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Fred Tatter’s dinner party was about to begin. Invitations had been mailed three weeks ahead of time, making it — apart from his bar mitzvah and his wedding — the most formally schemed event of Fred’s life. Indeed, because of the guest list, Fred considered this gathering symbolic of the impending culmination of his life’s ambition. Four years ago he had been a dumpy Jewish guy (his own description) who knew a lot about sports. Now he was a New York Writer, all set to entertain an important agent, an editor, and several promising colleagues. He had shucked the dusty green shell of his Long Island background, and gleamed anew in fresh rows of friends and occupation. Armed with his coffee-table spread of cheeses and fish eggs, he felt his incarnation as Novelist was imminent.

Ironically, an afterthought on the guest list — Patty Lane — was the first to arrive. Patty used to work with Marion, Fred’s wife, at Goodson Books. They were assistant editors until a few months ago, when Patty was fired in a general cutback. Knowing this blow had come on top of Patty’s breaking up with her boyfriend, Marion felt sorry for Patty, and invited her without consulting Fred. Patty’s presence might have irritated Fred, especially in her current condition of unemployment (Fred wanted this evening to gleam with success; any tarnish on his guests might dull the general glow), if it were not for her considerable charms.

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