Jay McInerney - Bright, Precious Days

Casey was waiting up front, wearing her version of downtown attire, a black velvet biker jacket with epaulets and silver chains over a white T-shirt and skintight black leather jeans, along with some kind of quilted black leather boots. She was visibly unhappy to be jostled by the walk-ins and out-of-towners crowded around the door. After she gave Corrine a full complement of three kisses on the cheek, Corrine managed to get to the maître d’, a tall, svelte Eurasian beauty, and claim her reservation.

They followed the woman’s spectacularly long legs past the row of booths reserved for VIPs — although Corrine didn’t actually recognize any of them today, just a bunch of very self-satisfied downtown potentates — and sat down at a nice little table.

“All the times you come here,” Casey said, “you’d think they’d give you a booth.”

“Russell always gets one, but it never occurs to me to ask.”

“It’s just that they’re more comfortable,” Casey said, which might have been true, although Corrine suspected that comfort had little to do with her desire to be seated conspicuously in a booth. “I could get Washington to make the reservation next time if you don’t want to bother Russell.”

It took Corrine a moment to process this. “Oh my God, don’t tell me…”

Casey couldn’t help smirking. “I ran into him last week at the Literacy Partners benefit, I’m on the board, actually, and Tom was out of town, as usual, and I guess Veronica was home with the kids.”

“So you decided you might as well get a room?”

“Well, come on, it’s not like there isn’t a lot of history there.”

“You used to say it was chemistry.”

“Whatever it is, we found out we still have it.”

“How did this happen ?” Corrine asked, though she knew their affair had begun back in the eighties.

“One cocktail at a time. Then one, um, button at a time. Do you really need me to spell it out?”

“So you just suddenly decide to jump into bed?” Strangely, she wanted to know all the preliminary details. Even after engaging in an affair of her own, it still seemed amazing to her that married adults could end up in bed with people who weren’t their spouses.

“We flirted and then later we went to a bar around the corner. And then we got a room.”

“Where?”

“Some hotel on the West Side.”

“How am I supposed to feel about this? You know that Washington and Veronica are almost our closest friends.”

Casey’s skin looked great; Corrine wondered what exotic new peel or process had burnished it.

“You’ve always known about, well, our little infatuation.”

“I thought it was over.”

“It was, but I guess the embers were still smoldering. And it’s not like you and Veronica are all that close.”

“We’re having dinner with them tomorrow night. How am I supposed to act?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t have any experience here.”

“You’re implying that I’m a hypocrite?”

“Well, now that we’ve alluded to the topic, what’s going on with Luke?”

Corrine had been hesitant to bring this up with Casey, since she wasn’t quite certain how she felt about Luke’s marital dissolution and she was fairly certain what her friend’s reaction would be. Even so, she couldn’t help wanting to share the news. Plus, she needed an alibi for tonight, and Casey was the only friend she had who was complicit. “He’s back. I’m seeing him tonight.”

“That’s great. Where are you meeting?” she asked eagerly — an aficionado of the discreet Manhattan rendezvous. If you didn’t know better, it might be easy to imagine that there would be countless refuges in the teeming city where lovers could meet, anonymous in the crowd, but anyone who had lived in Manhattan for long knew that it was essentially a village, and that your roommate from prep school or your husband’s business partner was always accosting you on the sidewalk in Chelsea, or from the next table at the little out-of-the-way trattoria in the East Eighties.

“I couldn’t really think of a place. He’s staying at the Carlyle, so we’ll just order room service.”

“That’s brilliant. It certainly saves a step.”

“There’s something else.” She paused and lowered her voice: “He’s getting a divorce.”

“Oh my God.”

“Well, yes.”

“That’s huge.”

“I know. But I don’t know what to think about it.”

Casey, uncharacteristically at a loss for words, reached over and clutched her friend’s hand.

Corrine was relieved when the waitress turned up to ask, “Have you had a chance to look at the menu?”

“No, but we’ll have the Balthazar salads and split an omelette,” Corrine told her, reverting to custom.

“Actually, I’m on this new diet,” Casey said. “Could I just get some maple syrup and lemon juice with hot water?”

“I don’t know if we have maple syrup.”

“Well, can you ask? And also some cayenne pepper.”

Corrine studied her. “Is that what’s making your skin look so good?”

“You have to try it. I’ve lost five pounds in three days. I can’t believe you didn’t notice.” Once the waitress walked away, she said. “I can’t believe Luke’s getting divorced. Are you completely freaked-out?”

Corrine nodded.

“What happened? Was it his idea? Do you think it had anything to do with you?”

“We’ve only talked briefly, but he said it had to do with his not wanting any more kids. She really wanted them.”

“That’s something these guys should take into account before they marry young bimbos.”

“He sounded really sad,” Corrine said.

“Well, of course he’s sad. But that doesn’t mean that part of him isn’t happy.”

“I don’t want it to be about me,” Corrine said. “It can’t be about me.”

“If you say so,” Casey said.

The waitress returned to report that maple syrup was available.

“The hell with it, I’m absolutely starving,” Casey said, “so we’ll just have the Balthazar salads and the omelette.”

“Just one omelette?”

“That’s correct. And two glasses of Chardonnay.”

“Is the Mâcon all right? Or would you rather the Chablis? They’re both made from Chardonnay.”

“Fine, whichever, the Mâcon,” Casey said, and after the waitress left with the menus, she muttered, “I hate it when they act like not ordering two courses per person is some kind of fucking faux pas.”

“I always feel like I should get the steak frites,” Corrine said, eyeing a plate at the next table with a shiny, charred lozenge of beef and paper cones of french fries. “But I also think it’s kind of gross. I mean, who could eat that in the middle of the day?”

“Speaking of eating issues, how’s Storey doing?”

Corrine wished she’d never brought up the issue of her daughter’s weight gain. She should have realized it would give Casey another chance to compare Storey unfavorably to her own perfect daughter, who, on top of everything else, spoke Mandarin.

“I’m hoping it’s a phase. Russell thinks it might have something to do with the whole Hilary mess. He thinks she started gaining right after that incident, which is true. She was always a skinny little chicken, and then it’s like she started eating at Thanksgiving dinner and hasn’t stopped. You won’t believe her favorite TV show. Barefoot Contessa. ”

“That fat-ass who used to have the pricey food store in the Hamptons?”

“That’s the one. Now she’s on TV, demonstrating how to inject butter directly into your thighs, and for some reason my daughter finds it fascinating.”

“I told you, you should take her to my nutritionist.”