"I was only here two days ago," I say, confused.
"I know, but..." She stalls, washing her hands in the sink. "Never mind."
"Helga?" I ask.
"Yes, Mr. Bateman?"
"Walking in here I spotted a pair of men's gold-tasseled loafers from Bergdorf Goodman, waiting to be shined, outside the door of the next room. Who do they belong to?" I ask.
"That's Mr. Erlanger," she says.
"Mr. Erlanger from Lehman's?"
"No. Mr. Erlanger from Salomon Brothers," she says.
"Did I ever tell you that I want to wear a big yellow smiley-face mask and then put on the CD version of Bobby McFerrin's 'Don't Worry, Be Happy' and then take a girl and a dog - a collie, a chow, a sharpei, it doesn't really matter - and then hook up this transfusion pump, this IV set, and switch their blood, you know, pump the dog's blood into the hardbody and vice versa, did I ever tell you this?" While I'm speaking I can hear the girl working on my feet humming one of the songs from Les Miserables to herself, and then Helga runs a moistened cotton ball across my nose, leaning close to the face, inspecting the pores. I laugh maniacally, then take a deep breath and touch my chest - expecting a heart to be thumping quickly, impatiently, but there's nothing there, not even a beat.
"Shhh, Mr. Bateman," Helga says, running a warm loofah sponge over my face, which stings then cools the skin. "Relax."
"Okay." I say. "I'm relaxing."
"Oh Mr. Bateman," Helga croons, "you have such a nice complexion. How old are you? May I ask?"
"I'm twenty-six."
"Ah, that's why. It's so clean. So smooth." She sighs. "Just relax."
I drift, my eyes rolling back into my head, the Muzak version of "Don't Worry, Baby" drowning out all bad thoughts, and I start thinking only positive things - the reservations I have tonight with Marcus Halberstam's girlfriend, Cecelia Wagner, the mashed turnips at Union Square Cafe, skiing down Buttermilk Mountain in Aspen last Christmas, the new Huey Lewis and the News compact disc, dress shirts by Ike Behar, by Joseph Abboud, by Ralph Lauren, beautiful oiled hardbodies eating each other's pussies and ass**les under harsh video lights, truckloads of arugula and cilantro, my tan line, the way the muscles in my back look when the lights in my bathroom fall on them at the right angle, Helga's hands caressing the smooth skin on my face, lathering and spreading cream and lotions and tonics into it admiringly, whispering, "Oh Mr. Bateman, your face is so clean and smooth, so clean," the fact that I don't live in a trailer park or work in a bowling alley or attend hockey games or eat barbecued ribs, the look of the AT&T building at midnight, only at midnight. Jeannie comes in and starts the manicure, first clipping and filing the nails, then brushing them with a sandpaper disk to smooth out the remaining edges.
"Next time I'd prefer them a bit longer, Jeannie," I warn her.
Silently she soaks them in warm lanolin cream, then dries both hands off and uses a cuticle moisturizer, then removes all the cuticles while cleaning under the nails with a cotton-on-wood stick. A heat vibrator massages the hand and forearm. The nails are buffed first with chamois and then with bung lotion.
Date with Evelyn
Evelyn comes in on the call waiting of my third line and I wasn't going to take it, but since I'm holding on the second line to find out if Bullock, the maitre d' at the new Davis François restaurant on Central Park South, has any cancellations for tonight so Courtney (holding on the first line) and I might have dinner, I pick it up in the hope that it's my dry cleaners. But no, it's Evelyn and though it really isn't fair to Courtney, I take her call. I tell Evelyn I'm on the other line with my private trainer. I then tell Courtney I have to take Paul Owen's call and that I'll see her at Turtles at eight and then I cut myself off from Bullock, the maitre d'. Evelyn's staying at the Carlyle since the woman who lives in the brownstone next to hers was found murdered last night, decapitated, and this is why Evelyn's all shook up. She couldn't deal with the office today so she spent the afternoon calming herself with facials at Elizabeth Arden. She demands that we have dinner tonight, and then says, before I can make up a plausible lie, an acceptable. excuse, "Where were you last night, Patrick?"
I pause. "Why? Where were you?" I ask, while guzzling from a liter of Evian, still slightly sweaty from this afternoon's workout.
"Arguing with the concierge at the Carlyle," she says, sounding rather pissed off. "Now tell me, Patrick, where were you?"