Chapter Six - Chapter Ten
6
Kelly herself was waiting in the building's lobby and embraced
me like a long-lost friend when I arrived for my first day as instructed,
at exactly nine A.M.
"Bette, honey, we're so happy to have you with us!" she
breathed, casting a quick glance over my outfit. A fleeting, wideeyed
look—not quite panic, closer to distress—passed over her
face before she fixed on a broad smile and led me by the hand to
the elevator.
I'd had the good sense to avoid a full suit, but it wasn't until I'd
caught a quick glimpse of everyone else's attire that I realized I still
hadn't calculated correctly. Apparently my notion of business casual
(cuffed charcoal gray pants, baby blue Oxford shirt, and understated
low heels) differed slightly from that of the rest of the
staff at Kelly & Company. The office was a sprawling downtown
space with floor-to-ceiling windows that afforded views all the way
down to Wall Street and west to New Jersey, giving it a decidedly
loft-like feel. Around a large circular table sat a half-dozen people;
each and every one, without exception, possessed unnervingly
good looks and wore all black. The most malnourished-looking of
the girls called out to Kelly, "Page Six for comment on prenup
trend, line two," and Kelly motioned for me to take a seat before
reaching up and adjusting what looked like a very tiny earpiece. A
second later she was greeting someone on the other line with giggles
and compliments while pacing the length of the southernfacing
windows. I sat next to the super-skinny girl and turned to
introduce myself but found myself staring at her hand, one finger
of which pointed upward in a clear sign that I should wait. It was
then that I noticed that each person around the table was chatting
enthusiastically at the exact same time, although it didn't appear
that they were talking to each other. It took me another moment to
see that they all had tiny wireless phones tucked into their ears. I
didn't know then that in a few short weeks I would feel completely
naked—exposed!—without that phone constantly attached to the
side of my face . . . right then it just looked weird. The girl nodded
gravely a few times and glanced in my direction, muttering something
indecipherable. I politely looked away and waited for someone
to notice me.
"Hello? Hello? What did you say your name was?" I heard her
ask as I surveyed the rest of the group. It was a surprisingly even
split between guys and girls, their primary commonality being the
level of almost-disturbing attractiveness among them. I was beginning
to stare when I felt a tap on my back.
"Hey," the skinny one said. "What's your name?"
"Me?" 1 dumbly asked, convinced she was still on the phone.
She laughed. Not nicely. "Who else's name do you think I don't
know here? I'm Elisa." The hand she held out was ice-cold and
very, very thin. I watched a diamond right-hand ring swing around
her emaciated middle finger in little loops before I remembered to
respond.
"Oh, hi. I'm Bette. Bette Robinson. It's my first day."
"Yeah, I heard. Well, welcome aboard. Kelly's not likely to get
off that call anytime soon, so why don't I introduce you around?"
She worked her wavy reddish-blond hair into a messy topknot and
secured it from underneath with a claw clip. A few strands in front
fell out and she tucked them behind her ear. She felt to make sure
that the hair was sprouting just so from the clip in that cool, casual
way I always tried to achieve but could never manage, and then
she stuck a pair of oversized black plastic sunglasses on her head
to hold everything together. I could see from the silver G's that
they were Gucci. She was effortlessly chic, and I had the feeling I
could simply watch her forever.
Elisa walked to the far end of the table and flicked the light
switch three times in quick succession. Immediately I heard a cho-
rus of voices announcing to their headsets that a very important
person was calling for them on the other line, and could they call
back in just a few moments? Almost simultaneously, six manicured
hands reached toward six ears and removed six earpieces, and
within seconds, Elisa had commanded the complete attention of
the entire room without saying a word.
"Hey, everyone, this is Bette Robinson. She'll be working primarily
with Leo and me, so try not to give her a hard time, okay?"
Nods all around.
"Hi," I said, my voice sounding squeaky.
"That's Skye," Elisa started, pointing at an edgy-looking girl in
dark indigo jeans, a tight, long-sleeved black T-shirt, a two-inchthick
leather belt with a massive jeweled buckle, and the most fabulous
pair of broken-in cowboy boots I'd ever seen. She was pretty
enough to pull off her ultra-boyish short haircut, which only complemented
her curvy, feminine figure. Again, I just wanted to sit
and stare, but I managed to say hello, and Skye returned my greeting
with an enigmatic smile. "Skye's working on the Kooba bag account
right now," Elisa said before turning her pointing finger on
the next person. "That's Leo, the other senior person besides me.
And now you," she added in a tone I couldn't quite identify.
"Hi, honey, nice to meet you," Leo said, standing up from his
chair to kiss me on the cheek. "Always glad to have another pretty
face in the office." He turned to Elisa and said, "Sorry, sweets, but
I've got to run and meet the Diesel jeans guy for a late breakfast.
Tell Kelly for me?" She nodded as he slung a messenger bag across
his chest and bolted toward the door.
"Davide, say hello to Bette," Elisa instructed the only guy left at
the table. Davide's dark eyes peered out broodingly from under
heavy eyelashes and a thick lock of dark hair. He ran his fingers
through the front part and stared at me. After a few more awkward
moments he said "Alio" in what immediately sounded like a questionable
accent.
"Hi, Davide," I said. "Where is that great accent from?"
"He is originally from Italy, of course," Elisa answered quickly
on his behalf. "Can't you tell?"
I decided then and there that there was something going on
between Elisa and Davide—there was a vibe between them that
just screamed "dating," and I congratulated myself on being perceptive
enough to figure it out. But before I finished marveling at
my own cleverness, Elisa fell into Davide's lap, wrapped her arms
around his neck like a little girl would with her daddy, and then
kissed him full on the mouth in a most undaughterlike manner.
"Seriously, Elisa, spare us the office PDA, will you, please?"
Skye whined, her eyes rolled back quite far in her head. "It's bad
enough we all have to envision you guys having sex on your own
time—don't make it a reality for us, okay?"
Elisa just sighed and stood up, but not before Davide managed
to grab her left breast and squeeze. I tried to imagine two coworkers
at UBS sharing the same interaction in the conference room
and nearly laughed out loud.
"So, yeah," she continued as though the mini in-office grope
session hadn't occurred. "Skye, Leo, and Davide are the senior
people. Those three over there"—she pointed to three pretty
young girls, two blonds and a brunette, who sat hunched over
PowerBook laptops—"they're the List Girls. Responsible for making
sure we have all the information for everyone we'd ever want or
need to attend an event. You know how someone once said that
there are only a few people worth knowing in the world? Well,
they know them."
"Mmm, I see," I mumbled, although I had no idea what she
was saying. "Totally."
