

“My secret?”

“To happiness.”

“Who says I’m happy?” Matthew said.

“You seem to have it all figured out.”

“In terms of men and women, if that’s what you mean, my secret is not to get married. We’ve been together eleven years, Cora and I, and I’m convinced that if we tied the knot, it would spoil things between us.”

“How does she feel about that?”

“She’s still here. And she still has the figure she had when she was twenty.”

—

Matthew elaborated on this theme the next day when he took Russell out on the flats. “Security and excitement are opposites, what? You can’t have both.”

They’d chosen the inside of the island, working the maze of creeks and swamps inshore, while Kip and his guide worked the outside. It was a primeval landscape, more liquid than solid, the border between the two blurred by the red mangroves, their dark green leaves hiding the sand, and their roots reaching out into the murk, a universe of prey and predators concealed within these underwater forests. Just an hour past low tide the backcountry was ripe with the tidal-pool stench of decay and regeneration, the effluvia of billions of microorganisms having sex and dying.

The surface of the water was still and glassy as Matthew poled across the flat toward two feeding bonefish, their silvery tails breaking the surface and waggling as they worked, grazing the shallows for crabs and mollusks, sharing the flat with two white egrets that walked with a deliberate and fastidious gait, raising their feet out of the water between steps, periodically piercing the surface with their long beaks. They paused to watch the skiff as it glided closer, spreading their wings in unison and lifting off, spooking the two bonefish, which shot across a half-submerged sandbar and settled on the other side.

By the time Matthew poled over to the sandbar, the fish were working some fifty yards away, and he made a walking motion with his fingers. Russell slid off the bow into the water and waded slowly, carefully extracting each foot from the muck with as little noise and motion as possible as he stalked within casting distance, watching for the tails, which periodically cut the surface, finally unleashing his cast, throwing two false casts to get his line out, waiting for the slight resistance of his back cast before launching his rod forward and dropping his fly six feet in front of the cruising fish. It seemed to him that his line had landed hard but miraculously; they didn’t spook, continuing to move toward the fly, two gray shadows against the gray-brown mud. When they were within a few feet of the fly, Russell twitched it once and then began to retrieve, pulling in line with his left hand and holding the rod close to the surface with his right, until one of the fish broke from its course in pursuit.

In his excitement he snatched the fly away just as the fish was grabbing for it, but he stopped his retrieve and then slowly resumed as it made a second run, and this time when he set the hook he felt a solid tug. It took the creature a moment to react, and time seemed to stand still, Russell hoping he’d set the hook, and then the fish was off, stripping fifty yards of line, Russell getting his hands free of the unspooling fly line just in time to prevent the leader from snapping, holding his rod tip up in the air as the drag of the reel screamed.

“Nice shot,” Matthew shouted from the skiff.

Ten minutes later, with the frantic silvery fish finally brought in and released, Russell said, “Could be Kip’s right. Maybe this is better than sex.”

“Another reason to shun marriage — I don’t ever want to think like that.”

“You know you love it,” Russell said.

“What, the fishing? Yeah, but it’s my job. Doesn’t always do to turn your passion into your work. It’s a bit like marrying your mistress, innit?”

SHE MET CASEY AT JUSTINE’S, a private club in the basement of a midtown hotel, a plush red sanctuary that at lunchtime was popular with ladies who spent a good deal of time and money just up the street at Bergdorf, while their mates coveyed up nearby at the Four Seasons and ‘21.’ Casey lived in the East Sixties, and they alternated between uptown and downtown for their lunch dates. For once she was on time, chatting with some women at another table when Corrine arrived. The others all seemed to be wearing Chanel suits. Casey looked very fashion-forward, by contrast, sporting that luxe boho chic look — a below-the-knee burgundy skirt and a long, nubbly olive turtleneck cinched with a big brown belt.

“Sorry, traffic. Love your outfit.”

“It’s Oscar. Very down-home for him — I know. Don’t tell me you took a cab? Usually I have to listen to you tell me about how fast and convenient the subway is, and all I can think of is you’ll get mugged or anthraxed or something.”

“I was on the Upper West Side, so it was the only option.”

“What were you doing there? Are you seeing your shrink again?”

As soon as she mentioned where she’d been, Corrine realized it was a bit of a giveaway.

“Well, yes. Just a one-off. Situation with the kids.”

“Should I pretend I’m not interested?”

“No, I was going to tell you. My beloved sister’s been calling, trying to worm her way back into our lives.”

“Tell me everything.”

“I need to hit the buffet first. I’m starving.”

“The chef will be delighted, if he doesn’t die of shock. The food’s basically decorative. Very few of our members actually eat.”

After they settled back at the table with their plates, Casey said, “It’s always amazed me that you have this white-trash sister.” She poked at the lozenge of chicken paillard on her plate. “As long as I can remember, she was a real problem. I mean, I grew up with you, I know your family, and you’re one of the most elegant people on the planet. Maybe your mom screwed the milkman or the chimney sweep.”

“Don’t say that. Hilary’s the biological mother of my kids.”

“You’d better hope nurture trumps nature.”

“Thanks for sharing that.”

“If you want my advice, keep her out of your life and your kids’, too.”

“Sooner or later they’re going to want to get to know her.”

“I’m not entirely sure about that, but much later would be much better.”

“I can’t stop worrying that eventually they might think of her as their mother.”

“You raised them to have better taste than that.” Casey took a sip of her iced tea and leaned forward in her conspiratorial pose. “Have you seen Washington?”

“Yes, with his wife. ” Corrine did not approve of Casey’s affair with Russell’s best friend, which had been going on, intermittently, for years.

Casey waved at a fierce-looking blonde with protuberant cheekbones and sticklike arms a couple of tables away.

“Who’s that?” Corrine asked.

Casey leaned forward. “That’s Carol Ricard. Her husband just divorced her right before the escalator clause on the prenup kicked in.”

“That’s sad,” Corrine said reflexively.