Bright, Precious Days

22

TURNING EAST ON SPRING STREET, Corrine marveled anew at the upscale boutiques that had infested SoHo ever since Prada invaded — Chanel and Longchamp and Burberry — wondering when, exactly, Manhattan had become a collection of luxury brands and franchise outlets: Dubai on the Hudson. She stopped briefly to look in the window of Evolution — an exception to this depressing trend — Russell’s practically favorite store, which sold fossils and bear skulls and meteorites and other twelve-year-old schoolboy desiderata. On a stucco wall a few doors up the street was a drippy graffito: FIGHT TERROR WITH GLAMOUR.

The late-autumn chill, the turning season, reminded her of all she wanted to accomplish, and of all those past vows of seasonal renewal, awakening a vague but powerful sense of yearning exacerbated by a new note of desperation at the thought that she had fewer Novembers ahead of her than behind. And now, as if to provide an object to that inchoate sense of longing, Luke had reappeared.

If she didn’t tell Casey about it, she felt that her date with Luke that night might seem less real, or at least less of a betrayal. As much as she loved confiding in her friend, this seemed like an even greater violation of Russell’s trust; and she had vowed not to sleep with Luke, which Casey would find hard to believe. Since it was Casey’s turn to come downtown they were meeting at Balthazar, which her friend liked because it reminded her of Paris, although she could never refrain from saying that it wasn’t La Coupole.

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.”

“I don’t want to call attention to it. She’s self-conscious enough already.”

“Believe me, even if you don’t, her peers will. This is no town for fatties.”

“You’ve got to be careful what you say, or next thing you know you’re dealing with bulimia.” Much as Corrine hated to see Storey overweight, she was terrified that she might transmit her own issues to her daughter. She knew, in moments of clarity, that she had to be careful. When she was at Miss Porter’s, she’d been hospitalized with bulimia, and she still struggled against the occasional purging impulse. Or rather, still succumbed, occasionally. Hardly ever, though. It had been months.

As if reading her mind, Casey said, “There are worse things than the occasional voluntary puke. It’s just one of those basic feminine specialties, like faking an orgasm.”

One of Corrine’s biggest fears was that she would start to judge her daughter, that she would hate in Storey what she hated in others. Every bit as troubling was that Storey seemed to be getting very judgmental of Corrine, criticizing her tics, her dress, her habits at every turn. They’d always been so close, but suddenly Storey seemed to be pulling away. Whenever she let herself remotely fantasize about a future with Luke, she had only to imagine Storey’s reaction in order to squelch it.

Leaning over to pick up her napkin, she was surprised, as she righted herself, to see her face in the smoky mirror behind Casey, as if for a nanosecond she didn’t quite recognize the middle-aged woman, so like her, only slightly older. In her heart she was still twenty-seven, or thirty-three. At most forty-two. She’d always resisted the idea of getting work done, but maybe it was time to start thinking about it. There was a lag, a long delay between the calendar and her image of herself. Every few years her age consciousness lurched forward, propelled by some event or encounter, without ever necessarily catching up to the present.

“Have you been having sex with Russell?” Casey asked.

She leaned forward and whispered, “I can’t even remember the last time. A few months ago he was complaining that I didn’t put out, and now he seems to have lost interest. Maybe I’ve let myself go a little.” A busboy arrived with bread, but they both waved him away as if he were Satan himself.

“Have you thought about getting your eyes done?”

“Do I look that bad?”

“Not yet, but it’s time to start thinking about these things. You don’t want to wait until you really need it. Preventive maintenance is the thing.”

The waitress brought their wine and returned almost immediately with their salads. “Would you like fresh pepper?”

They declined in unison.

“I can’t believe they still go through that ridiculous pepper ritual,” Corrine said. “They were doing that when I first arrived in the city, except the pepper mills were gigantic then.”

“It was the big eighties. Big hair, big shoulder pads, big-ass pouf dresses. Big Rubirosas.”

“According to Vogue, the eighties are coming back.”

