Chapter Text
Jean
Patrick needs the Goldberg files retyped and compiled by latest Wednesday at three pm. The consolidated balance sheets were not tabulated correctly-- something Patrick insists is the fault of that “useless, shit-for-brains intern” on the second floor. A couple of documents were printed with unsightly scan lines, so he’s having me re-scan and re-xerox them. At four pm tomorrow, Patrick scheduled lunch at Florette’s with “Marcus Halberstram,” who he had previously only had lunch with once, last Saturday. Marcus has no recollection of the event prior and Patrick had commented on the wonderful time he’d spent with “Evelyn” when he’d returned on Monday.
Evelyn was with Courtney that Saturday. Paul Allen, meanwhile, was telling half of the office how much of a lightweight Patrick is.
Among his other asks for me-- bringing him his coffee and cigars, some menial paperwork -- an overwhelming amount of his requests were related to Paul. Patrick isn’t much of a busybody in the traditional sense, preferring to learn about the people in his life through more discreet means, but he asks me freely about Paul’s whereabouts every hour-- as if Paul might vanish in thin air if he doesn’t ask about him.
Patrick’s mother called a few days ago. Patrick had intentionally made himself scarce and told me to tell her he was off signing another deal. I had on a coat of red polish at Patrick’s request-- he’d once said that it would bring out the shine of an engagement band quite nicely. He scoffed after. Said it was something his mother would say. She’s a nice lady-- talks with a heavy aroma of old-world florals through the line. I don’t understand why Patrick deflects every opportunity to communicate with her, but he must have his reasons.
Lunch on Tuesday, Florette’s with Halberstram. Have Dynamico’s SEC filings ready for Miller by twelve thirty on Thursday, along with an overview and predicted outlook. Once, Patrick’s hand grazed mine while I was handing him his coffee. He stared at me like I had something on my face for four seconds until he smiled and my heart did somersaults in my chest. Patrick’s hands are large, masculine but well-maintained, always manicured with nails that are never chipped. He schedules an appointment at a salon in the Upper East Side every Saturday to keep his nails in good condition. I think it’s really thoughtful of him. Mostly, I think about him taking my hand and holding it fondly.
“Jean, Jean, Jean,” Patrick grins from his chair, rapping his fingers onto his desk. Though I’m standing only a few feet across from him, it feels like we’re miles away. One hand hangs across a copy of the Wall Street Journal. He’s wearing a pair of sunglasses indoors, but in a way that seems effortlessly stylish. An air conditioning unit whirs somewhere although we’re in the middle of December. It’s cold. “Be a doll and fetch me Paul Allen.”
“Paul is in a meeting right now,” I say, smiling back at him. I awkwardly adjust my blouse. I can feel Patrick’s gaze scrutinizing the material. He’s always been so discerning when it comes to aesthetics-- it’s a quality most other men don’t bother with. He’s considerate like that. Patrick seems to know everything there is to know about, well, anything. Fabrics, fitness, how best to style a pair of brogue shoes.
Patrick frowns, lying back in his chair. He steeples his hands before saying, matter-of-factly, “It ends in five minutes. Find him.”
“Wow,” I remark, slightly thrown. “You really care about him,” I say, because how else would he have known immediately? He still wrings his hands when Tim Price asks if he’s available.
Patrick’s face scrunches up and I’m afraid I misspoke, but it smoothes over almost immediately. He clears his throat after a beat. “We’re handling Fisher.” Patrick smooths out his newspaper. “Greedy old bastard. He’s an admirer of… punctuality.”
“I’m sure that’s why he’s in your’s and Paul’s hands,” I smile. “Best two men for the job?”
“You know me too well, sweetheart.” Patrick barks out a quick laugh then pauses, looking up from his glasses. “And why are you still standing here?”
“Sorry, Patrick.” I say sarcastically. Patrick gives me a dismissive gesture with a hand, still looking amused.
