Read Page 79

"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."Advertisement

"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?"

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"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 fav orite 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 pate 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. "Pat rick, 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."

"Oh Patrick," she sighs. "I can't just leave. Aren't you having a good time?"

"Why can't you leave?" I ask. "Is it so unreasonable? You've been here long enough."

"Patrick, this is my Christmas party," she says. "Besides, the elves are going to sing 'O Tannenbaum' any minute now."

"Come on, Evelyn. Let's just get out of here." I'm on the verge of hysteria, panicked that Paul Owen or, worse, Marcus Halberstam is going to walk into the kitchen. "I want to take you away from all this." pqdm.com