Business Meeting
Jean, my secretary who is in love with me, walks into my office without buzzing, announcing that I have a very important company meeting to attend at eleven. I’m sitting at the Palazzetti glass-top desk, staring into my monitor with my Ray-Bans on, chewing Nuprin, hung over from a coke binge that started innocently enough last night at Shout! with Charles Hamilton, Andrew Spencer and Chris Stafford and then moved on to the Princeton Club, progressed to Barcadia and ended at Nell’s around three-thirty, and though earlier this morning, while soaking in a bath, sipping a Stoli Bloody Mary after maybe four hours of sweaty, dreamless sleep, I realized that there was a meeting, I seemed to have forgotten about it on the cab ride downtown. Jean is wearing a red stretch-silk jacket, a crocheted rayon-ribbon skirt, red suede pumps with satin bows by Susan Bennis Warren Edwards and gold-plated earrings by Robert Lee Morris. She stands there, in front of me, oblivious to my pain, a file in her hand.
After pretending to ignore her for close to a minute, I finally lower my sunglasses and clear my throat. “Yes? Something else? Jean?”
“Mr. Grouchy today.” She smiles, placing the file timidly on my desk, and stands there expecting me to … what, amuse her with vignettes from last night?
“Yes, you simpleton. I am Mr. Grouchy today,” I hiss, grabbing the file and shoving it in the top desk drawer.
She stares at me, uncomprehending, then, actually looking crestfallen, says, “Ted Madison called and so did James Baker. They want to meet you at Fluties at six.”
I sigh, glaring at her. “Well, what should you do?”
She laughs nervously, standing there, her eyes wide. “I’m not sure.”
“Jean.” I stand up to lead her out of the office. “What … do … you … say?”
It takes her a little while but finally, frightened, she guesses, “Just … say … no?”
“Just … say … no.” I nod, pushing her out and slamming the door.
Before leaving my office for the meeting I take two Valium, wash them down with a Perrier and then use a scruffing cleanser on my face with premoistened cotton balls, afterwards applying a moisturizer. I’m wearing a wool tweed suit and a striped cotton shirt, both by Yves Saint Laurent, and a silk tie by Armani and new black cap-toed shoes by Ferragamo. I Plax then brush my teeth and when I blow my nose, thick, ropy strings of blood and snot stain a forty-five-dollar handkerchief from Hermes that, unfortunately, wasn’t a gift. But I’ve been drinking close to twenty liters of Evian water a day and going to the tanning salon regularly and one night of binging hasn’t affected my skin’s smoothness or color tone. My complexion is still excellent. Three drops of Visine clear the eyes. An ice pack tightens the skin. All it comes down to is: I feel like shit but look great.
I’m also the first to make it to the boardroom. Luis Carruthers follows like a puppy dog at my heels, a close second, and takes the seat next to mine which means I’m supposed to take off my Walkman. He’s wearing a wool plaid sports jacket, wool slacks, a Hugo Boss cotton shirt and paisley tie—slacks, I’m guessing, from Brooks Brothers. He starts rattling on about a restaurant in Phoenix, Propheteers, that I’m actually interested in hearing about but not from Luis Carruthers, yet I’m on ten milligrams of Valium and for that reason I can manage. On The Patty Winters Show this morning were descendants of members of the Donner Party.
“The clients were total hicks, predictably,” Luis is saying. “They wanted to take me to a local production of Les Miz, which I already saw in London, but—”
“Did you have any trouble getting reservations at Propheteers?” I ask, cutting him off.
“No. None at all,” he says. “We ate late.”
“What did you order?” I ask.
“I had the poached oysters, the lotte and the walnut tart.”
“I hear the lotte is good there,” I murmur, lost in thought.
“The client had the boudin blanc, the roasted chicken and the cheesecake,” he says.
“Cheesecake?” I say, confused by this plain, alien-sounding list. “What sauce or fruits were on the roasted chicken? What shapes was it cut into?”