“Time calls, Jean. Pick up the phone.” Patrick pulls up his newspaper again, reaching for a pen. Probably filling out another crossword puzzle. I exit his office.
Paul’s meeting is at the boardroom on the fifth floor of the building. It’s dappled with sunlight and flanked by monstera deliciosa that benefit from the exposure. The monsteras are usually watered by the janitors, though I’ve seen Luis Carruthers tend to the plants on more than one occasion. Windows are cleaned every Friday. Patrick pulls a hernia whenever the cleaners are late, which is usually a topic of amusement between the both of us.
Paul and a gaggle of investors are already exiting the boardroom by the time I get there. Paul is engaged in conversation with one of the businessmen, laughing about something regarding a junior associate’s antics. He doesn’t see me at first, but we lock eyes before he follows the other men down the hallway. Paul smiles. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, I smile back.
“Hi, Paul,” I say. Paul stops, nods off an investor and fixes his gaze toward me. I break off eye contact because Paul has one of those looks that penetrate the soul. Probably the blue eyes. Possibly the proximity to wealth-- how seamlessly he exits such a high-powered conference as if he were made to be there. I’d never felt like I belonged in those settings, but you have to try if it’s something you aspire to be. “Patrick was asking about you.”
“God, what is it this time? It’s like there isn’t any other topic of interest.” Paul is wearing a navy suit Patrick would probably describe as “smart,” and “timeless.”
“It’s about the Fisher account,” I say. At this, Paul laughs.
“It’s always about the Fisher account. The man needs to see an analyst for the amount of dramatizing he does.” Paul’s hand brushes over his cufflink. I recognize it as a gift he’d received from Patrick a Christmas ago. I recognize it because Patrick had pulled me over to his desk in an almost distressed fervor and asked if I thought it would be a kind gesture. It was. “Thanks, Jean. You’re a sweetheart.”
“Always glad to help.” I say, feeling validation swell within me. Paul grins and shakes his head, leading us in the direction of the elevators.
“In all honesty, impossible to screw the pooch on this one. Fisher is senile. A baby could tell him to invest in bear stock and he’d treat it like gospel. Gullible rich fuck. You know, Jean, that’s all you’ve gotta do to move up in life -- find a mogul craving ‘real connection’ and settle down in the Hamptons. Chicks have it easy.” Paul jabs accusatorily at the button for the 20th floor. He must have noticed me looking because he blinks and says, “Button’s been busted. You have to slam it for it to work.”
“Umm, I can see about calling a mechanic.”
We’re alone in the elevator. Paul hums tunelessly and rests his arm across the metal handle bar along the elevator. I wonder if my hair looks greasy in this light. I read somewhere in Harper’s Bazaar that too much heat frays the hair, so I refrain from using a curling iron on my bangs. Instead, I opt for a common hair roller. Less chic, but just as effective. For my lips, I’m using a Charlotte Tilbury lipstick in a shade that brings out my eyes-- or so the clerk said when I’d stumbled, lost as a lamb, at an alchemist’s.
“I uh, booked a Saturday rez at Dorsia for Patrick and I. I trust he’s free this weekend?” Paul is staring at his watch when I turn back to him, adjusting the wristband.
“This Saturday? How on earth did you swing that?” I ask, startled. Maybe a little envious.
“Pretty easy to ‘swing’ if your name isn’t Patrick Bateman.” Paul is still staring at his watch as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “It’s a dinner reservation, not rocket science. Anyway, I could tell him to meet me at Ray’s Pizza and he’d still show up.”
“I don’t know about that,” I laugh. “He’s awfully obsessed with staying fit.”
“Didn’t say he’d order a slice, Jean. Just that he’ll sit himself down while I eat. Hell, I can sweeten the deal-- get him a black coffee to make up for the traumatic experience of watching another man eat something with saturated fats.” Paul pauses. “You’d think bread and cheese killed his grandmother.”
“That’s Patrick. Sweet, but he likes to dot his i’s,” I say, an involuntary smile coming to my face.
