“Mistletoe alert!” she shrieks, kissing me dryly on the cheek. “Merry Xmas, Patrick. Merry Xmas, Jimmy.”

“Merry… Xmas,” I say, unable to push her away since I’ve got a martini in one hand and a Waldorf salad in the other.

“You’re late, honey,” she says.

“I’m not late,” I say, barely protesting.

“Oh yes you are,” she says in singsong.

“I’ve been here the entire time,” I say, dismissing her. “You just didn’t see me.”

“Oh, stop scowling. You’re such a Grinch.” She turns to Petersen. “Did you know Patrick’s the Grinch?”

“Bah humbug,” I sigh, staring over at Courtney.

“Hell, we all know McCloy’s the Grinch,” Petersen bellows drunkenly. “How ya doin’, Mr. Grinch?”

“And what does Mr. Grinch want for Christmas?” Evelyn asks in a baby’s voice. “Has Mr. Grinchie been a good boy this year?”

I sigh. “The Grinch wants a Burberry raincoat, a Ralph Lauren cashmere sweater, a new Rolex, a car stereo—”

Evelyn stops sucking on the candy cane to interrupt. “But you don’t have a car, honey.”

“I want one anyway.” I sigh again. “The Grinch wants a car stereo anyway.”

“How’s the Waldorf salad?” Evelyn asks worriedly. “Do you think it tastes all right?”

“Delicious,” I murmur, craning my neck, spotting someone, suddenly impressed. “Hey, you didn’t tell me Laurence Tisch was invited to this party.”

She turns around. “What are you talking about?”

“Why,” I ask, “is Laurence Tisch passing around a tray of canapes?”

“Oh god, Patrick, that’s not Laurence Tisch,” she says. “That’s one of the Christmas elves.”

“One of the what? You mean the midgets.”

‘They’re elves,” she stresses. “Santa’s helpers. God, what a sourpuss. Look at them. They’re adorable. That one over there is Rudolph, the one passing out candy canes is Blitzen. The other one is Donner—”

“Wait a minute, Evelyn, wait,” I say, closing my eyes, holding up the hand with the Waldorf salad in it. I’m sweating, déjà vu, but why? Have I met these elves somewhere? Forget about it. “I… those are the names of reindeer. Not elves. Blitzen was a reindeer.”

“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 fav orite topic.” Meredith drapes an arm over my shoulder, while she confides to me as an aside, ‘“They’re fabulous.”