“None, Patrick,” he says, also confused. “It was … roasted.”
“And the cheesecake, what flavor? Was it heated?” I say. “Ricotta cheesecake? Goat cheese? Were there flowers or cilantro in it?”
“It was just … regular,” he says, and then, “Patrick, you’re sweating.”
“What did she have?” I ask, ignoring him. “The client’s bimbo.”
“Well, she had the country salad, the scallops and the lemon tart,” Luis says.
“The scallops were grilled? Were they sashimi scallops? In a ceviche of sorts?” I’m asking. “Or were they gratinized?”
“No, Patrick,” Luis says. “They were … broiled.”
It’s silent in the boardroom as I contemplate this, thinking it through before asking, finally, “What’s ‘broiled,’ Luis?”
“I’m not sure,” he says. “I think it involves … a pan.”
“Wine?” I ask.
“An ’85 sauvignon blanc,” he says. “Jordan. Two bottles.”
“Car?” I ask. “Did you rent while in Phoenix?”
“BMW.” He smiles. “Little black beamer.”
“Hip,” I murmur, remembering last night, how I lost it completely in a stall at Nell’s—my mouth foaming, all I could think about were insects, lots of insects, and running at pigeons, foaming at the mouth and running at pigeons. “Phoenix. Janet Leigh was from Phoenix.…” I stall, then continue. “She got stabbed in the shower. Disappointing scene.” I pause. “Blood looked fake.”
“Listen, Patrick,” Luis says, pressing his handkerchief into my hand, my fingers clenched into a fist that relaxes at Luis’s touch. “Dibble and I are having lunch next week at the Yale Club. Would you like to join us?”
“Sure.” I think about Courtney’s legs, spread and wrapped around my face, and when I look over at Luis in one brief, flashing moment his head looks like a talking vagina and it scares the bejesus out of me, moves me to say something while mopping the sweat off my brow. “That’s a nice … suit, Luis.” The farthest thing from my mind.
He looks down as if stunned, and then blushing, embarrassed, he touches his own lapel. “Thanks, Pat. You look great too … as usual.” And when he reaches out to touch my tie, I catch his hand before his fingers make it, telling him, “Your compliment was sufficient.”
Reed Thompson walks in wearing a wool plaid four-button double-breasted suit and a striped cotton shirt and a silk tie, all Armani, plus slightly tacky blue cotton socks by Interwoven and black Ferragamo cap-toe shoes that look exactly like mine, with a copy of the Wall Street Journal held in a nicely manicured fist and a Bill Kaiserman tweed balmacaan overcoat draped casually across the other arm. He nods and sits across from us at the table. Soon after, Todd Broderick walks in wearing a wool chalk-striped six-button double-breasted suit and a striped broadcloth shirt and silk tie, all by Polo, plus an affected linen pocket square that I’m fairly sure is also by Polo. McDermott walks in next, carrying a copy of this week’s New York magazine and this morning’s Financial Times, wearing new nonprescription Oliver Peoples redwood-framed glasses, a black and white wool houndstooth-check single-breasted suit with notch lapels, a striped cotton dress shirt with spread collar and a silk paisley tie, all of it designed and tailored by John Reyle.
I smile, raising my eyebrows at McDermott, who sullenly takes the seat next to mine. He sighs and opens the newspaper, silently reading. Since he hasn’t offered a “hello” or “good morning” I can tell that he’s pissed off and I suspect that it has something to do with me. Finally, sensing that Luis is about to ask something, I turn to McDermott.
“So, McDermott, what’s wrong?” I smirk. “Long line at the Stairmaster this morning?”
“Who said anything’s wrong?” he asks, sniffing, turning pages in the Financial Times.
“Listen,” I tell him, leaning in, “I already apologized about yelling at you because of the pizza at Pastels the other night.”
“Who said it was about that?” he asks tensely.