Paul’s head snaps back up, solely to look back at me. “Sweet?” He repeats, as if it’s a foreign concept.
“You don’t think he is?”
“Uh,” Paul drums his fingers on the handrail. “Yes. Sure.”
“I think he’s really nice. He gives me fashion advice often-- he got me a dress from Bloomingdale’s the other day, you know? He said the ones I wear look like they’re from a discount rack, so he bought me a two hundred dollar dress.”
“Huh, wouldn’t you know. I’m ashamed in myself.” Paul’s mouth quirks into a grin. “Is it a nice dress?”
“Nicest fabric I’d worn in my life,” I giggle. “But it’s… um…a size too small.”
“That sly dog,” Paul snickers. “Can’t trust him with any form of charity.”
The elevator light flickers as it reaches the twentieth floor. Doors open as a chime plays, and Paul picks up a briefcase I hadn’t realized he was holding before.
“He’s free this weekend, by the way. Even if he wasn’t, he’s not hesitant about canceling his plans.” I omit the detail that Patrick is reluctant to spend time with anyone, ever, aside from mandatory work events, and seems to be going solely out of social obligation. There aren’t many exceptions to the rule, though Paul is proving to be a promising contender.
Paul nods his head. “Good man. What would you wager on me getting him to go to Ray’s?”
“Nothing, Paul,” I shake my head, laughing. “You have much deeper pockets than I do.”
“Oh, come on, I used to have normal-sized pockets. I wouldn’t cheat you like that.” Paul winks. We chat as we walk briskly down the hall. “Five bucks?” He asks with the wide-eyed innocence of a little boy.
“One.” I offer, because five bucks is enough for a bagel with lox and a coffee.
“Atta girl,” Paul clicks his tongue. We’re at Patrick’s office before we know it, Paul in front of me with his briefcase at his side. After a quick nod toward me, he unceremoniously pushes the door to Patrick’s office open. Behind the door, Patrick hasn’t moved an inch, legs crossed slightly onto his desk and his back arched onto his chair. Patrick, still scribbling at his crossword, had taken off his sunglasses and perched them on top of the desk.
Patrick calmly folds his newspaper into his desk, noticing the intrusion, but doesn’t seem to be in a rush. “Allen,” he says, not looking at Paul.
“Bateman. Heard there was a natural disaster of some kind, centralized entirely in your office. Should I have brought rations?” Paul riffs. Patrick drops his show of aloofness and breaks into a breathless laugh, gripping his desk like it owes him something. Nothing rehearsed or curt like he’d usually give when societal convention demands it-- actual, bright peals of laughter I’d never heard him give before. I look back at Paul, who’s looking back at me with the same awkward expression. With all respect to Paul’s comedic abilities, it just wasn’t that funny.
“No, but a gun would have been nice. One round to shoot you and another myself.” Patrick laughs through his words. Paul looks over at me, mock-winces and mouths something that looks like “get a load of this guy.”
“Cool it, man, you’ll scare away the lady,” Paul pretends to act scandalized. “Can’t have threats of violence anymore-- lawyers salivate over harassment in the workplace.”
“If that were true you’d be a convicted felon, Paul.” Patrick pauses, and adds, wagging his finger. “You’re a liability.”
“Too bad, Pat. You’re stuck with me. Yooour… best pal.” Paul takes a seat at the chair across from Patrick’s desk. I take it as my cue to leave, but I’m able to overhear Patrick complimenting Paul’s suit before I go. The words “smart” and “timeless” are used.
I’m having blanched green beans and tilapia for dinner today. I can’t decide if watching Dinner at Julia’s while eating my meal makes it more or less appealing, but it’s become somewhat of a routine for me. Julia Childs is preparing a beef bourguignon with this gravy that looks like heaven over the mashed potatoes she’s prepared, and I find myself craving the glass of burgundy set to fill out the table. I look down at my green beans, then back up at my tv set. I place my fork back onto my plate and go to the kitchen, check the cabinets. A bit more black pepper should do it. By the time I get back to the couch, they’ve already cut to commercial.
