"The only Jewish one," Petersen reminds us.
"Oh. . ." Evelyn seems bewildered by this information and she looks over at Petersen to confirm this. "Is this true?"
He shrugs, thinks about it and looks confused. "Hey, baby – reindeer, elves, Grinches, brokers… Hell, what's the difference long as the Cristal flows, hey?" He chuckles, nudging me in the ribs. "Ain't that right, Mr. Grinch?"
"Don't you think it's Christmasy?" she asks hopefully.
"Oh yes, Evelyn," I tell her. "It's very Christmasy and I'm truthful, not lying."
"But Mr. Sourpuss was late," she pouts, shaking that damn piece of mistletoe at me accusingly. "And not a word about the Waldorf salad."
"You know, Evelyn, there were a lot of other Xmas parties in this metropolis that I could have attended tonight yet I chose yours. Why? you might ask. Why? I asked myself. I didn't come up with a feasible answer, yet I'm here, so be, you know, grateful, babe," I say.
"Oh, so this is my Christmas present?" she asks, sarcastic. "How sweet, Patrick, how thoughtful."
"No, this is." I give her a noodle I just noticed was stuck on my shirt cuff. "Here."
"Oh Patrick, I'm going to cry," she says, dangling the noodle up to candlelight. "It's gorgeous. Can I put it on now?"
"No. Feed it to one of the elves. That one over there looks pretty hungry. Excuse me but I need another drink."
I hand Evelyn the plate of Waldorf salad and tweak one of Petersen's antlers and head toward the bar humming "Silent Night," vaguely depressed by what most of the women are wearing – pullover cashmere sweaters, blazers, long wool skirts, corduroy dresses, turtlenecks. Cold weather. No hardbodies.
Paul Owen is standing near the bar holding a champagne flute, studying his antique silver pocket watch (from Harnmahcher Schlemmer, no doubt), and I'm about to walk over and mention something about that damned Fisher account when Humphrey Rhinebeck bumps into me trying to avoid stepping on one of the elves and he's still wearing a cashmere chesterfield overcoat by Crombie from Lord & Taylor, a peak-lapeled double-breasted wool tuxedo, a cotton shirt by Perry Ellis, a bow tie from Hugo Boss and paper antlers in a way that suggests he's completely unaware, and as if by rote the twerp says, "Hey Bateman, last week I brought a new herringbone tweed jacket to my tailor for alterations."
"Well, uh, congratulations seem in order," I say, shaking his hand. "That's… nifty."
"Thanks." He blushes, looking down. "Anyway, he noticed that the retailer had removed the original label and replaced it with one of his own. Now what I want to know is, is this legal?"
"It's confusing, I know," I say, still moving through the crowd. "Once a line of clothing has been purchased from its manufacturer, it's perfectly legal for the retailer to replace the original label with his own. However, it's not legal to replace it with another retailer's label."
"But wait, why is that?" he asks, trying to sip from his martini glass while attempting to follow me.
"Because details regarding fiber content and country of origin or the manufacturer's registration number must remain intact. Label tampering is very hard to detect and rarely reported," I shout over my shoulder. Courtney is kissing Paul Owen on the cheek, their hands already firmly clasped. I stiffen up and stop walking. Rhinebeck bumps into me. But she moves on, waving to someone across the room.
"So what's the best solution?" Rhinebeck calls out behind me.
"Shop for familiar labels from retailers you know and take those fucking antlers off your head, Rhinebeck. You look like a retard. Excuse me." I walk off but not before Humphrey reaches up and feels the headpiece. "Oh my god."
"Owen!" I exclaim, merrily holding out a hand, the other hand grabbing a martini off a passing elf tray.
"Marcus! Merry Christmas," Owen says, shaking my hand. "How've you been? Workaholic, I suppose."
"Haven't seen you in a while," I say, then wink. "Workaholic, huh?"
"Well, we just got back from the Knickerbocker Club," he says and then greets someone who bumps into him – "Hey Kinsley" – then back to me. "We're going to Nell's. Limo's out front."
"We should have lunch," I say, trying to figure out a way to bring up the Fisher account without being tacky about it.
"Yes, that would be great," he says. "Maybe you could bring .."
"Cecelia?" I guess.
"Yes. Cecelia," he says.
"Oh, Cecelia would… adore it," I say.
"Well, let's do it." He smiles.
"Yes. We could go to… Le Bernardin," I say, then after pausing, "for some… seafood perhaps? Hmmm?"
"Le Bernardin is in Zagat's top ten this year." He nods. "You know that?"
"We could have some…" I pause again, staring at him, then more deliberately, "fish there. No?"
"Sea urchins," Owen says, scanning the room. "Meredith loves the sea urchins there."
"Oh does she?" I ask, nodding.
"Meredith," he calls out, motioning for someone behind me. "Come here."
"She's here?" I ask.
"She's talking to Cecilia over there," he says. "Meredith," he calls out, waving. I turn around. Meredith and Evelyn make their way over to us.
I whirl around back to Owen.
Meredith walks over with Evelyn. Meredith is wearing a beaded wool gabardine dress and bolero by Geoffrey Beene from Barney's, diamond and gold earrings by James Savitt ($13,000), gloves by Geoffrey Beene for Portolano products, and she says, "Yes boys? What are you two talking about? Making up Christmas lists?"
"The sea urchins at Le Bernardin, darling," Owen says.
"My favorite topic." Meredith drapes an arm over my shoulder, while she confides to me as an aside, '"They're fabulous."
"Delectable." I cough nervously.
"What does everyone think of the Waldorf salad?" Evelyn asks. "Did you like it?"
"Cecelia, darling, I haven't tried it yet," Owen says, recognizing someone across the room. "But I'd like to know why Laurence Tisch is serving the eggnog."
"That's not Laurence Tisch," Evelyn whines, genuinely upset. "That's a Christmas elf. Patrick, what did you tell him?"
"Nothing," I say. "Cecelia!"
"Besides, Patrick, you're the Grinch."
At the mentions of my name I immediately start blabbering, hoping that Owen didn't notice. "Well, Cecelia, I told him I thought it was a, you know, a mixture of the two, like a…" I stop, briefly look at them before lamely spitting out, "a Christmas Tisch." Then, nervously, I lift a sprig of parsley off a slice of pheasant pâté that a passing elf is carrying, and hold it over Evelyn's head before she can say anything. "Mistletoe alert!" I shout, and people around us are suddenly ducking, and then I kiss her on the lips while looking at Owen and Meredith, both of them staring at me strangely, and out of the corner of my eye I catch Courtney, who is talking to Rhinebeck, gazing at me hatefully, outraged.
"Oh Patrick–" Evelyn starts.
"Cecelia! Come here at once." I pull her arm, then tell Owen and Meredith, "Excuse us. We have to talk to that elf and get this all straightened out."
"I'm so sorry," she says to the two of them, shrugging helplessly as I drag her away. "Patrick, what is going on?"
I maneuver her into the kitchen.
"Patrick?" she asks. "What are we doing in the kitchen?"
"Listen," I tell her; grabbing her shoulders, facing her. "Let's get out of here."