Three hours later I felt like I'd worked there three months. I observed
a staff meeting where everyone lounged casually around the
loft drinking bottles of Diet Coke and Fiji water and talking about the
party they were throwing for Candace Bushnell's new book. Skye ran
through a checklist as various people updated her on the venue, invitation
status, menu, sponsors, photographer placement, and press
access. When she was finished, Kelly hushed the room and had one
of the List Girls read the most recently updated RSVP list as if it were
the word of God. Each name elicited a nod, a sigh, a smile, a mutter,
a head shake, or an eye-roll, although I recognized only a handful of
them. Nicole Richie. Karenna Gore Schiff. Natalie Portman. Gisele
Bundchen. Kate and Andy Spade. Bret Easton Ellis. Rande Gerber.
The entire cast and crew of Sex and the City. Nod, sigh, smile, mutter,
shake, roll. It went on for nearly three hours, and by the time they'd
finished debating the merits and pitfalls of every single individual—
what each might add to the party and, therefore, the coverage or,
worse, what they might take away—I was more exhausted than I
would have been had I just hung up on Mrs. Kaufman. By two
o'clock, when Elisa asked if I wanted to grab a coffee with her, I
couldn't say yes fast enough.
We each smoked a cigarette on the walk over and I was struck
by the sudden and overwhelming desire to be sharing a plate of
falafel on the bench outside UBS with Penelope. Elisa was providing
some sort of running commentary on office politics, who really
ran the show (her), and who really wanted to (everyone else). I
called upon my valuable can-talk-to-anyone-about-anything skill
and kept asking her questions while tuning out her answers entirely.
It wasn't until we were settled into a corner table with our
coffees—Elisa's was skim, decaf, and dark—that I actually heard
something she said.
"Oh. My. God. Will you fucking look at that?" she hissed.
I followed her gaze to a tall, lanky woman who was wearing a
very unremarkable pair of jeans and a basic black blazer. She had
sort of drab, brownish hair and a fairly mediocre body, and everything
about her seemed to say "average in every way." Elisa's excitement
seemed to indicate the woman was a celebrity, but she
didn't look the least bit familiar to me.
"Who is it?" I asked, leaning in conspiratorially. I didn't really
care, but thought I should.
"Not 'who,' 'what'!" she practically scream-whispered. She
hadn't yet moved her eyes from the woman.
"What?" I asked, still clueless.
"What do you mean, 'what? Are you kidding? Do you not see
it? Do you need glasses?" I thought she was mocking me, but she
reached into her oversized tote bag and pulled out a pair of wirerims.
"Here, put these on and check that out."
I continued to stare, clueless, until Elisa leaned in closer and
said, "Look. At. Her. Bag. Just try and tell me it's not the most gorgeous
thing you've ever seen."
My eyes went to the large leather bag the woman had nesting
in the crook of her elbow while she ordered her coffee. When it
came time to pay, she rested it on the counter, rooted through it,
and pulled out her wallet before returning the bag to her arm. Elisa
groaned audibly. It looked like any other bag to me, just bigger.
"Ohmigod, I can barely stand it, it's so amazing. It's the crocodile
Birkin. Rarest of them all."
"A what?" I asked. I briefly considered pretending to know
what she was talking about, but it felt like too much effort at that
point in the day.
She peered at me, examining my face as though she'd just remembered
that I was there. "You really don't know, do you?"
I shook my head.
She took a deep breath, sipped her coffee for strength, and
placed her hand on my forearm as if to say, Noiv listen closely because
I'm telling you the only piece of information you'll ever need
to know. "You've heard of Hermes, right?"
I nodded and saw a wave of relief wash over her face. "Sure.
My uncle wears their ties all the time."
"Yes, well, much more important than their ties are their bags.
The first huge hit was the Kelly bag, named for Grace Kelly when
she began carrying it. But the really big one—about a thousand
times more prestigious—is the Birkin."
She looked at me expectantly and I murmured, "Mmm, it looks
lovely. Very nice bag."
Elisa sighed. "It sure is. That one's probably in the twentygrand
range. It's so worth it."
I inhaled so quickly that I swallowed wrong and actually
choked. "It's how much? You're joking. That's impossible! It's a
purse."
"It's not a purse, Bette, it's a way of life. I would pay that in a
heartbeat if I could just get my hands on one."
"I can't imagine people are lining up to spend that much on a
bag," I pointed out. Which, in my defense, sounded eminently logical
at that moment. I couldn't have known just how stupid I
sounded, but luckily Elisa was prepared to inform me.
"Christ, Bette, you really have no clue, do you? I didn't think
there was anyone left on the planet who wasn't at least on the list
for a Birkin. Put yourself on immediately and maybe—just
maybe—you'll get one in time to give your daughter one someday."
"My daughter? Twenty thousand dollars for a bag? You're kidding."
At this point Elisa collapsed in frustration and put her head
down on the table. "No, no, no," she moaned, as though in great
pain. "You just don't get it. It's not just a bag. It's a lifestyle. It's a
statement. It summarizes who you are as a person. It's a reason for
living."
I laughed at her melodrama. She bolted upright in her seat
again and began talking at a rapid-fire pace.
"I had a friend who fell into a horrible depression after her favorite
grandmother died and her boyfriend of three years broke up
with her. She couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't drag herself out
of bed. She got fired because she never showed up for work. Huge
bags under her eyes. Refused to see anyone. Never answered her
phone. When I finally showed up at her apartment after months of
this, she confided that she was considering suicide."
"How awful," I murmured, still racing to keep up with the
rapid subject change.
"Yeah, it was awful. But you know what got her through? I'd
stopped at the Hermes store on the way over to her apartment,
asked for an update . . . just in case. And you know what? I was
able to tell her when I got there that she was only eighteen months
away from her Birkin. Do you believe it? Eighteen months!"
"What did she say?" I asked.
"What do you think she said? She was ecstatic! The last time
she'd checked it was going to be five years, but they'd trained a
whole new crew of craftsmen and her name was due up in a year
and a half. She got in the shower that very moment and agreed to
go to lunch with me. That was six months ago. Since then she got
her job back and has another boyfriend. Don't you see? That Birkin
gave her a reason to live! You simply cannot kill yourself when
you're that close . . . it's just not an option."
It was my turn to examine her to see if she was joking. She
was not. In fact, Elisa looked positively radiant from her retelling of
the story, as though it had inspired her to live her own life to the
fullest. I thanked her for educating me in the ways of the Birkin
and wondered what, exactly, I had gotten myself into. This was a
far cry from investment banking, and I clearly had a lot to learn.
7
It was seven-thirty in the evening on day four of my working at
Kelly & Company as a party planner. The newsstand near my
apartment had only a single copy of the New York Daily News with
Will's column by the time I headed home after work. I'd been
reading "Will of the People" nearly every week since the time I'd
learned the alphabet, but for some reason I'd never managed to
subscribe to any of the papers that ran it. Of course, I had never
broached the subject of the column's gradual shift to a soapbox for
Will's crotchety rants about every social "tragedy" that had befallen
his beloved city, but it was becoming increasingly more difficult to
keep my mouth shut.
"Bette! Great column today, if I do say so myself!" my doorman,
Seamus, howled boozily as he pulled open the door to my
building and waved a copy of the paper. "That uncle of yours hits
the nail on the head every time!"
