THE CONVERSATION SPLITS, as conversations in foursomes often do, and Matthew finds himself talking to Richard.  He never has much to say to Richard.  He asks about the children, because he thinks people who have children are flattered to be asked about them, since they’re investing their hopes in their kids, but then the thought strikes him that perhaps this isn’t really so.  Maybe people with children are actually envious of them, feel that their kids are getting a much better deal than they got when they were young.  In fact, Matthew decides, they’re probably annoyed when they’re asked about their children.  Now he feels uncomfortable about having asked Richard about the children.  There is also the intriguing possibility that Richard might be haunted by the suspicion that one of them is Matthew’s.  Or both.  The boost Matthew gets from imagining that suspicion comes not only from the pleasure it implies but from the implication that it’s possible.  He suspects that it isn’t, or at least that it’s unlikely.  When Liz didn’t become pregnant after three years of trying, her gynecologist suggested Matthew have a sperm count done.  Matthew made an appointment, but as it approached he dreaded it more and more.  He couldn’t stand the idea of masturbating on demand, in a toilet with girlie magazines.  Then there was the possibility that he wouldn’t be able to.  What if he couldn’t get an erection under those circumstances?  He’d have to face nurses, wouldn’t he?  He’d have to walk through a waiting room full of other men, and he could imagine them snickering as he passed.  Matthew decided that he probably did have a low sperm count.  It was a good explanation; why not just accept it without verifying it?  He canceled the appointment but told Liz that he kept it.  A couple of days later he reported the results, which he fabricated from Taber’s Cyclopedic Medical Dictionary and Our Bodies, Ourselves: a low sperm count, low percentage of motility, high percentage of abnormalities.  Liz was understanding.
    While Richard talks about the children—something about school, television, shoes—Matthew is distracted by the conversation between Effie and Belinda.  It seems to be entirely about work, but he keeps thinking—hoping—that they’re about to start talking about him.

THE LOUNGE is getting more and more crowded.  Matthew is amazed at how dark it is here.  Everything is dark—the wood, the upholstery, the lighting. Most restaurants aren’t this dark anymore, he thinks. Does it have something to do with historical authenticity?
    More likely, he seems to hear BW say, they are afraid that in bright light we would notice the authentic antique grime.
    The cocktail waitress materializes out of the dark with another round of drinks.  The group is surprised.
    “Did we order these?” asks Richard.  He pauses, grins a lubricious grin.  “Or can you read my mind?”
    “‘No’ to the first one,” says the waitress.  “Your friend Jack ordered them.  He said to tell you he’ll be right with you.”
    “Is he here?” asks Effie.  Her head swivels, like an action figure’s.
    “He must have ordered these by telepathy,” suggests Richard.  “Can you read his mind, too?”
    A smile for Richard from the waitress.  Matthew never realized before that Richard was the kind of guy who exchanges banter with cocktail waitresses.  If he were alone, would he pick her up? he wonders.  Matthew has often wished that he could make small talk.  He realizes that you can’t pick up women in a bar without the skill, for one thing.  He has observed that in bars where picking-up seems to be going on, everyone is good at that nonsensical chat, that cotton-candy talk, but he can’t seem to master it.  When he tries, he begins perspiring across his upper lip.
    “He called,” the waitress says.
    “He called?” asks Matthew.  “He ordered drinks for us by phone?”
    “That’s Jack,” says Effie.  “He’s probably in a limo with a car phone.”
    Matthew wonders how Jack identified the group for the waitress.  He can imagine a conversation like this:
    “Should be a group of three,” says Jack.  “An adorable little blonde, bouncy, full of life.  A dull guy, her shithead husband, looks like a lawyer, probably tried to pick you up.  And kind of a nondescript guy in his forties, most likely drinking a martini, the kind of guy you wouldn’t pick out in a crowd.”
    “Well,” says the waitress, “there is one group like that, but there’s another woman with them, and the nondescript guy is wearing kind of surprising socks.”
    No.  That’s not it, Matthew tells himself. He knew the reservation was in my name.  He just asked if the Barber party was there.
    Suddenly there’s Jack, putting his arm around the waitress and asking the group, “Is Luanne taking care of you?” as if he owns the place, immediately in charge, as he always was.  How did he find out that her name was Luanne?  Did he just say, “What’s your name, honey?” or what?
    Matthew’s name is called over a loudspeaker before Jack has a chance to sit down: “Barber, party of six.  Barber, party of six.”
    “Party of six?” asks Jack.
    “I didn’t know whether you’d be alone or whether you might bring someone.”
    Jack just grins.  Is he offended?  There was an edge to Matthew’s voice; he was a little annoyed at being put in the position of social secretary.
    The group rises and goes into the scuttling around that comes after one’s name has been called at a place like this, trying to get the cocktail waitress to bring the check.  Where is she?  Where has Luanne gone?  How can she have disappeared so quickly?  Did she run off as soon as she realized they’d been called?  She has come over to the table often enough to ask if they wanted more drinks, but now she’s nowhere in sight.  Richard volunteers to wait for her while the rest of them go to the table.  Jack thanks him and reaches for his wallet.  Richard puts his hand up, and Jack smiles, nods, puts his wallet away, and offers Effie his arm.  Matthew observes all of this, and it seems to him that, over the top of Effie’s head, just as Jack turns and heads for the dining room with her on his arm, Jack winks at him.  He can’t be quite sure.  It might have been nothing more than a blink of the eye, but it might have been more.  Has Jack slept with Effie? Matthew wonders.  Does he think I have?

Reservations Recommended is published in paperback by Picador, a division of St. Martin’s Press, at $12.00.

You should be able to find Reservations Recommendedat your local bookstore, but you can also order it by phone from:

Bookbound at 1-800-959-7323 
Book Call at 1-800-255-2665 (worldwide 1-203-966-5470)

Reservations Recommended is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, dialogues, settings, and businesses portrayed in it are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

First published by Crown Publishers, Inc., 201 East 50th Street, New York, New York 10022. Member of the Crown Publishing Group.

Now available in paperback from Picador USA, a division of St. Martin’s Press.

For information about publication rights outside the U. S. A., audio rights, serial rights, screen rights, and so on, e-mail Alec “Nick” Rafter, the author’s earnest agent.

The illustration at the top of the page is an adaptation of an illustration by Stewart Rouse that first appeared on the cover of the August 1931 issue of Modern Mechanics and Inventions. The boy at the controls of the aerocycle doesn’t particularly resemble Peter Leroy—except, perhaps, for the smile.