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After a small eternity, the door to Patrick’s office finally opened, and Paul Allen emerged, straightening his tie and smoothing his hair. He put on his jacket, snapped open his Wayfarers with a flourish, and shot Jean a wildly sleazy wink before sliding the sunglasses on and striding from the room. Jean rolled her eyes.
Patrick waited in his office for exactly five minutes before repeating the performance, all business and sans wink. He didn't notice the withering look the secretary directed at the back of his head as he left. He met Paul in the stairwell, where the other man was slouching against the wall, rumpling his suit and smoking a cigarette like a delinquent. Patrick stared at the cigarette and frowned and pretended he didn’t think it looked cool.
“I don’t think she suspects anything,” Patrick whispered.
“She definitely doesn’t,” agreed Paul, convincingly guileless.
“Jean, Paul Allen here. What’s Bateman’s schedule like this week? I thought I’d try to… fit him in for lunch.”
Jean could practically hear the eyebrow-waggling through the receiver. She pinched the bridge of her nose and counted to ten before responding, unfazed.
“I believe Mr. Bateman is free this Wednesday around eleven thirty.”
“Great, fantastic, I’ll just, uh, grab him around noon, then.”
“I’ll add you to his calendar,” she said flatly, and hung up the phone.
“Jesus christ,” Jean muttered, and resumed her typing.
“Our shirts must’ve gotten mixed up at the dry cleaner’s,” Paul exclaimed, plucking at his sleeves. “Wonder how that happened. Jesus, Bateman. Your clothes are so tight.”
He paused and put his nose to the cuff, inhaled, and oh god, those were Patrick’s cufflinks, and those definitely didn’t get mixed up at the dry cleaner’s.
“Is this Yves Saint Laurent?” he murmured, almost purred, "Pour Homme?”
“Will you two please stop,” Jean finally said.
Patrick turned his head abruptly, startled, like he’d forgotten she was there. No, he had actually forgotten she was there; he'd been staring at Paul Allen. Paul Allen, who was sitting on her fucking desk and smirking. Her rolodex was in danger of sliding to the floor, and it was all too much. He was practically draped across the thing.
“I mean, I don’t care. But at least, I don’t know—at least warn me if you’re going to be doing this kind of thing all the time. And please don’t have sex on my desk, ever.”
“You don’t care about what?” said Patrick, impassive. “Don’t do what on your desk, Jean?”
Paul stood and grinned, a slow, obscene, wolfish grin that set her teeth on edge with how goddamn cavalier it was.
Jean felt her face go red, and somehow, she’d lost. With as much dignity as she could scrape together on short notice, she pointedly picked up her rolodex and returned it to its original position.
Finally, Paul shrugged, maintaining a ghost of his awful smile, and Patrick frowned.
"If you can still smell my cologne, I'm going to have to have a talk with my cleaner."
And just like that, they strolled out. She could hear them talking, faintly, from the other side of the door.
“She’s a nice girl, but honestly, sometimes…”
Their voices faded out into the hall. Jean took an aspirin and downed it angrily with a Perrier she’d stolen from Patrick’s mini-fridge. She was going to have to start stealing more from him after this.
She slumped down in her desk chair. Oh god, they're going to have sex on my desk now, and it's totally going to be my fault, she thought.
"Mergers and acquisitions," she said to the empty office, and despite herself, she started to laugh.