"Is it good? I haven't read it yet," I said absently, walking and
talking quickly, the way people do when they're trying desperately
to avoid a conversation.
"Good? It's fantastic! Now there's a man who gets it! Anyone
who can poke a little fun at Hillary Clinton is a friend of mine! I
thought I was the only person in this whole city who voted for
George W., but your uncle assures me I'm not."
"Mmm. I suppose that's true." I headed toward the elevator, but
he was still going.
"Any chance he'll be coming 'round to visit you anytime soon?
Would just love to tell him in person how much—"
"I'll definitely let you know," I called as the elevator doors fi-
nally shut him out. I shook my head, remembering my uncle's one
visit to my building and the way Seamus had fallen all over himself
when he recognized Will's name. It was upsetting, to say the least,
that Seamus personified my uncle's target demographic.
Millington nearly collapsed in paroxysms of joy when I opened
the door, even more excited than usual now that I'd returned to
working all day. Poor Millington. No walk for yon tonight, I thought
as I gave her a perfunctory scratch on the head and settled down
to read Will's latest rants. She scampered off to use her Wee-Wee
Pad, realizing immediately that she wasn't leaving the apartment
today, either, and then jumped onto my chest to read with me.
Just as I was settling in with my folder of takeout menus, my
cell phone vibrated across my coffee table like a wind-up toy. I debated
whether or not to answer it. The cell phone was companyissued
and, much like my new colleagues, didn't ever seem to rest.
I'd been out the last three nights, attending events the company
had put on, following Kelly as she did everything from consulting
with clients to firing slow bartenders, hosting VIPs, and arranging
for press passes. The hours were even more grueling than at the
bank—a whole day of office work followed by a full night out—
but the office buzzed with young, pretty people, and if one has to
spend fifteen hours a day at work, I thought I might prefer DJs or
champagne cocktails to diversified portfolios.
TXT MESSAGE! appeared on my color screen. Text message? I'd
never before received a message or sent one. After a moment's
hesitation, I looked at the screen and hit Read.
din 2nite @ 9? cip dwntn on w.broad, c u there.
What was that? Some sort of cryptic dinner invitation, for sure,
but where and with whom? The only clue to its origin was a 917
number I didn't recognize. I dialed it and a breathless girl answered
immediately.
"Hey, Bette! What's up? You in for tonight?" the voice said, crushing
my hope that the person had simply dialed the wrong number.
"Uh, hi. Urn, who is this?"
"Bette! It's Elisa. We've only worked together twenty-four/seven
for the past week! We're all going out tonight to celebrate being done
with the Candace party. It'll be the usual crew. See you at nine?"
I'd planned to meet Penelope at the Black Door since I'd
barely seen her during my unemployment hibernation, but I didn't
see how I could turn down my first social invitation from my new
colleagues.
"Uh, yeah, sure, that sounds great. What was the name of that
restaurant again?"
"Cipriani Downtown?" she asked, sounding a bit incredulous
that I wasn't able to deduce as much from her earlier shorthand.
"You've been, right?"
"Of course. I love it there. Do you mind if I bring a friend? I
had plans already and—"
"Fab! See you both in a couple hours!" she screeched and
hung up.
I snapped my phone shut and did what every New Yorker
does instinctively upon hearing the name of a restaurant: I checked
Zagat. Twenty-one for food, twenty for decor, and a still respectable
eighteen for service. And it wasn't a one-word name like
Koi or Butter or Lotus, which might seem innocuous but almost always
guaranteed an exceptionally horrid time. So far, everything
looked promising.
"To see or be seen is never the question" at this SoHo Northern
Italian where watching Eurobabes "air kissing" and "pretending to
eat their salads" is more to the point than the surprisingly good
"creative" fare; natives may "feel like foreigners in their own
country," but the high ratings speak for themselves.
Ah, so it was going to be another Eurobabe night. Whatever
that meant. And more to the point, what was I supposed to wear?
Elisa and crew seemed to rotate between black pants, black skirts,
and black dresses at work, so it was probably safe to stick with the
formula. I dialed Penelope at the bank.
"Hey, it's me. What's up?"
"Ugh. You are so unbelievably lucky that you left this wretched
sweatshop. Is Kelly looking to hire anyone else?"
"Yeah, I wish. But listen—what do you think about meeting
everyone tonight?"
"Everyone?"
"Well, not everyone, just my immediate work group. I know
we had plans, but since we always go to the Black Door, 1 thought
it might be fun to go to dinner with them. Are you up for it?"
"Sure," she said, sounding too tired to move. "Avery's going out
with a bunch of friends from high school tonight and I was just so
not interested. Dinner sounds fun. Where is it?"
"Cipriani Downtown. Have you been?"
"No, but my mother talks about it obsessively. She's been dying
for me to become a regular."
"Should I be upset that your mother and my uncle seem to
know every cool place in the city, and we're completely clueless?"
"Welcome to my life." She sighed. "Avery's the same way—he
knows everyone and everything. I just can't be bothered. The effort
required for mere maintenance is too exhausting. But tonight will
be fun. I'd like to meet people who plan parties for a living. And
the food's supposed to be great."
"Well, I'm not sure that's a huge selling point with this crowd.
I've spent forty hours with Elisa this week and haven't seen her eat
a thing. She seems to subsist solely on cigarettes and Diet Coke."
"Hot-girl diet, huh? Good for her. You've got to admire that
level of commitment." Penelope sighed again. "I'm headed home
in a few. Want to share a cab downtown?"
"Perfect. I'll pick you up at the corner of Fourteenth and Fifth
a little before nine. I'll call when I get in the cab," I said.
"Sounds good. I'll wait outside. Bye."
I headed for my closet. After some discards and retries, I settled
on a pair of tight black pants and a plain black tank top. I extracted
some decently high heels, bought during a shopping trip in
SoIIo, and took the time to blow out the exceedingly thick black
hair I inherited from my mother—the kind that everyone thinks
they want until they realize it barely fits in a ponytail and instantly
adds thirty minutes to any preparation time. I even attempted some
makeup, which got put to use so infrequently that the mascara
wand was all clumpy and a few of the lipsticks were stuck inside
their tubes. No matter/1 thought, singing along to Mike & the Mechanics'
"The Living Years" as I worked on my face . . . this was
even kind of fun. I had to admit, the end results were worth the
extra effort: my love handles no longer bulged over the waistline
of my pants, my boobs had retained their chubby-girl fullness even
though the rest of me had shrunk, and the mascara I'd haphazardly
brushed across my lashes had accidentally smeared to perfection,
giving my somewhat bland gray eyes a sexy, smoldering look.
Penelope was waiting outside at exactly ten to nine, and we
were deposited at our requested address right on time. There were
a ton of restaurants on West Broadway, and everyone seemed to
be clustered at outdoor tables looking exceedingly well-scrubbed
and unnervingly happy. We had a little trouble finding the place
because the restaurant management had neglected to post a sign.