“They’ve been coming back for years,” Casey said. “I love this salad.”

“Russell says truffle oil is just olive oil flavored with a synthetic chemical compound that mimics the taste of truffles.”

“What a killjoy. Someone was trying to tell me yesterday that Splenda isn’t actually made from sugar and I said don’t tell me what it’s made from. It can be made out of camel shit as long as it’s zero calories and tastes good.”

“Love Splenda.”

“Now if we could just get somebody to invent a zero-calorie Chardonnay, life would be just about perfect.”

—

That night, Russell was making a risotto for the kids, instructing a rapt Storey, who stood beside him at the stove on a step stool, the two of them taking turns stirring the rice, while Jeremy sat at the table doing homework with Ferdie in his lap — a domestic tableau that seemed specifically designed to dissuade her from her illicit plans. She could join them, sit and talk with her husband and the kids about their day, but instead she was leaving them to meet her former lover, under the guise of a girls’ night out. Her day seemed to have a French theme — she might as well light up a fucking Gauloises, right here.

She would have felt better if Russell hadn’t taken this occasion to compliment her appearance. “Looking good, honey. It must be true — girls dress for other girls.”

Storey glanced up from her stirring. “I’ve never seen you wear so much makeup.” Her tone seemed slightly waspish. Was it her imagination, or was there also a touch of suspicion? They really needed to spend some mother-daughter time soon — tomorrow, or at least this weekend.

Corrine was wearing a baby blue A-line halter dress that stopped just above the knee, which she’d bought after lunch today at Century 21, and a pair of Gucci pumps with a four-inch heel that Casey had passed down to her last month after deciding they pinched her toes. Under the scrutiny of her husband and daughter, she was conscious of how much time she’d spent primping for the evening.

She was a terrible person.

“Why do you look so sad?” Jeremy asked.

“Just sad to be leaving you.”

“Then stay.”

“Can we watch Survivor?” Storey asked, sensing an opening.

“You know the rules. It’s a school night.” Not to mention that she thought it was a ridiculous show, despite the fact that some of her friends were obsessed with it.

“But we’ve done our homework and you let us watch last week and now we need to see if Gillian gets voted off the island.”

“I’ll leave that up to your dad,” she said, not wanting to give in, but knowing that Russell would take the path of least resistance.

The elevator shuddered to a stop on the ground floor, where she encountered her neighbor Bill Sugerman, who was clutching a laundry bag with one arm and a squirming toddler with the other. “Hey, Bill, how’s it going?”

He sighed and grimaced. “This isn’t exactly what I pictured, you know, when I thought about my life.”

Unprepared for this burst of candor, she stood slack-jawed as he walked past her into the elevator.

—

She arrived at the Carlyle a nervous wreck, feeling short of breath as she rode up in the old-fashioned elevator with the polite, petite operator in his braided uniform and cap, who looked exactly like an elevator man in one of those New York films from the thirties, delivering Carole Lombard or Norma Shearer to an assignation with Cary Grant or Ronald Colman.

Her sense of self-possession was further eroded at the sight of Luke, framed in the doorway of his room, his rueful grin made more poignant by the scar and the slightly cloudy, out-of-focus eye. Whether sensing her reserve, or out of shyness, he didn’t embrace her, but merely leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “It’s so great to see you. Please, come in.”

“It’s nice to see you, too.”

She surveyed the large formal living room with its view of Central Park and the strident towers of the West Side through the windows to the east, its well-worn, almost shabby Louis Quinze decor. Wildly expensive, no doubt, but not stupidly ostentatious.

“I love your dress.”

“Thanks. You don’t know how badly I want to say I found it in the back of my closet, but actually I bought it this afternoon.”

“Well, why do you sound so unhappy about it?”

“I’m mad at myself because, well, I bought it for you, because I wanted to look good for you.”

“I’m flattered and honored.”

“So why am I mad at myself? I should be mad at you.”

“I’m not aware of having done anything to incur your wrath.”

“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.