American Psycho
Page 97"So you like this place?" he asks, grinning.
"My... favorite," I joke through clenched teeth.
"Let's order," he says, not looking at me, waving to a hardbody, who brings over two menus and a wine list while smiling appreciatively at Sean, who in turn ignores her totally. I open the menu and - damnit - it's not prix fixe, which means that Sean orders the lobster with caviar and peach ravioli as an appetizer and the blackened lobster with strawberry sauce as an entree-the two most expensive items on the menu. I order the quail sashimi with grilled brioche and the baby soft-shell crabs with grape jelly. A hardbody opens the bottle of Cristal and pours it into crystal tumblers, which I guess is supposed to be cool. After she leaves, Sean notices me staring at him in a vaguely disapproving manner.
"What?" he asks.
"Nothing," I say.
"What... is... it... Patrick?" He spaces the words out, obnoxiously.
"Lobster to start with? And for an entree?"
"What do you want me to order? The Pringle Potato Chip appetizer?"
"Two lobsters?"
"These matchbooks are slightly larger than the lobster they serve here," he says. "Besides, I'm not that hungry."
"Even more of a reason."
"Still, Sean."
"Rock 'n' roll - "
"I know, I know, rock 'n' roll, deal with it, right?" I say, holding up a hand while sipping the champagne. I wonder if it's not too late to ask one of the waitresses to bring a piece of cake over here with a candle in it just to embarrass the shit out of him, to put the little bastard in his place - but instead I put the glass down and ask, "Listen, so, oh Jesus." I breathe in, then force out, "What did you do today?"
"Played squash with Richard Lindquist." He shrugs contemptuously. "Bought a tuxedo."
"Nicholas Leigh and Charles Conroy want to know if you're going to the Hamptons this summer."
"Not if I can help it," he says, shrugging.
A blond girl close enough to physical perfection, with big tits and a Les Miserables playbill in one hand, wearing a long rayon matte-jersey evening dress by Michael Kors from Bergdorf Goodman, Manolo Blahnik shoes and gold-plated chandelier earrings by Ricardo Siberno, stops by to say hello to Sean and though I would f**k this girl, Sean ignores her flirtatious manner and refuses to introduce me. During this encounter Sean is completely rude, yet the girl leaves smiling, raising a gloved hand. "We'll be at Mortimer's. Later." He nods, staring at my water glass, then waves down a waiter and orders a Scotch, straight.
"Who was that?" I ask.
"Some babe who went to Stephens."
"Where did you meet her?"
"Is she a du Pont?" I ask.
"Why? Do you want her number?"
"No, I just wanted to know if she's a du Pont."
"She might be. I don't know." He lights another cigarette, a Parliament, with what looks like an eighteen-karat gold cigarette lighter from Tiffany's. "She might be a friend of one of the du Ponts."
I keep thinking of reasons why I'm sitting here, right now, tonight, with Sean, at Dorsia, but none come to mind. Just this infinitely recurring zero floats into view. After dinner - the food is small but very good; Sean touches nothing - I tell him that I have to meet Andrea Rothmere at Nell's and if he wants espresso or dessert, he should order it now since I have to be downtown by midnight.
"Why rush?" he asks. "Nell's isn't that hip anymore."
"Well." I falter, quickly regain composure. "We're just going to meet there. We're really going to" - my mind races, lands on something - "Chernoble." I take another sip of champagne from the tumbler.
"Big yawn. Really big yawn," he says, scanning the room.
"Or Contraclub East. I can't remember."
"Out. Stone Age. Prehistory." He laughs cynically.
"Rock 'n' roll." He shrugs. "Deal with it."
"Well, Sean where, do you go?"
Immediate answer. "Petty's."
"Oh yes," I murmur, having forgotten that it was already open.
He whistles something, smokes a cigarette.
"We're going to a party Donald Trump's having," I lie.
"Big fun. Very big fun."
"Donald's a nice guy. You should meet him," I say. "I'll... introduce you to him."