Perhaps it's an issue of practicality; since the shelf life of most New
York hot spots is under six months, it actually leaves one less thing
to remove when they close. Luckily, I remembered the street number
from Zagat and we scoped it out from the far corner. Groups
of scantily but expensively clad women congregated around the
bar as older men kept their drinks filled, but I didn't see Elisa or
anyone else from the office.
"Bette! Over here!" Elisa called, a champagne glass in one hand
and a cigarette in the other. She was planted in the middle of
Cipriani's outdoor tables, leaning seductively against one of the
Italians' chairs, her branch-like limbs looking as though they might
snap at any moment. "Everyone else is inside. So glad you could
come!"
"Jesus Christ, she's skinny," Penelope muttered under her
breath as we walked toward the tables.
"Hi," I said and leaned in to kiss Elisa hello. 1 turned to introduce
her to Penelope but noticed that Elisa was still waiting there,
her face thrust forward and filled, eyes closed. She had expected
the traditional Euro double kiss, and I'd given up halfway through.
I'd recently read a convincing piece in Cosmo decrying the double
kiss as a stupid affectation and decided to make a stand: there
would be no more double kisses for me. I left her hanging but
said, "Thanks for inviting me. I absolutely love it here!"
She recovered quickly. "Ohmigod, me, too. They have the best
salads of anywhere. Hi, I'm Elisa," she said, offering a hand to
Penelope.
"I'm so sorry, that was so rude of me." I flushed, realizing I
must have sounded ridiculous to Penelope. "Penelope, this is Elisa.
She's been showing me around all week long. And, Elisa, this is
Penelope, my best friend."
"Wow, fab ring," Elisa said, grabbing Penelope's left hand instead
of her right and softly fingering the massive stone. "That
carat-glare is, like, blinding!" Penelope was, in fact, sporting her
"wearable" three-carat rock, and I wondered what Elisa would
think of her second ring.
"Thanks," Penelope said, clearly pleased. "I just got engaged
last—" But before she could finish, Davide grabbed Elisa from behind
and wrapped his arms around her tiny waist, careful not to
hug too hard and break her. He leaned in and whispered something
in her ear and she threw her head back with laughter.
"Davide, honey, behave! You know Bette. Davide, this is
Bette's friend, Penelope."
We all air-kissed on both cheeks (my no double-kiss rule hadn't
lasted twenty seconds), but Davide didn't manage to remove his eyes
from Elisa for a single second. "Our table. It is ready," he announced
gruffly in Italian-accented English, patting Elisa's bony ass and leaning
his pretty face toward her neck again. "Come in when you are
finito." Something about Davide's accent still didn't sound quite right.
It seemed to meander from French to Italian and back to French
again.
"I'm finished," she sang merrily, tossing her cigarette underneath
a table. "Let's go in, okay?"
We had a table for six tucked in the back corner. Elisa immediately
informed me that marginally cool people obsess about getting
a table in the front of the restaurant, but the truly cool request tables
in the back. Skye, Davide, and Leo comprised the rest of the
group that had worked on the Candace Bushnell book party the
night before, and I was relieved to see that Elisa and Davide were
the only couple. They were all sipping drinks and arguing about
something, looking relaxed in the way that only the truly confident
ever can. And naturally, no one was wearing black. Skye and Elisa
were wearing almost identical short dresses, one in a bright coral
color with gorgeous silver heels and the other in a perfect aquamarine
with matching metallic sandals that tied halfway up her calves.
No matter that it was mid-October and relatively cold at night.
Even the guys looked like they'd been prepped at Armani before
dinner. Davide was still wearing his charcoal gray suit from work.
Although it was significantly snugger than most American men
would wear, it looked fabulous on his tall, built frame. Leo was the
perfect combination of hip and casual in a pair of distressed Paper
Denim jeans, a tight vintage T-shirt that said VIETNAM: WE WERE WINNING
WHEN i LEFT, and the new orange Pumas for guys. I went to
claim the last remaining seat next to Leo, but he hoisted himself effortlessly
to his feet without so much as a break in his sentence,
kissed both my cheeks, and pulled the chair out for me, and then
one for Penelope, who was obviously trying as hard as I was to act
like this was a usual night out for us. When we'd settled in, Leo
handed us menus and motioned for the waiter to take our drink
orders, although he still hadn't so much as paused in the conversation.
I racked my brain trying to think of some remotely cool drink,
but after years of only drinking with my uncle, it was impossible.
Absolut was popular these days, wasn't it?
"Urn, I'll have an Absolut and grapefruit juice, please," I mumbled
when the waiter looked to me first.
"Really?" Elisa asked, looking at me, wide-eyed. "I don't even
think they serve Absolut here. Why don't we get a few bottles of
wine for the table to start?"
"Oh, sure. That would be great." Strike one.
"Don't feel too bad—I was going to order a beer," Penelope
leaned over and whispered. I laughed like it was the most amusing
thing I'd ever heard.
Davide spoke to the waiter in fourth-grade Italian, supplementing
with hand gestures and at one point kissing his fingertips as
though the mere thought of his order was too delicious to resist.
Elisa and Skye just gazed at him in adoration. He switched to his
faux-accented English for the rest of us monolingual idiots. "I have
ordered three bottles of this Chianti to start, if this is acceptable. In
the meantime, everyone prefer sparkling or flat?"
Elisa turned to me and announced, "Davide is from Sicily."
"Oh, really? How interesting," I said. "Are his parents still there?"
"No, no, he's been here since he was four, but he still has such
affection for his birthplace."
Votes were tallied for the bottled water preference—I wisely resisted
saying that I'd be fine with plain old tap water—and Davide
ordered three of each. By my calculations, we'd already spent just
under $300 and hadn't so much as ordered an appetizer yet.
"Great call on the wine, Davide," Skye announced while
punching her manicured nails into her cell phone's keypad. Texting,
I guessed. "I can vouch for it personally. We've summered in
Tuscany for years and it's the only one I'll touch." She turned her
full attention to her phone, which was ringing, and tucked it back
into her bag after looking with distaste at the caller ID display.
I busied myself examining the menu, wondering if every employee
of Kelly & Company was in possession of an enormous
trust fund. I couldn't very well contribute much about the subtleties
of Chianti. My parents' idea of "summering" was driving from
Poughkeepsie to Cayuga Lake in Ithaca, where they'd hold a vegan
barbecue on the porch with locals and drink their licorice tea.
Nothing like blowing your first week's pay on a single meal you
didn't want to have in the first place.
"So how tough was last night?" Davide asked. "I mean, what
are the chances that not a single A-list celebrity showed up?"
"Some of the Sex and the City cast were there," Leo pointed out
thoughtfully.
"Urn, excuse me, I don't think Chris Noth and John Corbett
count as A-list!" Skye said. "Did you see Sarah Jessica Parker? No!
Besides, SATC"—she used the abbreviation here—"is so over. The
whole thing was a nightmare."
