I really tried to make things work the weeks we were out there. Evelyn and I rode bicycles and jogged and played tennis. We talked about going to the south of France or to Scotland; we talked about driving through Germany and visiting unspoiled opera houses. We went windsurfing. We talked about only romantic things: the light on eastern Long Island, the moonrise in October over the hills of the Virginia hunt country. We took baths together in the big marble tubs. We had breakfast in bed, snuggling beneath cashmere blankets after I’d poured imported coffee from a Melior pot into Hermès cups. I woke her up with fresh flowers. I put notes in her Louis Vuitton carry bag before she left for her weekly facials in Manhattan. I bought her a puppy, a small black chow, which she named NutraSweet and fed dietetic chocolate truffles to. I read long passages aloud from Doctor Zhivago and A Farewell to Arms (my favorite Hemingway). I rented movies in town that Price didn’t own, mostly comedies from the 1930s, and played them on one of the many VCRs, our favorite being Roman Holiday, which we watched twice. We listened to Frank Sinatra (only his 1950s period) and Nat King Cole’s After Midnight, which Tim had on CD. I bought her expensive lingerie, which sometimes she wore.
After skinny-dipping in the ocean late at night, we would come into the house, shivering, draped in huge Ralph Lauren towels, and we’d make omelets and noodles tossed with olive oil and truffles and porcini mushrooms; we’d make soufflés with poached pears and cinnamon fruit salads, grilled polenta with peppered salmon, apple and berry sorbet, mascarpone, red beans with arrozo wrapped in romaine lettuce, bowls of salsa and skate poached in balsamic vinegar, chilled tomato soup and risottos flavored with beets and lime and asparagus and mint, and we drank lemonade or champagne or well-aged bottles of Château Margaux. But soon we stopped lifting weights together and swimming laps and Evelyn would eat only the dietetic chocolate truffles that NutraSweet hadn’t eaten, complaining about weight she hadn’t gained. Some nights I would find myself roaming the beaches, digging up baby crabs and eating handfuls of sand—this was in the middle of the night when the sky was so clear I could see the entire solar system and the sand, lit by it, seemed almost lunar in scale. I even dragged a beached jellyfish back to the house and microwaved it early one morning, predawn, while Evelyn slept, and what I didn’t eat of it I fed to the chow.
Sipping bourbon, then champagne, from cactus-etched highball glasses, which Evelyn would set on adobe coasters and into which she would stir raspberry cassis with papier-mâché jalapeño-shaped stirrers, I would lie around, fantasizing about killing someone with an Allsop Racer ski pole, or I would stare at the antique weather vane that hung above one of the fire-places, wondering wild-eyed if I could stab anyone with it, then I’d complain aloud, whether Evelyn was in the room or not, that we should have made reservations at Dick Loudon’s Stratford Inn instead. Evelyn soon started talking only about spas and cosmetic surgery and then she hired a masseur, some scary faggot who lived down the road with a famous book publisher and who flirted openly with me. Evelyn went back to the city three times that last week we were in the Hamptons, once for a manicure and a pedicure and a facial, the second time for a one-on-one training session at Stephanie Herman, and finally to meet with her astrologer.
“Why helicopter in?” I asked in a whisper.
“What do you want me to do?” she shrieked, popping another dietetic truffle into her mouth. “Rent a Volvo?”
While she was gone I would vomit—just to do it—into the rustic terra-cotta jars that lined the patio in front or I would drive into town with the scary masseur and collect razor blades. At night I’d place a faux-concrete and aluminum-wire sconce by Jerry Kott over Evelyn’s head and since she’d be so knocked out on Halcion she wouldn’t brush it off, and though I laughed at this, while the sconce rose evenly with her deep breathing, soon it made me sad and I stopped placing the sconce over Evelyn’s head.
