“Amazing Amy & Perfect Patrick: Gone Girl Meets American Psycho” - Written by Amy Dunne-Bateman

Original article here: https://www.peliplat.com/en/article/10068756/amazing-amy-perfect-patrick-gone-girl-meets-american-psycho-written-by-amy-dunne-bateman

Readers, let me tell you a little story.

By now, I assume you all know me. Yes - Amazing Amy. The muse for that beloved children’s book series / The girl who survived that horrendous kidnapping ordeal / The wife who reunited with her cheating husband, Nick, the man she once thought was her soul mate. Spoiler: he wasn’t.

My parents blamed the stress of my ordeal, but if kidnapping doesn’t bring you closer, what will? So, I decided Nick had to go. I grieved. Briefly. But what’s a girl to do? Cry herself to sleep every night? I don't think so.

Let’s not dwell on Nick. Let’s focus on my new husband—the immaculate Mister. Patrick Bateman.

Do you want to hear about our meet-cute?

Oh, you're going to love it.

I was at one of those painfully curated literary galas that my parents love to throw, this one was in Manhattan, hence the only reason I attended. Oh, you know the type: champagne flutes (probably from a Target clearance bin), a string quartet faking joy in polyester tuxes, and about seventeen people silently hoping someone dies so they’ll have something to gossip about next time they meet at the club for lunch.

The occasion? The launch of my parents’ latest book: Still Amazing Amy, with the nauseating subtitle “What Happens When a Little Girl Disappears.” Yes, they’ve now created an age-inappropriate children's book based on my kidnapping. Their love of plundering my trauma knows no bounds. At least they had the decency not to include all the details. I assume they're saving those for the sequel - probably when the yacht needs reupholstering.

Anyway, just as I was about to fake an aneurysm to get out of there, I saw him.

Patrick Bateman.

Tall. Slick. Teeth like a Kennedy. A suit so sharp I could've pricked my finger on it.

He looked at me. I looked at him.

Readers, do you know that cliché about time standing still?

It’s a cliché for a reason.

Our eyes locked. I opened my mouth to speak - but I didn’t have to.

No awkward laughter.

No clumsy flirting.

He simply reached into his jacket and handed me a business card.

Thick card stock. Eggshell white. Raised Helvetica. Watermarked. Just two little words:

PATRICK BATEMAN

With his number underneath.

I took it and smiled.

Then I reached into my Birkin clutch and handed him mine.

Reader, I swear, the EXACT same card!

His eyes lit up. “Embossed,” he said.

“Of course,” I replied. Trying my darnedest not to blush.

That’s when I knew. This wasn’t some man-boy like Nick. This was someone who could spot a fake Tom Ford from across the room and still close a multi million dollar deal by lunch. Someone who pays to have his pocket squares ironed. Someone whose skincare routine costs more than most people’s rent.

And I just KNEW that like me, he didn’t suffer fools gladly. In fact he didn’t suffer fools AT ALL.

We talked tailoring. Fonts. Art. Control. I told him about Nick and the cheating. He said if any man ever hurt me again, he’d kill him. I said, “You’d have to beat me to it.” He nodded. And that was the moment I fell - hard. Just how I like it.

We courted the only way people like us can - expensively, cryptically, and with the occasional disappearance of someone who displeased us. We dealt with things quickly. Professionally. Discreetly. He took me to every fine dining spot in Manhattan. I declined the outer boroughs. They still seem a bit… you know.

He gave me a blood-red Birkin. I gave him my first edition of In Cold Blood, annotated by me, personally. I thought he’d get a kick out of that, and he did. He said we could learn a lot from it. And asked how much life insurance my parents had.

Then, one afternoon, he asked me to meet him at the top of the Empire State Building. He proposed. No spectacle. Just a question. And my answer was “Yes.” Our wedding? Obviously, perfect. White orchids. Black tie. Zero children. I wore a custom Dior dress. He wore Tom Ford. We exchanged vows we wrote ourselves. His vows made me laugh. My vows made him cry. A groomsman tried to be funny in his speech and he made a joke about Patrick and his past girlfriends. He isn’t funny anymore. In fact, nobody has seen him for a week. Patrick says not to worry. The smell won’t be noticeable for a while yet.

Our wedding night? Let’s just say I’ll keep it PG-13 and tell you this: it was everything I imagined it would be, and more. We danced alone in our room to Huey Lewis and the News.

The next morning, we stepped into the bathroom together, peeled off our Swedish face masks, looked into the mirror, and said “I love you” at the exact same time.

Listen, I’m not saying it’s a fairy tale. We don’t believe in those. But when you meet someone who sees the real you, and still wants to hold your hand and help you… take care of things? Well. That’s REAL love.

And for the record?

I’m still Amazing Amy. But now, I’ve got Perfect Patrick by my side. And we’ve got the monogrammed pyjamas to prove it.

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Hi folks!

Hope you had fun reading my story written in the style of Amy Dunne from ‘Gone Girl’. I re-watched this movie this week, and ‘American Psycho" last week, and it struck me how similar these characters were. So when I saw the challenge for this month, I thought ’WOW - perfect couple.

I also hope you like my Amy and Patrick wedding photo - holy sh&t that took me ages in Photoshop! I'd love to hear your thoughts on if you think they'd be a match made in…HELL…

Update - I won the Editor's Choice award for this essay!!