"Lunch?" I ask them, yawning. "Tomorrow?"
"Can't," McDermott says. "Haircut at the Pierre."
"What about breakfast?" I suggest.
"Nope," Van Patten says. "Gio's. Manicure."
"That reminds me," I say, inspecting a hand. "I need one too."
"How about dinner?" McDermott asks me.
"I've got a date," I say. "Shit."
"What about you?" McDermott asks Van Patten.
"No can do," Van Patten says. "I've got to go to Sunmakers. Then private workout."
Chapter Five
Office
In the elevator Frederick Dibble tells me about an item on Page Six, 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 Family 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 attache 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 Bloomingdate'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?"