Everything failed to subdue me. Soon everything seemed dull: another sunrise, the lives of heroes, falling in love, war, the discoveries people made about each other. The only thing that didn’t bore me, obviously enough, was how much money Tim Price made, and yet in its obviousness it did. There wasn’t a clear, identifiable emotion within me, except for greed and, possibly, total disgust. I had all the characteristics of a human being—flesh, blood, skin, hair—but my depersonalization was so intense, had gone so deep, that the normal ability to feel compassion had been eradicated, the victim of a slow, purposeful erasure. I was simply imitating reality, a rough resemblance of a human being, with only a dim corner of my mind functioning. Something horrible was happening and yet I couldn’t figure out why—I couldn’t put my finger on it. The only thing that calmed me was the satisfying sound of ice being dropped into a glass of J&B. Eventually I drowned the chow, which Evelyn didn’t miss; she didn’t even notice its absence, not even when I threw it in the walk-in freezer, wrapped in one of her sweaters from Bergdorf Goodman. We had to leave the Hamptons because I would find myself standing over our bed in the hours before dawn, with an ice pick gripped in my fist, waiting for Evelyn to open her eyes. At my suggestion, one morning over breakfast, she agreed, and on the last Sunday before Labor Day we returned to Manhattan by helicopter.
Girls
“I thought the pinto beans with salmon and mint were really, really … you know,” Elizabeth says, walking into the living room of my apartment and in one graceful movement kicking off both satin and suede Maud Frizon pumps and flopping onto the couch, “good, but Patrick, my god it was expensive and,” then, bristling, she bitches, “it was only pseudo nouvelle.”
“Was it my imagination or were there goldfish on the tables?” I ask, undoing my Brooks Brothers suspenders while searching the refrigerator for a bottle of sauvignon blanc. “Anyway, I thought it was hip.”
Christie has taken a seat on the long, wide sofa, away from Elizabeth, who stretches out lazily.
“Hip, Patrick?” she calls out. “Donald Trump eats there.”
I locate the bottle and stand it on the counter and, before finding a wine opener, stare at her blankly from across the room. “Yes? Is this a sarcastic comment?”
“Guess,” she moans and follows it with a “Duh” so loud that Christie flinches.
“Where are you working now, Elizabeth?” I ask, closing drawers. “Polo outlet or something?”
Elizabeth cracks up at this and says blithely, while I uncork the Acacia, “I don’t have to work, Bateman,” and after a beat she adds, bored, “You of all people should know how that feels, Mr. Wall Street.” She’s checking her lipstick in a Gucci compact; predictably it looks perfect.
Changing the subject, I ask, “Who chose that place anyway?” I pour the two girls wine and then make myself a J&B on the rocks with a little water. “The restaurant, I mean.”
“Carson did. Or maybe Robert.” Elizabeth shrugs and then after snapping the compact shut, staring intently at Christie, asks, “You look really familiar. Did you go to Dalton?”
Christie shakes her head no. It’s almost three in the morning. I’m grinding up a tab of Ecstasy and watching it dissolve in the wineglass I plan to hand Elizabeth. This morning’s topic on The Patty Winters Show was People Who Weigh Over Seven Hundred Pounds—What Can We Do About Them? I switch on the kitchen lights, find two more tabs of the drug in the freezer, then shut the lights off.
Elizabeth is a twenty-year-old hardbody who sometimes models in Georges Marciano ads and who comes from an old Virginia banking family. We had dinner earlier tonight with two friends of hers, Robert Farrell, twenty-seven, a guy who’s had a rather sketchy career as a financier, and Carson Whitall, who was Robert’s date. Robert wore a wool suit by Belvest, a cotton shirt with French cuffs by Charvet, an abstract-patterned silk-crepe tie by Hugo Boss and sunglasses by Ray-Ban that he insisted on wearing during the meal. Carson wore a suit by Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche and a pearl necklace with matching pearl and diamond earrings by Harry Winston. We had dinner at Free Spin, the new Albert Lioman restaurant in the Flatiron d
istrict, then took the limousine to Nell’s, where I excused myself, assuring an irate Elizabeth I’d be right back, and directed the chauffeur to the meat-packing district, where I picked up Christie. I made her wait in the back of the locked limousine while I reentered Nell’s and had drinks with Elizabeth and Carson and Robert in one of the booths up front, empty since the place had no celebrities in it tonight—a bad sign. Finally, at two-thirty, while Carson bragged drunkenly about her monthly flower bill, Elizabeth and I split. She was so pissed off about something Carson told her was in the latest issue of W that she didn’t even question Christie’s presence.
