Jerry Hess, a rich, handsome, horny, Manhattan-based art dealer, is in his middle-aged jaded period--he has it all and is this all there is? So he leaves lawyer wife Lillian (her femininity has hardened to a crisp around the edges), and memories of Ursula surface--Ursula, the 60-ish French actress who was young Jerry's guide to amour. Ursula does indeed offer hope: she's delighted to welcome Jerry to Beverly Hills, where she holds court and tucks in Jerry as a lap dog among her fatuous following. Yuk. So it's back to New York, Vermont, and Mary--the young radical freelance writer whom Jerry meets while jogging. But Mary is the sort who, after sex, whips on jeans and starts typing an article on African politics; and Jerry realizes that they're both increasingly restless. So now he has abandoned three women--and Lillian doesn't want him back. Can he stand by himself? Somehow this portrait of a Gucci-clad Seeker, who yo-yo's from bed to bored looking for the bluebird, never quite touches off the satiric land-mines you wait for. Still, it pumps along--everyone pumps along--in a convincing enough lather of expensive urban angst.