Bret Ellis: American psycho: a novel

"First of all he's perfectly decent and nice," Evelyn says in his defense.

"The man asked for chocolate chip sorbet for Christ sakes!" Timothy wails, disbelieving. "What are you talking about?"

Evelyn ignores this, pulls off her Tina Chow earrings. "He's a sculptor," she says tersely.

"Oh bullshit," Timothy says. "I remember talking to him at Odeon." He turns to me again. " This was when he ordered the tuna cappuccino and I'm sure if left unattended would have ordered the salmon au lait, and he told me he did parties, so that technically makes him – I don't know, correct me if I'm wrong, Evelyn – a caterer. He's a caterer !" Price cries out. "Not a fucking sculptor!"

"Oh gosh calm down ," Evelyn says, rubbing more cream into her face.

"That's like saying you're a poet ." Timothy is drunk and I'm beginning to wonder when he will vacate the premises.

"Well," Evelyn begins, "I've been known to–"

"You're a fucking word processor!" Tim blurts out. He walks over to Evelyn and bows next to her, checking out his reflection in the mirror.

"Have you been gaining weight, Tim?" Evelyn asks thoughtfully. She studies Tim's head in the mirror and says, "Your face looks… rounder."

Timothy, in retaliation, smells Evelyn's neck and says, "What is that fascinating… odor?"

"Obsession." Evelyn smiles flirtatiously, gently pushing Timothy away. "It's Ob session . Patrick, get your friend away from me ."

"No, no, wait," Timothy says, sniffing loudly. "It's not Ob session. It's… it's…" and then, with a face twisted in mock horror, "It's… Oh my god, it's Q.T. Instatan !"

Evelyn pauses and considers her options. She inspects Price's head one more time. "Are you losing your hair?"

"Evelyn," Tim says. "Don't change the subject but…" And then, genuinely worried, "Now that you mention it… too much gel?" Concerned, he runs a hand over it.

"Maybe," Evelyn says. "Now make yourself useful and do sit down ."

"Well, at least it's not green and I haven't tried to cut it with a butter knife," Tim says, referring to Vanden's dye job and Stash's admittedly cheap, bad haircut. A haircut that's bad because it's cheap.

"Are you gaining weight?" Evelyn asks, more seriously this time.

"Jesus," Tim says, about to turn away, offended. "No, Evelyn."

"Your face definitely looks… rounder," Evelyn says. "Less… chiseled."

"I don't believe this." Tim again.

He looks deep into the mirror. She continues brushing her hair but the strokes are less definite because she's looking at Tim. He notices this and then smells her neck and I think he licks at it quickly and grins.

"Is that Q.T.?" he asks. "Come on, you can tell me. I smell it."

"No," Evelyn says, unsmiling. " You use that."

"No. As a matter of fact I don't. I go to a tanning salon. I'm quite honest about that," he says. " You're using Q.T."

" You're projecting," she says lamely.

"I told you," Tim says. "I go to a tanning salon. I mean I know it's expensive but…" Price blanches. "Still, Q.T. ?"

"Oh how brave to admit you go to a tanning salon ," she says.

"Q.T." He chuckles.

"I don't know what you're talk ing about," Evelyn says and resumes brushing her hair. "Patrick, escort your friend out of here."

Now Price is on his knees and he smells and sniffs at Evelyn's bare legs and she's laughing. I tense up.

"Oh god," she moans loudly. "Get out of here."

"You are orange ." He laughs, on his knees, his head in her lap. "You look orange ."

"I am not ," she says, her voice a low prolonged growl of pain, ecstasy. "Jerk."

I lie on the bed watching the two of them. Timothy is in her lap trying to push his head under the Ralph Lauren robe. Evelyn's head is thrown back with pleasure and she is trying to push him away, but playfully, and hitting him only lightly on his back with her Jan Hové brush. I am fairly sure that Timothy and Evelyn are having an affair. Timothy is the only interesting person I know.

"You should go," she says finally, panting. She has stopped struggling with him.

He looks up at her, flashing a toothy, good-looking smile, and says, "Anything the lady requests."

"Thank you," she says in a voice that sounds to me tinged with disappointment.

He stands up. "Dinner? Tomorrow?"

"I'll have to ask my boyfriend," she says, smiling at me in the mirror.

"Will you wear that sexy black Anne Klein dress?" he asks, his hands on her shoulders, whispering this into her ear, as he smells it. "Bateman's not welcome."

I laugh good-naturedly while getting up from the bed, escorting him out of the room.

"Wait! My espresso!" he calls out.

Evelyn laughs, then claps as if delighted by Timothy's reluctance to vacate.

"Come on fella," I say as I push him roughly out of the bedroom. "Beddy-bye time."

He still manages to blow her a kiss before I get him out and away. He is completely silent as I walk him out of the brownstone.

After he leaves I pour myself a brandy and drink it from a checkered Italian tumbler and when I come back to the bedroom I find Evelyn lying in bed watching the Home Shopping Club. I lie down next to her and loosen my Armani tie. Finally I ask something without looking at her.

"Why don't you just go for Price?"

"Oh god, Patrick," she says, her eyes shut. "Why Price? Price ?" And she says this in a way that makes me think she has had sex with him.

"He's rich," I say.

" Everybody's rich," she says, concentrating on the TV screen.

"He's good-looking," I tell her.

" Everybody's good-looking, Patrick," she says remotely.

"He has a great body," I say.

" Everybody has a great body now," she says.

I place the tumbler on the nightstand and roll over on top of her. While I kiss and lick her neck she stares passionlessly at the wide-screen Panasonic remote-control television set and lowers the volume. I pull my Armani shirt up and place her hand on my torso, wanting her to feel how rock-hard, how halved my stomach is, and I flex the muscles, grateful it's light in the room so she can see how bronzed and defined my abdomen has become.

"You know," she says clearly, "Stash tested positive for the AIDS virus. And…" She pauses, something on the screen catching her interest; the volume goes slightly up and then is lowered. "And… I think he will probably sleep with Vanden tonight."

"Good," I say, biting lightly at her neck, one of my hands on a firm, cold breast.

"You're evil," she says, slightly excited, running her hands along my broad, hard shoulder.

"No," I sigh. "Just your fiancé."

After attempting to have sex with her for around fifteen minutes, I decide not to continue trying.

She says, "You know, you can always be in better shape."

I reach for the tumbler of brandy. I finish it. Evelyn is addicted to Parnate, an antidepressant. I lie there beside her watching the Home Shopping Club – at glass dolls, embroidered throw pillows, lamps shaped like footballs, Lady Zirconia – with the sound turned off. Evelyn starts drifting.

"Are you using minoxidil?" she asks, after a long time.

"No. I'm not," I say. "Why should I?"

"Your hairline looks like it's receding," she murmurs.

"It's not," I find myself saying. It's hard to tell. My hair is very thick and I can't tell if I'm losing it. I really doubt it.

I walk back to my place and say good night to a doorman I don't recognize (he could be anybody) and then dissolve into my living room high above the city, the sounds of the Tokens singing "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" coming from the glow of the Wurlitzer 1015 jukebox (which is not as good as the hard-to-find Wurlitzer 850) that stands in the comer of the living room. I masturbate, thinking about first Evelyn, then Courtney, then Vanden and then Evelyn again, but right before I come – a weak orgasm – about a near-naked model in a halter top I saw today in a Calvin Klein advertisement.