In the ride back toward Nell’s Christie had admitted that she was still upset about the last time we shared together, and that she had major reservations about tonight, but the money I’ve offered is simply too good to pass up and I promised her that nothing like last time will be repeated. Though she was still scared, a few shots of vodka in the back of the limo along with the money I’d given her so far, over sixteen hundred dollars, relaxed her like a tranquilizer. Her moodiness turned me on and she acted like a total sex kitten when I first handed her the cash amount—six bills attached to a Hughlans silver money clip—but after I urged her into the limo she told me that she might need surgery after what happened last time, or a lawyer, so I wrote out a check to cash in the amount of one thousand dollars, but since I knew it would never be cashed I didn’t have a panic attack about it or anything. Looking over at Elizabeth right now, in my apartment, I’m noticing how well endowed she is in the chest area and I’m hoping that after the Ecstasy hits her system I can convince the two girls to have sex in front of me.
Elizabeth is asking Christie if she’s ever met some asshole named Spicey or been to Au Bar. Christie is shaking her head. I hand Elizabeth the Ecstasy-laden sauvignon blanc while she stares at Christie like she was from Neptune, and after recovering from Christie’s admission she yawns. “Anyway, Au Bar sucks now. It’s terrible. I went to a birthday party there for Malcolm Forbes. Oh my god, please.” She downs the wine, grimacing. I take a seat in one of the chrome and oak Sottsass chairs and reach over to the ice bucket that sits on the glass-top coffee table, adjusting the bottle of wine in order to chill it better. Immediately Elizabeth makes a move for it, pouring herself another glass. I dissolve two more tabs of the Ecstasy in the bottle before bringing it into the living room. A sullen Christie sips her untainted wine cautiously and tries not to stare at the floor; she still seems scared, and finding the silence unbearable or incriminating she asks Elizabeth where she met me.
“Oh god,” Elizabeth starts, moaning as if she falsely remembered something embarrassing. “I met Patrick at, oh god, the Kentucky Derby in ’86—no, ’87, and …” She turns to me. “You were hanging out with that bimbo Alison something … Stoole?”
“Poole, honey,” I reply calmly. “Alison Poole.”
“Yeah, that was her name,” she says, then with unmasked sarcasm, “Hot number.”
“What do you mean by that?” I ask, offended. “She was a hot number.”
Elizabeth turns to Christie and unfortunately says, “If you had an American Express card she’d give you a blow-job,” and I’m hoping to god that Christie doesn’t look over at Elizabeth, confused, and say “But we don’t take credit cards.” To make sure this doesn’t happen, I bellow “Oh, bullshit,” but good-naturedly.
“Listen,” Elizabeth tells Christie, holding her hand out like a fag offering gossipy information. “This girl worked at a tanning salon, and”—and in the same sentence, without changing tone—“what do you do?”
After a long silence, Christie turning redder and even more scared, I say, “She’s … my cousin.”
Slowly, Elizabeth takes this in and says, “Uh-huh?”
After another long silence, I say, “She’s … from France.”
Elizabeth looks at me skeptically—like I’m completely crazy—but chooses not to pursue this line of questioning and asks instead, “Where’s your phone? I’ve got to call Harley.”
I move over to the kitchen and bring the cordless phone to her, pulling up its antenna. She dials a number and, while waiting for someone to answer, stares at Christie. “Where do you summer?” she asks. “Southampton?”
Christie looks at me and then back at Elizabeth and quietly says, “No.”
“Oh god,” Elizabeth wails, “it’s his machine.”
“Elizabeth.” I point at my Rolex. “It’s three in the morning.”
“He’s a goddamn drug dealer,” she says, exasperated. “These are his peak hours.”
“Don’t tell him you’re here,” I warn.
“Why would I?” she asks. Distracted, she reaches for her wine and downs another full glass and makes a face. “This tastes weird.” She checks the label, then shrugs. “Harley? It’s me. I need your services. Translate that any way you’d like. I’m at—” She looks over at me.
“You’re at Marcus Halberstam’s,” I whisper.
“Who?” Leaning in, she grins mischievously.
“Mar-cus Hal-ber-stam,” I whisper again.