The group had been commissioned by Warner Books to throw
the book party for Candace Bushnell's newest novel, and apparently
it had been a zoo. Since I hadn't worked on it from the beginning,
I'd attended another event that night, a dinner welcoming
the CEO of one of Kelly & Company's new accounts.
Leo sighed. "I know, you're right, of course. It was just so,
so . . . B and T!"
"Yes, it was, wasn't it? I mean, who were all those girls on the
outside patio? They were positively attacking the champagne—
you'd think they'd never seen it before. And those two guys with
the Staten Island accents who actually got in a fight? Hideous,"
Skye added.
"Yeah, Penelope, you didn't miss anything," Elisa reassured her,
even though Penelope clearly had no idea what anyone was discussing.
"That's the beauty of book parties, though. The publishers
are usually so out of the loop, they have no clue whether it actually
drew a good crowd or not."
Davide delicately sipped his wine and nodded. "At least we
won't have to endure another "Why the List Makes the Party'
speech from Kelly. I honestly don't think I could listen to it again."
I'd been hearing about "The List" since Monday, but Kelly
hadn't yet taken any time to introduce me to the "most comprehensive
database of everyone worth knowing." She'd set aside the
next day, a Friday, to demonstrate for me the glory that is The List.
I was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, not quite able to accept
that Kelly really was the insanely upbeat woman she appeared
to be, but so far she'd maintained her relentless optimism
on full throttle. And even though I don't think Will had given her
much of a choice in hiring me, she seemed genuinely happy to
have me there. I'd invested four full days in studying her intently,
desperate to discover some hideous flaw or irritation, and I still
hadn't managed to uncover a single negative aspect of her personality.
Could it be possible that she really was all-around adorable,
sweet, and successful? The most serious offense I'd found so far
was her tendency toward chipper emails with numerous emoticons.
But she hadn't once used the word powwow or placed any
sweaty hands anywhere inside my workspace, so I was more than
content to let it slide.
My phone rang just as everyone began arguing about whether or
not Kelly had already had her eyes done at the ripe old age of thirtyfour,
and although I scrambled to silence it, I realized that this crowd
not only didn't mind if I answered it, they expected as much.
"Bette, hey, how are you?"
It was Michael, and he sounded slightly confused.
"Michael, honey, how are you?" Honey? I'd let it slip without
even realizing it. The table looked on curiously, none more so than
Penelope. "Honey?" I saw her mouth at me questioningly.
"Honey?" Michael laughed on the other end. "What, are you
drunk? I got released early! Tell me where you are and I'll come
meet you."
I laughed ingratiatingly, totally unable to picture Michael, who
was a dead ringer for Jon Cryer, punning in his sweetly dorky way
as Davide waxed on about the villa they'd just rented in Sardinia
for next August. "I'm at dinner with a few colleagues, but we'll be
finished here in an hour or so. Can I call you when I get home?"
"Sure," he said, sounding even more confused. "Call me on my
land line, though, because my cell's out of battery."
"Talk to you then." I clicked the phone shut.
"Was that our Michael?" Penelope asked, clearly curious.
"Who was thaaaaaaaat?" Elisa asked, leaning hungrily across
the table. "Love interest? Hot manager from the bank? Unresolved
feelings that can finally be acknowledged because you no longer
work together? Do tell!"
And even though the thought of having sex with Michael was
less appealing than sleeping with my own uncle and Michael was
madly in love with his sweet and adorable girlfriend and Penelope
knew full well that Michael and I had absolutely nothing between
us, I went with it. "Um, something like that," I said, deliberately
looking down while the table's attention focused on me for the
first time all evening. "We're, uh, just figuring things out now."
"Ooh," Elisa squealed. "I just knew it! Make sure Kelly adds him
to The List so he can bring all his gorgeous banker friends to the
events! What fun. Let's have a toast! To Bette and her new boyfriend!"
"Well, he's not exactly my—"
"To Bette!" everyone chorused, raising wineglasses and clinking.
Penelope raised her glass but stared straight ahead. They all sipped.
I gulped and nudged Penelope. Blessedly, everything started to get a
little fuzzy around dessert.
"So I spoke to Amy and she said we're good for Bungalow
tonight," Leo announced, brushing his flawlessly highlighted hair
away from his eyes. So far I'd heard them discuss the best places in
the city to get a facial, the really stylish new men's flip-flops at
John Varvatos, and how annoying it was when their favorite Pilates
instructor started class ten minutes late. And only Leo was gay.
"Bungalow? Is that Bungalow 8?" I asked, my usual filter having
been relaxed by the free-flowing wine.
Conversation slammed to a halt and four perfectly groomed
and/or made-up faces swiveled toward me. It was finally Skye who
summoned the strength to withstand the burden of my question.
"Yes," she said quietly, refusing to make eye contact, clearly
humiliated for me. "Amy Sacco owns Bungalow 8 and Lot 61 and is
a very good friend of Kelly's. We're all on the list for tonight, which
is the best party of the week."
Everyone nodded.
"I'm game for whatever," Davide said, playing with Elisa's hair.
"As long as it's guaranteed we'll have a table. Can't deal otherwise—
not tonight."
"Obviously," Elisa agreed.
When the check came it was already well after midnight, and
even though Penelope was chatting amicably with Leo, I could tell
she was dying to get home. But Bungalow sounded like fun, so I
shot her a few significant looks and left for the bathroom, where I
waited for her to meet me.
"What a nice night," she said neutrally.
"Yeah, they're cool, aren't they? Something different."
"Definitely. Hey, I hope you don't mind if I cut out early," she
said, sounding more than a little distant.
"Is everything okay? What's wrong?"
"No, nothing at all. It's just kind of late and I'm not sure I'm up
for, uh, for a club. Avery and I agreed to meet at home tonight, so
I'd better get going. Whatever, dinner was great. I think I'm just
tired, but you go and have a good time, okay?"
"Are you sure? 1 could just as easily share a cab home and go
to sleep. I'm not sure I'm up for it, either," I offered, but she saved
me the trouble.
"Don't be ridiculous. Go and have fun for both of us."
We walked back to the group and took our seats again, where
what I hoped would be a final bottle of wine was making its way
around the table. When the waiter presented the check with a
flourish to no one in particular, I inhaled sharply. A quick mental
calculation told me that I would owe somewhere in the neighborhood
of S250. But apparently splitting the bill wasn't an option because
Davide reached for the little leather folder and nonchalantly
announced, "I've got this one."
No one blinked or even attempted to argue with him.
He slipped a jet-black credit card into the folder and handed it
to the waiter. There it was, the mythical American Express Black
Card, available by invitation only to those who charged a minimum
of $150,000 a year. I had only just learned about it myself. It was
mentioned in a blind item, as in, "Who needs a Black Card when
she has a daddy with bottomless bank accounts?" in reference to
an anonymous socialite's daughter. No one else appeared the least
bit interested.
