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He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even nod, but now he’s looking at me strangely and he lowers his sunglasses and says, with a slight grimace, “Uh… your nose is bleeding.”
I stand there rock still for a moment, before understanding that I have to do something about this, so I pretend to be suitably embarrassed, quizzically touch my nose then bring out my Polo handkerchief—already spotted brown—and wipe the blood away from my nostrils, overall handling it sort of well. “Must be the altitude.” I laugh. “We’re up so high.”
He nods, says nothing, looks up at the numbers.
The elevator stops at my floor and when the doors open I tell Tom, “I’m a big fan. It’s really good to finally meet you.”
“Oh yeah, right.” Cruise smiles that famous grin and jabs at the Close Door button.
The girl I’m going out with tonight, Patricia Worrell—blond, model, dropped out of Sweet Briar recently after only one semester—has left two messages on the answering machine, letting me know how incredibly important it is that I call her. While loosening my Matisse-inspired blue silk tie from Bill Robinson I dial her number and walk across the apartment, cordless phone in hand, to flip on the air-conditioning.
She answers on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Patricia. Hi. It’s Pat Bateman.”
“Oh hi,” she says. “Listen, I’m on the other line. Can I call you back?”
“Well…,” I say.
“Look, it’s my health club,” she says. “They’ve screwed up my account. I’ll call you back in a sec.”
“Yeah,” I say and hang up.
I go into the bedroom and take off what I was wearing today: a herringbone wool suit with pleated trousers by Ciorgio Correggiari, a cotton oxford shirt by Ralph Lauren, a knit tie from Paul Stuart and suede shoes from Cole-Haan. I slip on a pair of sixty-dollar boxer shorts I bought at Barney’s and do some stretching exercises, holding the phone, waiting for Patricia to call back. After ten minutes of stretching, the phone rings and I wait six rings to answer it.
“Hi,” she says. “It’s me, Patricia.”
“Could you hold on? I’ve got another call.”
“Oh sure,” she says.
I put her on hold for two minutes, then get back on the line. “Hi,” I say. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
“So. Di
“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she says slowly.
“Oh no,” I moan. “What is it?”
“Well, see, it’s like this,” she begins. “There’s this concert at Radio City and—”
“No, no, no,” I tell her adamantly. “No music.”
“But my ex-boyfriend, this keyboardist from Sarah Lawrence, he’s in the backup band and—” She stops, as if she has already decided to protest my decision.
“No. Uh-uh, Patricia,” I tell her firmly, thinking to myself: Damnit, why this problem, why tonight?
“Oh Patrick,” she whines into the phone. “It’ll be so much fun.”
I am now fairly sure that the odds of having sex with Patricia this evening are quite good, but not if we attend a concert in which an ex-boyfriend (there is no such thing with Patricia) is in the backup band.
“I don’t like concerts,” I tell her, walking into the kitchen. I open the refrigerator and take out a liter of Evian. “I don’t like concerts,” I say again. “I don’t like ‘live’ music.”
“But this one isn’t like the others.” She lamely adds, “We have good seats.”
“Listen. There’s no need to argue,” I say. “If you want to go, go. ”
“But I thought we were going to be togeth er,” she says, straining for emotion. “I thought we were going to have di
“I know, I know,” I say. “Listen, we should all be allowed to do exactly what we want to do. I want you to do what you want to do.”
She pauses and tries a new angle. “Mis music is so beautiful, so… I know it sounds corny, but it’s… glorious. The band is one of the best you’ll ever see. They’re fu
“No, no, you go,” I say. “You have a good time.”
“Patrick,” she says. “I have two tickets.”
“No. I don’t like concerts,” I say. “Live music bugs me.”
“Well,” she says and her voice sounds genuinely tinged with maybe real disappointment, “I’ll feel bad that you’re not there with me.”
“I say go and have a good time.” I unscrew the cap off the Evian bottle, timing my next move. “Don’t worry. I’ll just go to Dorsia alone then. It’s okay.”
There is a very long pause that I am able to translate into: Uh-huh, right, now see if you want to go to that lousy fucking concert. I take a large gulp of Evian, waiting for her to tell me what time she’ll be over.
“Dorsia?” she asks and then, suspiciously, “You have reservations there? I mean for us?”
“Yes” I say, “Eight-thirty,”
“Well…” She emits a little laugh and then, faltering, “It was… well, what I mean is, I’ve seen them. I just wanted you to see them.”
“Listen. What are you doing?” I ask. “If you’re not coming I have to call someone else. Do you have Emily Hamilton’s number?”
“Oh now now, Patrick, don’t be… rash.” She giggles nervously. “They are playing two more nights so I can see them tomorrow. Listen, calm down, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. “I’m calm.”
“Now what time should I be over?” Restaurant Whore asks.
“I said eight,” I tell her, disgusted.
“‘That’s fine,” she says and then in a seductive whisper, “See you at eight.” She lingers on the phone as if she expects me to say something else, as if maybe I should congratulate her for making the correct decision, but I hardly have time to deal with this so I abruptly hang up.
The instant after I hang up on Patricia I dash across the room and grab the Zagat guide and flip through it until I find Dorsia. With trembling fingers I dial the number. Busy. Panicked, I put the phone on Constant Redial and for the next five minutes nothing but a busy signal, faithful and ominous, repeats itself across the line. Finally a ring and in the seconds before there’s an answer I experience that rarest of occurrences—an adrenaline rush.
“Dorsia,” someone answers, sex not easily identifiable, made androgynous by the wall-of-sound noise in the background. “Please hold.”
It sounds slightly less noisy than a packed football stadium and it takes every ounce of courage I can muster to stay on the line and not hang up. I’m on hold for five minutes, my palm sweaty, sore from clenching the cordless phone so tightly, a fraction of me realizing the futility of this effort, another part hopeful, another fraction pissed off that I didn’t make the reservations earlier or get Jean to. The voice comes back on the lire and says grufliy, “Dorsia.”
I clear my throat. “Um, yes, I know it’s a little late but is it possible to reserve a table for two at eight-thirty or nine perhaps?” I’m asking this with both eyes shut tight.
There is a pause—the crowd in the background a surging, deafening mass—and with real hope coursing through me I open my eyes, realizing that the maître d’, god love him, is probably looking through the reservation book for a cancellation—but then he starts giggling, low at first but it builds to a high-pitched crescendo of laughter which is abruptly cut off when he slams down the receiver.
Stu