Office
In the elevator Frederick Dibble tells me about an item, or some other gossip column, about Ivana Trump and then about this new Italian-Thai place on the Upper East Side that he went to last night with Emily Hamilton and starts raving about this great fusilli shiitake dish. I have taken out a gold Cross pen to write down the name of the restaurant in my address book. Dibble is wearing a subtly striped double-breasted wool suit by Canali Milano, a cotton shirt by Bill Blass, a mini-glen-plaid woven silk tie by Bill Blass Signature and he’s holding a Missoni Uomo raincoat. He has a good-looking, expensive haircut and I stare at it, admiringly, while he starts humming along to the Muzak station—a version of what could be “Sympathy for the Devil”—that plays throughout all the elevators in the building our offices are in. I’m about to ask Dibble if he watched The Patty Winters Show this morning—the topic was Autism—but he gets out on the floor before mine and repeats the name of the restaurant, “Thaidialano,” and then “See you, Marcus” and steps out of the elevator. The doors shut. I am wearing a mini-houndstooth-check wool suit with pleated trousers by Hugo Boss, a silk tie, also by Hugo Boss, a cotton broadcloth shirt by Joseph Abboud and shoes from Brooks Brothers. I flossed too hard this morning and I can still taste the coppery residue of swallowed blood in the back of my throat. I used Listerine afterwards and my mouth feels like it’s on fire but I manage a smile to no one as I step out of the elevator, brushing past a hung-over Wittenborn, swinging my new black leather attaché case from Bottega Veneta.
My secretary, Jean, who is in love with me and who I will probably end up marrying, sits at her desk and this morning, to get my attention as usual, is wearing something improbably expensive and completely inappropriate: a Chanel cashmere cardigan, a cashmere crewneck and a cashmere scarf, faux-pearl earrings, wool-crepe pants from Barney’s. I pull my Walkman off from around my neck as I approach her desk. She looks up and smiles shyly.
“Late?” she asks.
“Aerobics class.” I play it cool. “Sorry. Any messages?”
“Ricky Hendricks has to cancel today,” she says. “He didn’t say what it was he is canceling or why.”
“I occasionally box with Ricky at the Harvard Club,” I explain. “Anyone else?”
“And … Spencer wants to meet you for a drink at Fluties Pier 17,” she says, smiling.
“When?” I ask.
“After six.”
“Negative,” I tell her as I walk into my office. “Cancel it.”
She gets up from behind her desk and follows me in. “Oh? And what should I say?” she asks, amused.
“Just … say … no,” I tell her, taking my Armani overcoat off and hanging it on the Alex Loeb coatrack I bought at Bloomingdale’s.
“Just … say … no?” she repeats.
“Did you see The Patty Winters Show this morning?” I ask. “On Autism?”
“No.” She smiles as if somehow charmed by my addiction to The Patty Winters Show. “How was it?”
I pick up this morning’s Wall Street Journal and scan the front page—all of it one ink-stained senseless typeset blur. “I think I was hallucinating while watching it. I don’t know. I can’t be sure. I don’t remember,” I murmur, placing the Journal back down and then, picking up today’s Financial Times, “I really don’t know.” She just stands there waiting for instructions. I sigh and place my hands together, sitting down at the Palazzetti glass-top desk, the halogen lamps on both sides already burning. “Okay, Jean,” I start. “I need reservations for three at Camols at twelve-thirty and if not there, try Crayons. All right?”
“Yes sir,” she says in a joky tone and then turns to leave.
“Oh wait,” I say, remembering something. “And I need reservations for two at Arcadia at eight tonight.”
She turns around, her face falling slightly but still smiling. “Oh, something … romantic?”
“No, silly. Forget it,” I tell her. “I’ll make them. Thanks.”
“I’ll do it,” she says.
“No. No,” I say, waving her off. “Be a doll and just get me a Perrier, okay?”
“You look nice today,” she says before leaving.
She’s right, but I’m not saying anything—just staring across the office at the George Stubbs painting that hangs on the wall, wondering if I should move it, thinking maybe it’s too close to the Aiwa AM/FM stereo receiver and the dual cassette recorder and the semiautomatic belt-drive turntable, the graphic equalizer, the matching bookshelf speakers, all in twilight blue to match the color scheme of the office. The Stubbs painting should probably go over the life-size Doberman that’s in the corner ($700 at Beauty and the Beast in Trump Tower) or maybe it would look better over the Pacrizinni antique table that sits next to the Doberman. I get up and move all these sporting magazines from the forties—they cost me thirty bucks apiece—that I bought at Funchies, Bunkers, Gaks and Gleeks, and then I lift the Stubbs painting off the wall and balance it on the table then sit back at my desk and fiddle with the pencils I keep in a vintage German beer stein I got from Man-tiques. The Stubbs looks good in either place. A reproduction Black Forest umbrella stand ($675 at Hubert des Forges) sits in another corner without, I’m just noticing, any umbrellas in it.
I put a Paul Butterfield tape in the cassette player, sit back at the desk and flip through last week’s Sports Illustrated, but can’t concentrate. I keep thinking about that damn tanning bed Van Patten has and I’m moved to pick up the phone and buzz Jean.
“Yes?” she answers.
“Jean. Listen, keep your eyes open for a tanning bed, okay?”
“What?” she asks—incredulously, I’m sure, but she’s still probably smiling.
“You know. A tanning bed,” I repeat casually. “For a … tan.”
“Okay …,” she says hesitantly. “Anything else?”
“And, oh shit, yeah. Remind me to return the videotapes I rented last night back to the store.” I start to open and close the sterling silver cigar holder that sits by the phone.
“Anything else?” she asks, and then, flirtatiously, “How about that Perrier?”
“Yeah. That sounds good. And Jean?”
“Yes,” she says, and I’m relieved by her patience.
“You don’t think I’m crazy?” I ask. “I mean for wanting a tanning bed?”
There’s a pause and then, “Well, it is a little unusual,” she admits, and I can tell she is choosing her words very carefully. “But no, of course not. I mean how else are you going to keep up that devilishly handsome skin tone?”
“Good girl,” I say before hanging up. I have a great secretary.
She comes into the office five minutes later with the Perrier, a wedge of lime and the Ransom file, which she did not need to bring, and I am vaguely touched by her almost total devotion to me. I can’t help but be flattered.
“You have a table at Camols at twelve-thirty,” she announces as she pours the Perrier into a glass tumbler. “Nonsmoking section.”
“Don’t wear that outfit again,” I say, looking her over quickly. “Thanks for the Ransom file.”
“Um …” She stalls, about to hand me the Perrier, and asks, “What? I didn’t hear you,” before setting the drink on my desk.
“I said,” and I repeat myself calmly, grinning, “do not wear that outfit again. Wear a dress. A skirt or something.”
She stands there only a little stunned, and after she looks down at herself, she smiles like some kind of cretin. “You don’t like this, I take it,” she says humbly.
“Come on,” I say, sipping my Perrier. “You’re prettier than that.”
“Thanks, Patrick,” she says sarcastically, though I bet tomorrow she’ll be wearing a dress. The phone on her desk rings. I tell her I’m not here. She turns to leave.
“And high heels,” I mention. “I like high heels.”
She shakes her head good-naturedly as she exits, shutting my door behind her. I take out a Panasonic pocket watch with a three-inch diagonal color TV and an AM/FM radio and try to find something to watch, hopefully Jeopardy!, before turning to my computer terminal.