"We ready?" Elisa asked, smoothing her dress over her adorable
little hips. "We'll need two cabs. Leo and Skye, why don't you grab
the first one? Davide, Bette, Penelope, and I will meet you there. If
you get there first, I'd prefer the table closest to the bar on the left,
okay?"
"Oh, listen, I think I'm going to head home," Penelope said.
"Dinner was great, but I've got to be at work early tomorrow. It
was so nice meeting all of you."
"Penelope! You absolutely cannot go home. The night is just
beginning! Come on, it's going to be a great party," Elisa shrieked.
Penelope smiled. "I'd love to, really I would, but I just can't
tonight." She grabbed her coat, gave me a quick hug good-bye,
and waved to the rest of the table. "Davide, thank you for dinner.
It was so nice meeting all of you," she said, and before I could tell
her that I'd call her later, she was gone.
We all stumbled into our preassigned cabs while I managed to
nod and make hmm sounds at the appropriate times. It wasn't until
we were actually standing outside the velvet rope at Bungalow 8
that I realized I was slightly drunk from dinner and, having almost
no experience whatsoever with remotely cool nightspots, was in a
perfect position to do or say something really, really humiliating.
"Elisa, I think I better head out," I said feebly. "I'm not feeling
great, and I need to be up early tomorrow for—"
She emitted a high-pitched shriek and her sunken face came
alive. "Bette! You've got to be joking! You're practically a Bungalow
virgin and we're already here. Going out is part of your job
now, just remember that!"
I was semi-aware that the thirty or so people in line—mostly
guys—were staring at us, but Elisa didn't seem to care. Davide was
doing some sort of clap-high-five-knuckle-bumping greeting with
one of the bouncers, and I found that I was incapable of anything
but the path of least resistance.
"Sure," I muttered weakly. "Sounds great."
"Sammy, we're on Amy's list tonight," Elisa announced confidently
to Davide's bouncer. He was about six-three, two hundred
twenty pounds, and happened to be the exact same guy who'd
been working the door the night of Penelope's party. He didn't appear
to be particularly amused by the chaos at the door, but as
soon as Elisa unwrapped herself from him, he said, "Of course,
Elisa. How many of you are there? Come on in. I'll have the manager
get you a good table."
"Great, honey, thanks so much." She pecked him on the cheek
and grabbed my elbow, leaning in close to whisper in my ear:
"These guys think they're special, but no one would ever even talk
to them if they weren't working the door here."
I nodded, hoping he didn't hear us, even if he did deserve it. I
glanced up and saw him peering back at me.
"Hey," Sammy said, nodding at me in recognition.
"Hey," I replied cleverly, managing to refrain from pointing out
that he didn't appear to have a problem letting me in tonight.
"Thanks for that umbrella."
But he didn't hear me; he'd already turned away to rehook the
red velvet rope and announce to the remaining hordes that their
time had not yet arrived. He said something into his walkie-talkie
and pulled open the door. We cruised past the coat check and
were immediately enveloped in a cloud of smoke.
"How do you know him?" Elisa asked as Davide greeted everyone
within a twenty-foot radius.
"Who?"
"The door loser."
"Who?"
"The idiot working the door," she said, exhaling what appeared
to be more than a lungful of smoke.
"You seemed to like him enough," I said, remembering how
warmly she'd embraced him.
"What else am I supposed to do? It's all part of the deal. Such a
waste of a face. Do you know him?"
"No. He was pretty hostile to me at Penelope's engagement
party a few weeks ago. Made me wait outside forever. 1 know I've
seen him somewhere before, but I can't place him."
"Hmm," she murmured, sounding less interested with every
passing second. "Let's get a drink."
For one of the hottest clubs in the country, it still didn't look all
that major. The whole place was one rectangular room, with a bar
at the far end and about eight tables with banquette seats along
each side. People were dancing down the middle of the room
while others congregated at the bar, and only the high all-glass
ceiling and rows of palm trees made me feel that we were somewhere
a touch exotic.
"Hey, guys, over here," called Leo, who was tucked into a
couch in the far left corner, just as Elisa had requested. A hidden
DJ was blasting 50 Cent, and I noticed that Skye had already settled
onto some guy's lap and was grinding rhythmically to the
music. There was a sort of minibar set up on their table with scat-
tered bottles of Veuve Clicquot, Ketel One, and Tanqueray. Carafes
of orange, grapefruit, and cranberry juice were provided for mixers,
as well as a couple bottles of tonic and sparkling water. Penelope
had mentioned the prohibitive cost of her party, so I knew
that we were paying many hundreds of dollars a bottle.
"What can I make you to drink?" Leo asked, coming up behind
me.
I wasn't risking another uncool drink order, so I just asked for
a glass of champagne.
"Coming right up," he said. "C'mon, let's dance. Skye, you
coming?"
Leo stood, but in the last six minutes Skye had progressed to a
full-fledged make-out with the random guy she was straddling. We
didn't wait for an answer.
The crowd was almost uniformly beautiful. Everyone fell into
a ten-year age range, from mid-twenties to mid-thirties, and they'd
all obviously been there before. The women were tall and thin
and completely comfortable baring wide expanses of thighs and
ample decolletage in a decidedly untacky way. The men danced
at their sides, moving their hands over hips and backs and shoulders,
never perspiring, never letting a girl's drink run low. It was
nothing like the one rebellious teenage night I'd spent awkwardly
camped out in a corner, terrified of the writhing masses at Limelight.
By the time I'd finished scanning the scene, Leo had already
selected a beautiful dark-haired guy. The two of them danced with
a model-hot straight couple, all four of them moving perfectly in
tune against each other's bodies. Occasionally they'd reposition
themselves so the "girls" would be facing one another, grinding.
I went to the bathroom, and before I could see who owned
them I felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around me. I caught a
glimpse of waist-length wavy hair, a sort of mousy light brown
color, and I smelled the scent of smoke and mouthwash in equal
parts.
"Bette, Bette, I can't believe how long it's been!" the girl
shrieked into my shoulder. Her chin was squished against my
breasts in a way that was fairly uncomfortable considering her
identity was still in question. She hugged me for a few more seconds,
and when she pulled away, I could not have been more surprised.
Abby Abrams.
"Abby? Is that you? Wow, it's been a really long time," 1 said
carefully, trying not to show just how unhappy I was to see her. I
had nothing but terrible memories of her from college and had
somehow managed to forget she existed once we'd all moved to
the city. Until now, it had been a big enough place to spend a halfdecade
without a single run-in. My luck had clearly expired. The
five years since college graduation had made her look harder,
older than her age. She'd obviously had a nose job and an extraheavy
serving of collagen in the lip area, but most noticeable were
her breasts. Her now super-sized chest seemed to occupy her entire
four-eleven frame.
"I go by Abigail now, actually," she immediately corrected. "So
crazy, isn't it? Of course, I'd heard you work at Kelly, so I knew I'd
run into you here sooner or later."
"Huh? What do you mean? How long have you been living in
the city?"
