Class(62)

“Sure.”

“Does anyone understand what you do for a living?”

“Not really. Sometimes not even me. But let’s not talk about work. It’s too depressing.”

“I can pretty much guarantee that how I spend my days is eleven times more depressing than how you spend yours,” said Karen.

“Fair enough. What can I get you to drink?”

“I don’t know—surprise me.”

“One Bill Cosby Special coming right up. Waiter!” Clay motioned for the man behind the bar.

“You’re a terrible person,” Karen said, chuckling and punching Clay’s arm.

“Ow,” he said, grinning back.

“Also, did I ever tell you that you basically lost me my biggest donor at the benefit that night? They e-mailed the next morning to say they were switching allegiances to our main rival. All that time you and I were dancing to those cheesy songs from the eighties, I could have been chatting them up.”

“Yeah, but admit it, you had more fun than you’ve had in a year shaking your booty to ‘Footloose,’” said Clay.

How did he know? “Maybe I did,” Karen said coyly, “and maybe I didn’t.”

“Besides, you have me on board now, and—you never know—I might pony up a few more rubles at Christmastime.”

“I can’t wait,” she said, reaching for a peanut herself. Under ordinary circumstances, the blatant mixing of business and pleasure that Clay was engaging in would have discomfited Karen. But somehow—maybe because the circumstances weren’t ordinary, or maybe because the pleasure was so immediate—it didn’t. Or maybe it was that his fortune was so large that it rendered money, even if he’d lost a little bit of it today, almost beside the point.

Just then, Clay took Karen’s hand in his own, leaned forward slightly, gazed at her intently, and said, “Me neither—how about we get out of here?”

“And go where?” said Karen, taken aback. Hadn’t they just arrived?

“I have a room booked at the Mandarin Oriental and a car waiting out front. Sorry if that’s presumptuous.” He smiled sheepishly.

“Excuse me?” cried Karen, laughing again and pulling her hand away, because it was all so sudden and suddenly so real. And what kind of fool reaches middle age and still thinks her fantasies will come true? “We haven’t even had dinner,” she told him.

“We can eat later—or order room service,” said Clay. “Come on. Say yes. What do you have to lose?”

“My marriage, for one thing!” answered Karen.

“Mark will never find out.”

“It’s Matt.”

“Matt. Whatever. Don’t you ever just want to escape your life for a few hours—or is your life pure, unfettered joy?”

“At the moment, it’s pure hell.”

“Funny—so is mine. But we can pretend we’re happy. We can get in bed and watch sitcoms. You don’t even have to kiss me.”

“I just have to sleep with you.”

“Who said anything about sleeping?”

“I did,” said Karen.

“Well, that’s your problem, then,” said Clay, shrugging, but not unkindly.

“And the fact that you’re married too isn’t an issue?”

Clay sighed as he reached for his drink. “The way I see it, we’re both going to be dead soon anyway. What do we have left—thirty years, thirty-five, forty if we’re lucky? Except maybe it wouldn’t be that lucky. Have you ever met an eighty-five-year-old who’s honestly enjoying his life? I haven’t. And forget about ninety. Unless you think it’s fun being slumped in a chair reminiscing about the good old days while slowly losing your mind. After that, welcome to the junkyard of human existence. Sure, after we’re gone, our kids will cry for a few weeks and pretend to miss us. But they’ll get over it—they always do—while the rest of the world will soon forget we were ever born, unless by some fluke one of us discovers the cure for cancer in the next ten years. Then again, can you name the guy who eradicated smallpox? Me neither. So, I guess my feeling is, why not grab a little happiness where you find it? Maybe that makes me an asshole, but that’s kind of the position I’ve settled on at this point in my life. Have I had affairs? Yes. Have I had one recently? No. Do I find myself at this particular moment in time strangely besotted with you, Karen Kipple from College? Yes.” Clay stared lustily at Karen. Then he lifted his highball glass off the bar and had a final chug, which made his Adam’s apple bob up and down like a pinball in a machine. Setting the empty glass on the bar, he let out a contented “Ahhh” and added, “I love orange juice—one of the great inventions.”

“Second only to the lightbulb,” offered Karen, swallowing hard.

“Don’t forget the drum machine.”

Karen found herself grinning at Clay, who grinned back. Maybe he’s right, she thought, and none of it matters—not the charity we believe ennobles us or the temptations we punish ourselves for succumbing to. We’re all going to be gone soon anyway.

And Karen was flattered and aroused. And it seemed like her last chance to act like a drunken fool and be the object of someone’s desire before she shriveled up and ceased to be the object of anything but pity. And as bad as her body looked now, it was bound to look worse in five years.