Jay McInerney - Bright, Precious Days

“You came back. You called. You constitute a moral dilemma.”

He turned and walked to the little bar alcove, where a bottle of Dom Pérignon was chilling in a sweating silver bucket, and poured out two flutes. Jesus, that stuff, room service, cost as much as her dress — probably more. Was it appropriate to be celebrating a divorce? Without having resolved this question in her mind, she accepted one of the flutes and sipped.

“I understand. But I hope you’ll still have dinner with me.”

She walked over to the window and looked out over Central Park. “Have you ever noticed how much more interesting and flamboyant the Upper West Side skyline is than the Upper East, all these great whimsical buildings along Central Park West, the Majestic and the Beresford and the Dakota with their towers and turrets and their mansard roofs. The buildings over here are much more monolithic and uniform.”

“Kind of like the people who live in them,” he said.

“As you did not so long ago.”

“That’s how I know. I’m a recovering Upper East Sider.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, I guess, I left my job, and my circumscribed world here, because I wanted to broaden my vision. Does that sound pretentious?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, my first attempt to escape has ended in failure.”

“Just because your marriage ended, it doesn’t mean you failed. I’m sure you learned a lot. The foundation is a wonderful accomplishment.”

“Yes and no. I imagined myself as a hands-on philanthropist, working with the people I was trying to help, but now I see myself sort of gradually fading away. I mean, yes, I’m going to endow the foundation, sure, but if I’m honest with myself, I’ve kind of lost interest in running the thing day to day. It was all part of the African adventure, which started to lose its allure after my accident.”

If he hadn’t accused himself of fickleness, she might have thought as much herself, but she appreciated the self-awareness implied in this account. “Some people are good at starting things, but not necessarily at running them.”

“I think Giselle was part of that whole African fantasy. Safari girl, athletic and outdoorsy.”

They were standing at the window. He gestured at the seating area; she sat on the couch, while he took a seat on a facing club chair, drumming his fingers on the arm.

“Where is she now?”

“In London, but she wants to move to New York. She’s a citizen by marriage, so she might as well.”

“Great. Maybe we can all have lunch.”

He looked at her blankly.

“That was a joke. Why doesn’t anyone ever know when I’m joking?”

“Sorry.”

“And what about you? What are you going to do?”

“Actually, I’ve gotten pretty involved in the Obama campaign. Fund-raising from my old cronies.” He stood up, walked over to the bar and leaned against it.

“That’s very cool.”

“I was suddenly worried you might be a Hillary person.”

“Why, because I’m a woman?”

“No, just because I’ve always imagined that we have similar views and tastes, and I would have been slightly disappointed if we hadn’t picked the same candidate.”

“That was a good answer. And yes, I’m actually an Obama person.”

“Great minds think alike.”

He was pacing around the room; she wondered if he was nervous, or merely restless. “Does this mean you’re moving back?” she asked warily. She wanted him back in the city, even though she knew it would complicate her life tremendously.

He nodded. “I thought I might look for an apartment downtown.”

Why is everyone moving downtown? she wondered. “At least you can afford it,” she said.

“Is that a jab?” He sat down on the couch now.

“No, I’m just saying we’ve so outgrown our place and we can’t afford anything bigger in the neighborhood, since we’re competing with movie stars and hedge funders.”

“Maybe I could help.”

“Luke, you know I can’t accept that kind of help from you.”

“I don’t see why not.” He tapped his foot soundlessly on the rug. “I’d like to think you wouldn’t categorically rule out the possibility in advance.”

He went to the bar and refilled her glass with champagne.

“I don’t want to feel like this divorce is about you and me,” she said.

“It’s not about you and me. But it’s not not about you and me.”

“Just to be clear — she’s not leaving you; you’re leaving her?”

He nodded, sat down again.

“I feel terrible.”

“Me too. But I also feel relieved. And hopeful. Is that a terrible thing to say?”

“I don’t know.”

Sitting beside her on the couch, he was close enough that she could smell him.

“I can’t pretend I don’t want you,” he said, looking pained.

“Just to be clear, do you mean you want to sleep with me?”

“I think I actually meant more than that. But, yes, of course.”

“Maybe if you did, you’d get me out of your system,” she said. She was remembering how much she’d always wanted him, and feeling a resurgence of that desire. It was involuntary — but there it was.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “But I’d love to try.”

He leaned over and kissed her; she liked it as much as she’d remembered.

She recoiled at the rasp of the buzzer, startled.

Luke got up and opened the door, ushered the man with the cart inside, assuring him that they could remove the chafing dishes and set the table themselves, shoving a bill into his hand and firmly guiding him out. After closing the door, he walked over to the couch and lifted her in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. At last, she thought, disloyally, a man who’s not obsessed with eating, although this turned out to be not entirely the case. He eased her down on the bed and removed her dress and her panty hose before going down on her.

What followed validated the fantasies of the years in between this and the last time they’d made love; afterward, as she lay panting on the bed, she said, “Goddamn it!”

“What’s the matter?”

“I was hoping it wouldn’t be as good as I remembered.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been a disappointment to you.”

“Well, anyway, now we can just go on with our lives.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” he said.

THE SHADOWS GREW LONGER in the windy canyons of TriBeCa, and soon it was time to throw away the shrunken, collapsed pumpkins and bring the winter coats out of storage. Although they’d been eager to go trick-or-treating again this year, Jeremy and Storey announced over Thanksgiving dinner that they were too old now for The Nutcracker —a family tradition since they were toddlers.

December was the swiftest month, the days growing shorter as the invitations and the obligations mounted, hats and coats and gloves laboriously donned and doffed, Christmas cards signed and addressed, presents chosen and purchased. And the parties, which by the middle of the month came to seem like work, waking to the alarm parched and headachy and chilly in the dark, too soon after the last cocktail, the last farewell; frost veining the windows, chilled air leaking through the gaps in the warped, paint-layered frames, burrowing deeper in the covers and moving closer to the hot lump of your husband.

All the new restaurants that year seemed to be hangar-size Asian fusion spots decorated with giant Buddhas and aquariums stocked with predatory fish, but tonight the boys had chosen a faux-rustic place in the Village, the interior of which resembled a Provençal farmhouse. Cylinders of brown paper bound in twine turned out to be their menus, which faithfully listed the source of all the ingredients, most of them organic. Corrine’s duck hailed from Bucks County, Pennsylvania.