She stared at me, slightly horrified, and pulled me by the wrist
onto a couch. I tried to shake loose, but she maintained her death
grip and leaned in much too close. "Are you, like, serious? Have
you not heard? I'm at the vortex of the media world!"
I had to use my left hand to cover my mouth while pretending
to cough so she wouldn't see me laughing uncontrollably. Since
our days at Emory, Abby had loved declaring how she was "at the
vortex" of something or other—sorority rush or the men's basketball
team or the college newspaper. No one really knew what it
meant—it was the wrong usage, actually—but for some reason
she'd latched onto the phrase and refused to let go. We'd lived on
the same floor our freshman year. I'd noticed right away that she
seemed to have an uncanny knack for sensing people's insecurities.
She was always grilling me on what boy I liked, only to "coincidentally"
be seen throwing herself on whoever I named within
twelve hours of my admission. I'd overheard her once in the dorm
bathroom grilling an Asian girl for tips on how to get that "sexy,
slant-eyed look" using an eye pencil. She'd once "borrowed" one
of her classmates' history papers and turned it in as her own, only
admitting to the "mix-up" once the professor threatened to fail
both of them. Penelope and I met Abby around the same time, in
freshman writing seminar, and we immediately agreed that Abby
was to be avoided. She'd been creepy from the beginning, the kind
of girl who would make subtle but mean comments about your
hair or boyfriend or outfit and then feign horror and regret when
you inevitably took offense. We ditched her often and regularly,
and she never seemed to get it. Instead, she'd purposefully make
contact in order to put us down. Not surprisingly, she'd never had
any real girlfriends, but she kept herself quite busy working her
way through nearly every fraternity house and athletic team at
Emory.
" 'Vortex of the media world,' huh? No, I didn't know that.
Where are you these days?" I asked in the most bored tone I could
muster. I vowed not to let her get under my skin.
"Well, let's see. I started at Elle and then made the jump to
Slate—so much smarter, you know? Had a brief stint at Vanity Fair,
but the office politics were so intense. Now I'm freelancing—my
byline's everywhere!"
I thought about that for a moment and couldn't remember seeing
her name . . . anywhere.
"And you, missy, how's the new job?" she screeched.
"Urn, yeah, it's been about a week, I guess, and it's pretty cool
so far. I'm not sure if it's at the vortex of the public-relations world,
but I like it."
She sensed no sarcasm whatsoever, or she ignored it. "It's such
a hot firm; they're repping all the best clients these days. Ohmigod,
I absolutely love your shirt—it's the absolute best call ever if you're
looking to hide a little tummy, you know? I wear mine all the
time!"
I involuntarily sucked in my gut.
Before I could point out something nasty, like how five pounds
on her frame would look like twenty, she said, "Hey, so tell me,
have you spoken to Cameron recently? That was your boyfriend's
name, right? I heard something about him leaving you for a model,
but of course I didn't believe it."
So much for not sinking to her level.
"Cameron? I didn't think you knew him. Then again, he is a
guy who's breathing and living in New York City, so . . ."
"Oh, Bette, it's really so great to see you," she said, ignoring
my comment. "Let me take you to lunch, okay? We have so much
to catch up on. I've been meaning to call you forever, but you just
vanished since college! Who do you hang out with? Still that quiet
girl? She was so sweet. What was her name?"
"Oh, you mean Penelope? She's gorgeous and engaged and,
yes, I still see her. I'll be sure to tell her you said hello."
"Yes, yes, definitely do that. So, I'll call you at work next week
and we'll go somewhere fab for lunch, 'kay? Congratulations on finally
leaving that dreadful bank and joining the real world. . . . I
can't wait to introduce you to everyone. There are just, like, so
many people you need to meet!"
I was preparing what would surely be an even wittier response
when Elisa materialized beside us. I never thought I'd be so happy
to see her.
"Elisa, this is Abby," I said, waving my arm at her listlessly.
"It's Abigail, actually," Abby interjected.
"Right, uh-huh. And, Abby"—I looked at her pointedly and
continued—"this is my coworker Elisa."
"Hey, we've met before, haven't we?" Elisa mumbled, her front
teeth clamped around a cigarette as she dug in her bag for a
lighter.
"Totally," Abby said. She plucked a matchbook off the nearest
table and gallantly lit Elisa's cigarette. "Do you have another ciggie
for me?"
They made the exchange and began chattering about some
new gossip roundup called New York Scoop. I'd heard it discussed
in the office. Apparently, even though it had been published for
years, nobody had cared about it until the arrival of a saucy new
column written by someone using the unclever pseudonym Ellie
Insider. It was published twice a week in both the online and print
versions, although Ellie's column—unlike similar Page Six columns
by Cindy Adams or Liz Smith—did not have an accompanying
photo of the writer. Now Abby was insisting that it was the hottest
thing to hit media circles in years, but Elisa was saying that, according
to her sources, only select groups from the fashion and entertainment
world were reading it obsessively—although she
predicted others would soon catch on. This conversation topic remained
interesting for a solid minute and a half, before I had the
blessed realization that I could simply excuse myself and leave.
It wasn't until then that I realized I was standing alone in a
swarm of gorgeous people who all just happened to have amazing
rhythm, and I couldn't move. Dancing had never been my thing.
I'd somehow managed to shuffle my way through a few painful
slow songs at high-school dances (always trying desperately to
avoid the eight-minute rendition of "Stairway to Heaven") and hop
drunkenly along to the jukeboxes at our college dive bars, but this
was truly intimidating. Before I could even manage to sway, I was
overwhelmed with the same sixth-grade fears. It happened in a
fraction of a second, but the feeling that everyone was staring at
my baby fat and braces came rushing back. I needed to leave, or at
the very least get back to the table and avoid the hell of dancing,
but just as I made up my mind to escape, I felt a hand on the small
of my back.
"Hi there," said a tall guy with a British accent and a tan so
perfect it could have only come from the great indoors. "Dance?"
I had to consciously keep from turning around to see if he
might be talking to someone else, and before I could even worry
about my smoky breath or my shirt, which was damp with perspiration,
he had pulled me toward him and started moving. Dancing?
We were dancing! I hadn't been this close to someone since the
last time a pervert on the subway had pressed up against me on
the morning commute. Re-lax, have fun, re-lax, have fun, I
chanted silently, hoping to remain calm and cool. But I didn't need
to do much self-convincing at all; my brain checked out as my
body snuggled closer to the golden-skinned god who was offering
me another glass of champagne. I sipped that one and then
downed the next, and before I knew what was happening, I was
perched on his lap, laughing with the table about some scandal or
another while the gorgeous stranger played with my hair and lit
my cigarettes.
I'd entirely forgotten I was inappropriately dressed in black,
that I'd just been insulted by the pint-sized bitch who used to torment
me in school, and that I possessed nothing resembling
rhythm. I remember watching, slightly reaction-impaired, as one of
the Englishman's friends came over and asked who might be the
new, charming creature on his lap. I didn't even realize they were
talking about me until he hugged me from behind and said, "She's
my discovery—brill, isn't she?" And I, the charming creature, the
brill discovery, giggled delightedly, grabbed his face between both
my hands, and kissed him squarely on the mouth. Which is, thankfully,
the very last thing I remember at all.
