Jay McInerney - Bright, Precious Days

Rolling off of her, he said, “Sorry, that was some kind of speed record.”

“Don’t apologize. I take it as a compliment that you were so excited.”

He waited a beat, two beats. “I hate to say it, but I think we should probably get back.”

“Wouldn’t you love just to stay here and see how long it takes for them to notice?”

“I think I’d rather live to fuck another day.”

He helped her with her dress and then tended to his own outfit. Although they hadn’t, in their haste, bothered to remove his shirt, he discovered that two of his studs had popped out.

“Shit,” he said, groping the bedspread. “We’ve got to find my studs. I can’t walk down there with my shirt open.”

“Relax, stud. They have to be here.”

Eventually they found both, though he was acutely conscious of the seconds and minutes ticking by, one having fallen to the floor during the struggle. Putting them in was a pain in the ass at the best of times, working one hand up under the shirt while the other poked them in from the other side, trying not to pop out the ones that were already in place, and tonight he was particularly maladroit. Standing in front of the full-length closet mirror, he finally succeeded in fastening one, but the second one fell to the carpet.

“Fuck fuck fuck. This is why the English had valets.”

“And why men on Park Avenue have wives,” she said. “Let me help.”

In fact, she was clearly experienced in the procedure, and finally he looked presentable, but when he looked down at his watch, he saw that despite his Quick Draw McGraw impersonation, almost twenty minutes had elapsed since he’d left the ballroom.

“We should definitely leave separately,” he said, adding reluctantly, “Ladies first.”

“I’ll be feeling you inside of me during the speeches,” she said, kissing him at the door.

“I like that idea,” he said, almost pushing her out the door. He was grateful that Casey and Tom had their own table, that he wouldn’t have to sit with her through dinner. He didn’t think he could handle that.

He looked again at his watch, waited thirty seconds, and poked his head out the door. Finding the hallway empty, he bounded out and waited at the elevators, pressing the button repeatedly, reflexively checking his pockets for wallet, cell phone and keys.

Withdrawing his phone from his pocket, he looked at the screen and saw Veronica’s name. It took him a moment to register the time code, to see that it was advancing, to realize that the line had been open fourteen minutes and counting.

Horrified, he punched the red button to disconnect and considered the options. There was certainly a chance that in the din of the party she might not have heard her phone, ensconced inside that ridiculous clutch. And even if she had answered, what were the chances she would have heard anything comprehensible, given that his phone was in his pocket, muffled by all that fabric? On the other hand, Casey had been even more vocal than usual.

The elevator finally arrived, though he was no longer quite so eager to get downstairs. He kept running through the possibilities as the car descended, and walked back through the lobby dreading his encounter with Veronica and trying to anticipate her reaction, wondering if he would be able to read her at first sight. She had a pretty good poker face and had lots of experience with being disappointed by her husband’s behavior. If she seemed to be ignorant of his transgression, he would find a way to get hold of her phone and erase those fourteen minutes.

The reception gallery was almost empty, the stragglers disappearing into the ballroom as the lights flashed on and off, signaling the start of dinner. Despite feeling that his knees might buckle beneath him, he somehow made his way through the tables, eventually discovering his own in the middle of the room. Veronica was already sitting next to Russell. At least she has a good seat, he thought, dreading the moment of eye contact, and indeed her expression was neither warm nor welcoming when she looked up at him, although it might have merely indicated her impatience with his prolonged absence, as opposed to knowledge of his activities. Then, with a sinking feeling, he saw her phone next to her place setting, though she might have removed it from her purse after he’d broken the connection.

A stranger took the chair beside her then and she was distracted by introductions as Washington moved around the other side of the table to his own seat and threw himself into conversation with Corrine, who seemed almost as skittish as he was. Having pretty much organized the event, she was telling him about all the last-minute glitches and about the competition among the gala committee women for time at the podium.

“They all want to speak,” she was saying. “Personally, I’d rather shoot myself than get up there, but every one of them seems to feel that her husband’s fifty grand entitles her to take the stage. And half of them haven’t even sent the check yet. Actually, the only exception is Karen Fontana, and her husband donated a million bucks! Only don’t say I told you that, because he genuinely wants to remain anonymous. If only the others could act like that.”

When Washington finally looked over at Veronica, she seemed to be engrossed with the stranger on her left, and he began to allow himself to believe he might have escaped, that he might have been given another chance — a chance to get his shit together and appreciate the life they had together, to stop taking her for granted and stop fucking around, to love his kids and come home early at night to the bosom of his family. He promised himself that if he were somehow spared exposure tonight, he would never stray again.

At first her failure to make eye contact was a welcome reprieve, but after the speeches started and she failed to so much as glance his way, it started to seem pointed and deliberate.

Washington’s attention was diverted by a short speech from a tiny woman in a purple dashiki and matching headdress, who said she was an immigrant from Ghana, ineligible for food stamps or welfare, and unable to feed her family until she’d learned about Nourish New York, and who concluded her speech with a shout-out to “Miss Corrine,” who had taken a special interest in her case. Mortified, the object of her approbation blushed as heads turned toward their table and the applause mounted.

As the speeches dragged on, he began to think he couldn’t bear the suspense any longer, and he texted her — testing the waters.

Hey you.

Across the table, she looked down, picked up her phone and glanced up at him inquisitively.

Boring, he texted.

She lowered the phone to her lap, typing a response. Haven’t had enough excitement for 1 nite?

He looked up from his phone, but she’d turned away and was watching the podium.

Hopelessly, he texted back: ????

Without looking over at him, she eventually picked up the phone and took it in her lap, biting her lip as she laboriously tapped out the answer on the keypad. He was almost afraid to check when his phone finally buzzed.

Wonder if she’s feeling you inside her during the speeches?

He glanced up, meeting her gaze, a look he was all too familiar with but had hoped never to see again in this life. And for the first time in a long career of attending benefits, he wished the speeches would never end.

REPORTERS ON CNN WERE DISCUSSING the upcoming Wisconsin primary and predicting a win for Obama when they left the kids with Jean and walked down the block to Odeon. As soon as they were seated, he spotted Washington at a nearby table with a young woman in a sleek black dress who looked more Condé Nast than Corbin, Dern — an unwelcome sight insofar as he felt it might provoke Corrine. As Washington’s best friend, and a male of the species, he was afraid he’d somehow be implicated; in fact, he felt guilty already, as if Corrine, seeing this, might intuit his own sins of thought, if not of deed.