“I want the number, idiot.” She waves me away and continues, “Anyway, I’m at Mark Hammerstein’s and I’ll try you later and if I don’t see you at Canal Bar tomorrow night I’m going to sic my hairdresser on you. Bon voyage. How do I hang this thing up?” she asks, even though she expertly pushes the antenna down and presses the Off button, tossing the phone onto the Schrager chair that I’ve moved next to the jukebox.
“See.” I smile. “You did it.”
Twenty minutes later Elizabeth is squirming on the couch and I’m trying to coerce her into having sex with Christie in front of me. What started out as a casual suggestion is now at the forefront of my brain and I’m insistent. Christie stares impassively at a stain I hadn’t noticed on the white-oak floor, her wine mostly untouched.
“But I’m not a lesbian,” Elizabeth protests again, giggling. “I’m not into girls.”
“Is this a firm no?” I ask, staring at her glass, then at the near-empty bottle of wine.
“Why’d you think I’d be into that?” she asks. Because of the Ecstasy, the question is flirtatious and she seems genuinely interested. Her foot is rubbing against my thigh. I’ve moved over to the couch, sitting between the two girls, and I’m massaging one of her calves.
“Well, you went to Sarah Lawrence for one thing,” I tell her. “You never know.”
“Those are Sarah Lawrence guys, Patrick,” she points out, giggling, rubbing harder, causing friction, heat, everything.
“Well, I’m sorry,” I admit. “I don’t usually deal with a lot of guys who wear panty hose on the Street.”
“Patrick, you went to Patrick, I mean, Harvard, oh god, I’m so drunk. Anyway, listen, I mean, wait—” She pauses, takes a deep breath, mumbles an unintelligible remark about feeling bizarre, then, after closing her eyes, opens them and asks, “Do you have any coke?”
I’m staring at her glass, noticing that the dissolved Ecstasy has slightly changed the color of the wine. She follows my gaze and takes a gulp of it as if it were some kind of elixir that could soothe her increasing agitation. She leans her head back, woozily, on one of the pillows on the couch. “Or Halcion. I’d take a Halcion.”
“Listen, I would just like to see … the two of you … get it on,” I say innocently. “What’s wrong with that? It’s totally disease-free.”
“Patrick.” She laughs. “You’re a lunatic.”
“Come on,” I urge. “Don’t you find Christie attractive?”
“Let’s not get lewd,” she says, but the drug is kicking in and I can sense that she’s excited but doesn’t want to be. “I’m in no mood to have lewd conversation.”
“Come on,” I say. “I think it would be a turn-on.”
“Does he do this all the time?” Elizabeth asks Christie.
I look over at Christie.
Christie shrugs, noncommittal, and studies the back of a compact disc before setting it on the ta
ble next to the stereo.
“Are you telling me you’ve never gotten it on with a girl?” I ask, touching a black stocking, then, beneath it, a leg.
“But I’m not a lesbian,” she stresses. “And no, I never have.”
“Never?” I ask, arching my eyebrows. “Well, there’s always a first time.…”
“You’re making me feel weird,” Elizabeth moans, losing control of her facial features.
“I’m not,” I say, shocked.
Elizabeth is making out with Christie, both of them naked on my bed, all the lights in the room burning, while I sit in the Louis Montoni chair by the side of the futon, watching them very closely, occasionally repositioning their bodies. Now I make Elizabeth lie on her back and hold both legs up, open, spreading them as wide as possible, and then I push Christie’s head down and make her lap at her cunt—not suck on it but lap at it, like a thirsty dog—while fingering the clit, then, with her other hand, she sticks two fingers into the open, wet cunt, while her tongue replaces the fingers and then she takes the dripping fingers she’s fucked Elizabeth’s cunt with and forces them into Elizabeth’s mouth, making her suck on them. Then I have Christie lie on top of Elizabeth and make her suck and bite at Elizabeth’s full, swollen tits, which Elizabeth is also squeezing, and then I tell the two of them to kiss each other, hard, and Elizabeth takes the tongue that’s been licking at her own small, pink cunt into her mouth hungrily, like an animal, and uncontrollably they start humping each other, pressing their cunts together, Elizabeth moaning loudly, wrapping her legs around Christie’s hips, bucking up against her, Christie’s legs spread in such a way that, from behind, I can see her cunt, wet and spread, and above it, her hairless pink asshole.
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