American Psycho (Page 101)
"Listen," she says, "have you gone to any concerts lately?"
"No," I say, wishing she hadn't brought this, of all topics, up. "I don't like live music."
" music?" she asks, intrigued, sipping San Pellegrino water.
"Yeah. You know. Like a band," I explain, sensing from her expression that I'm saying totally the wrong things. "Oh, I forgot. I did see U2."
"How were they?" she asks. "I liked the new CD a lot."
"They were great, just totally great. Just totally..." I pause, unsure of what to say. Bethany raises her eyebrows quizzically, wanting to know more. "Just totally... Irish."
"I've heard they're quite good live," she says, and her own voice has a light, musical lilt to it. "Who else do you like?"
"Oh you know," I say, completely stuck. "The Kingsmen. 'Louie, Louie.' That sort of stuff."
"Gosh, Patrick," she says, looking at every part of my face.
"No." She laughs. "I just don't remember you being so tan back at school."
"I had a tan then, didn't I?" I ask. "I mean I wasn't Casper the Ghost or anything, was I?" I put my elbow on the table and flex my biceps, asking her to squeeze the muscle. After she touches it, reluctantly, I resume my questions. "Was I really not that tan at Harvard?" I ask mock-worriedly, but worriedly.
"No, no." She laughs. "You were definitely the George Hamilton of the class of eighty-four."
"Thanks," I say, pleased.
The waiter brings our drinks - two bottles of San Pellegrino water. Scene Two.
"So you're at Mill... on the water? Taffeta? What is it?" I ask. Her body, her skin tone, seem firm and rosy.
"Milbank Tweed," she says. "That's where I am."
"Well," I say, squeezing a lime into my glass. "That's just wonderful. Law school really paid off."
"And you're at... P & P?" she asks.
"Yes," I say.
She nods, pauses, wants to say something, debates whether she should, then asks, all in a matter of seconds: "But doesn't your family own - "
"I don't want to talk about this," I say, cutting her off. "But yes, Bethany. Yes."
"And you still work at P & P?" she asks. Each syllable is spaced so that it bursts, booming sonically, into my head.
"Yes," I say, looking furtively around the room.
"But - " She's confused. "Didn't your father - "
"Yes, of course," I say, interrupting. "Have you had the focaccia at Pooncakes?"
"Patrick."
"Yes?"
"I just don't want to talk about..." I stop. "About work."
"Why not?"
"Because I hate it," I say. "Now listen, have you tried Pooncakes yet? I think Miller underrated it."
"Patrick," she says slowly. "If you're so uptight about work, why don't you just quit? You don't have to work."
"Because," I say, staring directly at her, "I... want... to... fit... in."
After a long pause, she smiles. "I see." There's another pause.
This one I break. "Just look at it as, well, a new approach to business," I say.
"How" - she stalls - "sensible." She stalls again. "How, um, practical."
Lunch is alternately a burden, a puzzle that needs to be solved, an obstacle, and then it floats effortlessly into the realm of relief and I'm able to give a skillful performance - my overriding intelligence tunes in and lets me know that it can sense how much she wants me, but I hold back, uncommitted. She's also holding back, but flirting nonetheless. She has made a promise by asking me to lunch and I panic, once the squid is served, certain that I will never recover unless it's fulfilled. Other men notice her as they pass by our table. Sometimes I coolly bring my voice down to a whisper. I'm hearing things - noise, mysterious sounds, inside my head; her mouth opens, closes, swallows liquid, smiles, takes me in like a magnet covered with lipstick, mentions something involving fax machines, twice. I finally order a J&B on the rocks, then a cognac. She has mint-coconut sorbet. I touch, hold her hand across the table, more than a friend. Sun pours into Vanities, the restaurant empties out, it nears three. She orders a glass of chardonnay, then another, then the check. She has relaxed but something happens. My heartbeat rises and falls, momentarily stabilizes. I listen carefully. Possibilities once imagined plummet. She lowers her eyes and when she looks back at me I lower mine.