“I thought we already cleared this up,” I whisper, gripping the arm of his chair, smiling over at Thompson. “I’m sorry I insulted the pizzas at Pastels. Happy?”
“Who said it’s about that?” he asks again.
“Then what is it, McDermott?” I whisper, noticing movement behind me. I count to three then whirl around, catching Luis leaning toward me trying to eavesdrop. He knows he’s been caught and he sinks slowly back into his chair, guilty.
“McDermott, this is ridiculous,” I whisper. “You can’t stay angry at me because I think the pizza at Pastels is … crusty.”
“Brittle,” he says, shooting me a glance. “The word you used was brittle.”
“I apologize,” I say. “But I’m right. It is. You read the review in the Times, right?”
“Here.” He reaches into his pocket and hands me a Xeroxed article. “I just wanted to prove you wrong. Read this.”
“What is it?” I ask, opening the folded page.
“It’s an article on your hero, Donald Trump.” McDermott grins.
“It sure is,” I say apprehensively. “Why didn’t I ever see this, I wonder.”
“And …” McDermott scans the article and points an accusatory finger at the bottom paragraph, which he’s highlighted in red ink. “Where does Donald Trump think the best pizza in Manhattan is served?”
“Let me read this,” I sigh, waving him away. “You might be wrong. What a lousy photo.”
“Bateman. Look. I circled it,” he says.
I pretend to read the F*cking article but I’m getting very angry and I have to hand the article back to McDermott and ask, thoroughly annoyed, “So what? What does it mean? What are you, McDermott, trying to tell me?”
“What do you think of the pizza at Pastels now, Bateman?” he asks smugly.
“Well,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I think I have to go back and retaste the pizza.…” I’m saying this through gritted teeth. “I’m just suggesting that the last time I was there the pizza was …”
“Brittle?” McDermott offers.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “Brittle.”
“Uh-huh.” McDermott smiles, triumphant.
“Listen, if the pizza at Pastels is okay with Donny,” I start, hating to admit this to McDermott, then sighing, almost unintelligibly, “it’s okay with me.”
McDermott cackles gleefully, a victor.
I count three silk-crepe ties, one Versace silk-satin woven tie, two silk foulard ties, one silk Kenzo, two silk jacquard ties. The fragrances of Xeryus and Tuscany and Armani and Obsession and Polo and Grey Flannel and even Antaeus mingle, wafting into each other, rising from the suits and into the air, forming their own mixture: a cold, sickening perfume.
“But I’m not apologizing,” I warn McDermott.
“You already have, Bateman,” he says.
Paul Owen walks in wearing a cashmere one-button sports jacket, tropical wool flannel slacks, a button-down tab-collared shirt by Ronaldus Shamask, but it’s really the tie—blue and black and red and yellow bold stripes from Andrew Fezza by Zanzarra—that impresses me. Carruthers gets excited too, and he leans into my chair and asks, if I’m listening correctly, “Do you think he has a power jock strap to go along with that thing?” When I don’t answer he retreats, opens one of the Sports Illustrateds that sit in the middle of the table and, humming to himself, starts to read an article on Olympic divers.
“Hello, Halberstam,” Owen says, walking by.
“Hello, Owen,” I say, admiring the way he’s styled and slicked back his hair, with a part so even and sharp it … devastates me and I make a mental note to ask him where he purchases his hair-care products, which kind of mousse he uses, my final guess after mulling over the possibilities being Ten-X.
Greg McBride walks in and stops by my chair. “Did you watch the Winters Show this morning? Riot. Total riot,” and we give each other high-five before he takes a seat between Dibble and Lloyd. God knows where they came from.
Kevin Forrest, who walks in with Charles Murphy, is saying, “My call waiting is busted. Felicia screwed it up somehow.” I’m not even paying attention to what they’re wearing. But I find myself staring at Murphy’s vintage owl cuff links with blue crystal eyes.