Now and Yesterday Read Online Free

nice massage, and perhaps the New Yorkers who lived in each kind of place were as different from each other, too.
    The party was already bouncy. Two dozen conversations mingled in a gauzy din, while the recorded piano stylings of Oscar Peterson jazzed away in the background. Among the artworks were several large abstract paintings by Connor Frankel, a world-renowned artist in his eighties who was a friend of Jonathan’s. Outside the double-glazed windows a glinting city shone resplendently.
    With practiced geniality Peter began greeting people—men he rarely saw now, whose names he sometimes misremembered. “Sam, good to see you.” “Charlie, how’s that pretty puppy?” “Draper, congratulations—I saw you were nominated.” “Kevin, hi! Gimme a sec so I can grab a drink—I mean ‘Keith,’ sorry! What am I saying?” The crowd included a lawyer for a large bank, the development director of an art museum, the vice president of an orchestra, several people from the film community, a few authors and journalists, a poet from a long-prominent family. It was early in the evening and navigation was still easy. As he squeezed through the crowd Peter nodded cordially at Connor Frankel himself, who was seated on the sofa with a much younger man. The two were talking with a small group of very respectful-looking people standing in front of them. Peter wasn’t clear if Frankel saw him, but he wasn’t going to intrude. He had met the artist a few times before and found him intimidating. There was Frankel’s lofty spot in history as one of the grand masters of twentieth-century art and also the fact that he’d always been somewhat closeted, which Peter had mixed feelings about.
    â€œGood to see you,” said an art dealer Peter had known for years.
    â€œHey, Lawrence, you too,” said Peter.
    â€œIsn’t your boyfriend with you tonight—the blond?”
    â€œTyler? No. And he’s not my boyfriend.”
    â€œThat’s what you always say about your boyfriends!”
    Peter gave the man’s shoulder a warm squeeze and kept moving.
    I keep coming to these things thinking I’ll meet someone “appropriate” who’s available and hot, he thought. But I never do.
    He was grateful when Tyler did accompany him to events like this. With his young friend at his side, Peter felt less trapped by the habits of his generation; he had a conspirator against the thundering babyboomerishness of it all. He’d been thinking a lot about the baby boomers lately. They were looming large in a brand audit and study of “relevant signs in the mediasphere” he was doing for a client hoping to target the aging-but-active-boomer market for a body wash that was already a best seller among twentysomethings. Where are we with concepts of “young” and “clean” these days? Does clean mean fresh? Is fresh still sexy? Is sexy still good? Good in what way? And what about Canada? This is what Peter had been thinking about all day.
    â€œAll I wanted to do was look at her hair!”
    â€œIt was the star of the movie.”
    â€œAnd the wardrobe!”
    â€œThe off-the-shoulder thing?”
    â€œ Brill -iant.”
    A foursome was discussing Charlie Wilson’s War. In passing, Peter attempted a contribution.
    â€œAnd then ten minutes later she’s wearing a burkha,” he said.
    â€œYes!”
    â€œYou know,” continued Peter, “I’ve always marveled at the way he uses that rich-lady Texas Baroque style to create the character visually . . . .”
    One of them took a sip of wine.
    â€œHe?”
    â€œMike Nichols,” said Peter. “The director.”
    There was a second-and-a-half of silence, then genial laughter. The discussion was about stars, not directors.
    Peter smiled, nodding.
    â€œExcuse me,” he said. “Bar.”
    OK, got it—no one here for me tonight.
    Through