Married Sex by Jesse Kornbluth Read Free Book Online Page B

September, there’s an exception.
    If you want a reservation anywhere in New York on the night of Yom Kippur, you’re in.
    On that holiest of nights, Jews are in synagogues, fasting and praying. Or at home, guiltily eating Chinese takeout. But they’re definitely not eating Bresse chicken in a three-star restaurant. So at the upper end of fine dining, many of the regular patrons are otherwise engaged—and when you call, you get decent treatment.
    I called Per Se, the most expensive restaurant in the city.
    What time is best for you, Mr. Greenfield? Eight o’clock? Looking forward.
    I told Blair we were going out, that the destination was swellegant and to dress accordingly. I didn’t tell her where we were going—we’d done this before, making plans without telling the other, presenting an evening as a surprise. But when the cab stopped at the Time Warner Center, Blair was quizzical. Why the black dress, pearls, and slingbacks if we were bound for Whole Foods or Barnes & Noble?
    There are several restaurants on the fourth floor. Blair saw the steakhouse first and wasn’t thrilled; fifty dollars worth of beef would have her computing how many gallons of water it takes to produce a pound of meat. Actually, it wouldn’t. She knows, and I’ve heard the lecture: thirty-seven gallons.
    Then she saw Per Se.
    â€œDavid …”
    I opened the door and held it for her. She had no choice. She stepped inside.
    A few heads turned. One was that of Nancy Robb Russakof, at a table with a man who could only be her husband. She nodded, almost imperceptibly. Her husband had his back to me and was chatting with the sommelier; he missed the exchange.
    Seated, we reached for our napkins. They were so impossibly soft that Blair held hers to her cheek.
    Blair took my hand. “This will cost …”
    â€œDon’t look right now, but the blonde in a gray dress …”
    Only Blair’s eyes moved.
    â€œWith the trillion-dollar necklace?”
    â€œMy new client. With her soon-to-be-former husband—consider dinner on him.”
    When Blair sees wealth, she wonders what crime was committed to get it. She looked around the room and saw who was in the night’s cast—a random assortment of Wall Street chieftains, media executives, and unrecognizable foodies—and any small pleasure she felt evaporated.
    â€œWhy are we here?” Blair asked.
    â€œThere are only sixteen tables,” I said. “You can have an intimate conversation and not be overheard.”
    Stupid line. It bathed Blair in concern.
    â€œWhat’s the topic, David?”
    â€œNothing bad.”
    â€œJust being here feels bad.”
    â€œWe’ll never come back.”
    A waiter materialized. Blair looked up and smiled.
    â€œIn that case,” she said, “we would like champagne.”
    The meal began with Per Se’s signature offering: Northern California white sturgeon caviar atop a half dozen Island Creek oysters from Massachusetts resting on a bed of tapioca in a Limoges bowl. With it, we drank a Sémillon that added velvet to the brine, salt, and custard.
    Blair didn’t want the caviar. And in a better world, I’d be marching alongside her in protest against luxury and excess. But she ate it—all of it. She was right to. This was a voluptuous sensation. After, we sat in stunned silence.
    Blair broke it, as I knew she would.
    â€œSo what’s the secret?”
    â€œI’ve had an … offer.”
    Victoria is like family to Blair. Her reaction was immediate.
    â€œYou can’t leave V! You can’t!”
    â€œNot a professional offer.”
    Blair looked confused. What other kind was there?
    â€œA personal offer. An invitation.” I paused. “More like a proposition.”
    â€œOh,” she said, with considerable relief. “Who?”
    â€œJean Coin.”
    The name was lost on Blair.
    â€œA photographer. Arty.