"No, oh no. Multiple personalities are not schizophrenics," the woman says, shaking her head. "We are not dangerous."
"Well," Patty starts, standing in the middle of the audience, microphone in hand. "Who were you last month?"
"Last month it seemed to be mostly Polly," the woman says.
A cut to the audience – a housewife's worried face; before she notices herself on the monitor, it cuts back to the multiple-personality woman.
"Well," Patty continues, "now who are you?"
"Well…," the woman begins tiredly, as if she was sick of being asked this question, as if she had answered it over and over again and still no one believed it. "Well, this month I'm… Lambchop. Mostly… Lambchop."
A long pause. The camera cuts to a close-up of a stunned housewife shaking her head, another housewife whispering something to her.
The shoes I'm wearing are crocodile loafers by A. Testoni.
Grabbing my raincoat out of the closet in the entranceway I find a Burberry scarf and matching coat with a whale embroidered on it (something a little kid might wear) and it's covered with what looks like dried chocolate syrup crisscrossed over the front, darkening the lapels. I take the elevator downstairs to the lobby, rewinding my Rolex by gently shaking my wrist. I say good morning to the doorman, step outside and hail a cab, heading downtown toward Wall Street.
Harry's
Price and I walk down Hanover Street in the darkest moments of twilight and as if guided by radar move silently toward Harry's. Timothy hasn't said anything since we left P & P. He doesn't even comment on the ugly bum that crouches beneath a Dumpster off Stone Street, though he does manage a grim wolf whistle toward a woman – big tits, blonde, great ass, high heels – heading toward Water Street. Price seems nervous and edgy and I have no desire to ask him what's wrong. He's wearing a linen suit by Canali Milano, a cotton shirt by Ike Behar, a silk tie by Bill Blass and cap-toed leather lace-ups from Brooks Brothers. I'm wearing a lightweight linen suit with pleated trousers, a cotton shirt, a dotted silk tie, all by Valentino Couture, and perforated cap-toe leather shoes by Allen-Edmonds. Once inside Harry's we spot David Van Patten and Craig McDermott at a table up front. Van Patten is wearing a double-breasted wool and silk sport coat, button-fly wool and silk trousers with inverted pleats by Mario Valentino, a cotton shirt by Gitman Brothers, a polka-dot silk tie by Bill Blass and leather shoes from Brooks Brothers. McDermott is wearing a woven-linen suit with pleated trousers, a button-down cotton and linen shirt by Basile, a silk tie by Joseph Abboud and ostrich loafers from Susan Bennis Warren Edwards.
The two are hunched over the table, writing on the backs of paper napkins, a Scotch and a martini placed respectively in front of them. They wave us over. Price throws his Tumi leather attaché case on an empty chair and heads toward the bar. I call out to him for a J&B on the rocks, then sit down with Van Patten and McDermott.