I sigh, resting my hands onto my lap, realizing I don’t really feel all that hungry anyway. What would be good this time of night? Maybe a duck confit topped with orange peels and a side of cold asparagus soup. A reservation at one of those fancy places Paul Allen frequents. The company and pride to be brushing shoulders with people that know people that are people, drifting in lofty conversation about designer clothes and exotic destinations.
That would be such a nice thing, wouldn’t it?
There’s a blonde woman raving about ketchup on the screen, her equally-blonde children's cherubic faces covered in the condiment. She reins them in, laughing, as text flashes on the screen to “buy Heinz, 57 varieties.” I switch the channel, flickering over old war films and celebrity gossip. I land on another cooking show, which irritates me, and I change the channel once more to a rerun of an old romcom. I pick at the tilapia on my plate, separating part of the spine of the fish and discarding it at the edge.
I wonder what my friends from high school are doing with their lives. It’s a small world-- small city -- I’ve run into them on more than one occasion. I saw an old sweetheart at Shoprite once, picking out tomatoes. Part of me wanted to reach out, to ask if he’d remembered me, but that question answered itself when his eyes wandered in my direction and there was no flicker of realization. I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed, but it’s the connections made in the present that matter. I’d like to think I’ve got a good thing going for me, and it’s not productive to waste time mourning what-could-have-beens when there’s a now.
I have a good boss. Good pay. Good grooming and good proximity to the arts and highly esteemed culture. I’m satisfied with what I have, and last last Saturday Patrick brought me to Christie’s because he’d wanted my eyes on a new centerpiece for his living room, and an old man of spectacular wealth referred to us as a “charming young couple,” and we probably did look like one, with Patrick’s arm wrapped protectively (possessively) over my shoulder. His strong frame propped me up like a cliff against waves, but still there was a strange distance between us, as if there was a gap or understanding I could never breach.
Handsome, enigmatic yet sweet Patrick, who’s engaged to be married to Evelyn Williams.
It’s normal to resent her, I tell myself, but I’m not sure if it’s normal to despise her. Men cheat, I know, but there’s something disgusting about someone as empty-headed as Evelyn being Patrick’s wife. Always whining about the most banal things, obsessed with her own vanity and oddly dismissive of Patrick even though she insists on keeping him with her like some sort of accessory. It’s enough to turn the stomach.
Just this week she’d yelled at me over the phone after Patrick had cancelled yet another date, insisting I put him on the phone. Patrick wasn’t of much help, told me to tell her he wasn’t there as he usually does. The call went on for another four minutes before I managed to calm her down enough to end it, reschedule on another date Patrick certainly will cancel.
Common yuppie romance tactics.
I take my first bite of the tilapia-- it’s gone cold, but I really don’t want to toss it. Not bad.
I’m wearing a maxi-length crepe skirt with a button down shirt underneath a wool vest to the office. My lips are a bit cracked from the cold, so I apply a layer of lipgloss while walking. Precarious, considering I’m also holding a folder of balance sheets to my chest, and I have to awkwardly position myself so they don’t start slipping out. I lick my lips and taste cherry.
Patrick spots me just as he exits his office. He stops, looking me over.
“Jean,” He says.
“Oh, morning, Patrick,” I say back, offering my folder to him. “I made some more copies of those balance sheets.”
“You look good,” He says, taking the folder, and I can’t stop myself from smiling. “Wearing a skirt like I asked. Is that lip gloss?” Patrick lifts his hand, and places it on my cheek. Startled, I blink fast, but let the warmth of his palm spread across my face. Patrick brings my jaw upward to inspect my lips, his thumb almost pressing against my lower lip. “Cute,” he mutters, before taking his hand off, and I think I might’ve stopped breathing.
“Um, yes. That’s… I did.”
“Thanks for these,” Patrick lifts the folder I’d given him, and starts to head back into his office. I remain standing where I was left, breath shivering and far too warm for December.