"Listen," I say, my voice trembling with emotion, "have whatever you want but I'm telling you I recommend the Diet Pepsi." I look down at my lap, at the blue cloth napkin, the words Deck Chairs sewn into the napkin's edge, and for a moment think I'm going to cry; my chin trembles and I can't swallow.

Courtney reaches over and touches my wrist gently, stroking my Rolex. "It's okay Patrick. It really is...."

A sharp pain near my liver overcomes the surge of emotion and I sit up in my chair, startled, confused, and the waiter leaves and then Anne asks if we've seen the recent David Onica exhibit and I'm feeling calmer.

It turns out we haven't seen the show but I don't want to be tacky enough to bring up the fact I own one, so I lightly kick Courtney under the table. This raises her out of the lithium-induced stupor and she says robotically, "Patrick owns an Onica. He really does."

I smile, pleased; sip my J&B.

"Oh that's fantas tic, Patrick," Anne says.

"Really? An Onica?" Scott asks. "Isn't he quite expensive?"

"Well, let's just say..." I sip my drink, suddenly confused: say... say what? "Nothing."

Courtney sighs, anticipating another kick. "Patrick's cost twenty thousand dollars." She seems bored out of her mind, picking at a flat, warm piece of corn bread.

I give her a sharp look and try not to hiss. "Uh, no, Courtney, it was really fifty."

She slowly looks up from the corn bread she's mashing between her fingers and even in her lithium haze manages a stare so malicious that it automatically humbles me, but not enough to tell Scott and Anne the truth: that the Onica cost only twelve grand. But Courtney's frightening gaze - though I might be overreacting; she might be staring disapprovingly at the patterns on the columns, the venetian blinds on the skylight, the Montigo vases full of purple tulips lining the bar - scares me enough to not elaborate on the procedure of purchasing an Onica. It's a stare that I can interpret fairly easily. It warns: Kick me again and no pu**y, do you understand?

'That seems...." Anne starts.

I hold my breath, my face tight with tension.

"...low," she murmurs.

I exhale. "It is. But I got a fabulous deal," I say, gulping.

"But fifty thousand?" Scott asks suspiciously.

"Well, I think his work... it has a kind of... wonderfully proportioned, purposefully mock-superficial quality." I pause, then, trying to remember a line from a review I saw in New York magazine: "Purposefully mock..."

"Doesn't Luis own one, Courtney?" Anne asks, and then tapping Courtney's arm, "Courtney?"

"Luis... owns... what?" Courtney shakes her head as if to clear it, widening her eyes to make sure they don't close on her.

"Who's Luis?" Scott asks, waving to the waitress to have the butter the busboy recently placed on the table removed - what a party animal.

Anne answers for Courtney. "Her boyfriend," she says after seeing Courtney, confused, actually looking at me for help.

"Where's he at?" Scott asks.

"Texas," I say quickly. "He's out of town in Phoenix, I mean."

"No," Scott says. "I meant what house."

"L. F. Rothschild," Anne says, about to look at Courtney for confirmation, but then at me. "Right?"

"No. He's at P & P," I say. "We work together, sort of."

"Wasn't he dating Samantha Stevens at one point?" Anne asks.

"No," Courtney says. "That was just a photo someone took of them that was in W."

I down my drink as soon as it arrives and wave almost immediately for another and I'm thinking Courtney is a babe but no sex is worth this dinner. The conversation violently shifts while I'm staring across the room at a great-looking woman - blonde, big tits, tight dress, satin pumps with gold cones - when Scott starts telling me about his new compact disc player while Anne unwittingly prattles on to a stoned and completely oblivious Courtney about new kinds of low-sodium wheat-rice cake, fresh fruits and New Age music, particularly Manhattan Steamroller.

"It's Aiwa," Scott's saying. "You've got to hear it. The sound" - he pauses, closes his eyes in ecstasy, chewing on corn bread - "is fantastic."

"Well, you know, Scottie, the Aiwa is okay." Oh holy shit, dream on, Scot-tie, I'm thinking. "But Sansui is really top of the line." I pause, then add, "I should know. I own one."

"But I thought Aiwa was top of the line." Scott looks worried but not yet upset enough to please me.