8
The sound of an angry male voice jolted me awake. I wondered
briefly if there was actually someone standing above the
bed, driving a shovel into my head. The throbbing was so steady it
was almost comforting, until I realized that I was not, in fact, in my
own bed. Nor was last night's all-black-all-wrong outfit in sight; instead,
I was wearing a pair of unnervingly tight gray Calvin Klein
boxer briefs and a giant white T-shirt that read SPORTS CLUB LA. Don't
panic, I instructed myself, trying to make out the words of the faraway
male voice. Think. Where were you and what were you doing
last night? Considering that I was not in the general habit of blacking
out and waking up in strange places, I congratulated myself on a
good start. Let's see. Elisa called, dinner at Cipriani's, cab to Bungalow
8, everyone at a table, dancing with . . . some tan British guy.
Shit. The last thing I remember is dancing with a nameless man in
a club and now I'm in a bed—albeit a huge, comfortable one with
extremely soft sheets—/ don't recognize.
"How many times do I have to tell you? You simply cannot
wash Pratesi sheets in hot water!" The male voice was shouting
now. I jumped out of bed and checked for escape routes, but a
quick glance out the window told me we were at least twenty
floors off the ground.
"Yes, sir, I am sorry, sir," said a whimpering female voice with a
Spanish accent.
"I'm keen to believe that, Manuela, I really am. I'm a reasonable
bloke, but this just cannot continue. I'm afraid I have to dismiss
you."
"But, sir, if I can just—"
"I'm sorry, Manuela, but my decision is final. I'll pay you your
wages for the rest of the week, but that will be all." I heard some
rustling and muffled crying, and then there was nothing but silence
until a door slammed shut a few minutes later.
My stomach sent me the signal that it wasn't going to tolerate
its hangover much longer, and I glanced around frantically to locate
the bathroom. I was rooting around for my clothes, debating
whether it was better for him to see me half-clothed or throwing
up since there clearly wasn't time to remedy both issues, when he
walked in.
"Hello," he said, barely glancing in my direction. "Are you feeling
all right? You were fairly pissed last night."
His appearance distracted me to such an extent that I actually
forgot I was about to be sick. He looked even tanner than I remembered,
which was only highlighted by a skintight white
T-shirt, flowy white pants, and some of the straightest, brightest
teeth I've ever seen in a British mouth. He was like Enrique in The
Tycoon's Virgin Bride, his looks utterly begging to be on a dust
jacket.
"Uh, yeah, I guess I was. This, uh, has never really happened
to me before. I'm afraid I don't even remember your name."
He seemed to remember that I was an actual person and not a
bed adornment, and sat down next to me on the pillow.
"I'm Philip. Philip Weston. And don't worry about it—I only
brought you back here because I couldn't get two taxis and didn't
want to maneuver to the East Side. Nothing happened. I'm not
some rapist. I'm an attorney, actually," he said with not a little
pride in a thick, upper-crust English accent.
"Oh, well, thanks so much. I really didn't think I drank that
much, but I don't remember anything after dancing with you."
"Yes, well, it happens. Stressful fucking morning so far, don't
you think? I loathe having my post-yoga calm shattered by rubbish
like this."
"Yeah." He didn't just wake up in a stranger's bed, but I wasn't
feeling great about my arguing position.
"My housekeeper was washing my Pratesi sheets in scalding-
hot water. I mean, what bloody good are they if you have to
double-check every move they make? Can you imagine what a disaster
it would've been if I hadn't spotted it?"
Gay. He was definitely gay. He wasn't Enrique, but Enrique's
fey friend Emilio. This was a tremendous relief.
"What would have happened, exactly?" I washed my own
sheets in hot water and dried them on high because it seemed like
the best way to make them softer faster. But then again, I'd bought
them at Macy's and admittedly didn't spend all that much time
thinking about it.
"What would have happened? Are you serious?" He strode
across the room and spritzed some Helmut Lang cologne on his
neck. "She would've burned out the thread count, that's what!
Those sheets cost twenty-eight hundred pounds for a king set, and
she would have destroyed them!" He put the bottle down and
began patting what I hoped was aftershave but was more likely
moisturizer into his golden skin. I did a quick calculation: four
thousand dollars.
"Oh. I guess I didn't understand. I, uh, I didn't know sheets
could be that expensive. But I'm sure if I paid that much for them,
I'd be concerned, too."
"Yes, well, I'm sorry you had to endure all that." He pulled the
T-shirt over his head to reveal a completely bare, perfectly sculpted
chest. It was almost a shame he was gay, considering just how
good-looking he was. He closed the bathroom door briefly and
turned the shower on, and then a few minutes later he emerged
wearing only a towel. Pulling a dress shirt and suit from the oakpaneled
walk-in closet, he handed me my clothes in a neatly
folded pile and discreetly left the room while I stripped.
"Will you be all right getting home?" Philip called from what
sounded like a million miles away. "I must be off to work. Early
meeting."
Work. Jesus Christ, I'd completely and entirely forgotten that I
was currently employed, but a quick check of the bedside clock
reassured me that it was only a little after seven. He'd already been
to yoga and back, and we couldn't have possibly gotten home be-
fore three in the morning. I had a brief but intense flashback to the
one and only time I'd gone to yoga. I'd been fumbling through my
first class for thirty minutes when the teacher had announced thirty
seconds into our current pose—the half-moon pose, to be precise—
that it was equivalent to eight hours of sleep. I'd accidentally
snorted and she'd asked me if there was a problem. Luckily I'd
been able to restrain myself from asking what was really on my
mind: namely, why had no one before enlightened us to the miracle
of the half-moon pose? Why, for all these centuries, have humans
wasted a third of their lifetimes sleeping when they could've
just bent at the waist for one half of one minute? Instead, I mumbled
something about it being a "really cool concept" and sneaked
out when she wasn't looking.
Philip's hallway was longer than the entire length of my apartment,
and I had to follow the sound of his voice to find the right
room. Colorful abstracts hung on the walls and the dark-stained
wood floors—real wood, not New York parquet—highlighted the
stark, metal-frame furniture. The entire place looked like a Ligne
Roset floor sample, as though it had been plucked directly from
the showroom and put back together in this guy's apartment. I
counted a total of three full bathrooms, two bedrooms, a living
room, and a study (complete with floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases,
two Mac G4 computers, and a wine rack) before I found
him leaning against his granite countertop, feeding blood oranges
into a high-tech juicer. I didn't even own a can opener.
"You do yoga? I don't know any guys who do yoga." Any
straight guys, that is, I thought to myself.
"Of course. It's smashing strength training, and I love how it
clears your mind as well. Very American, I suppose, but worthwhile
nonetheless. You should try it with me." And before I knew
what was happening, he lifted me up on the counter, pushed
my knees apart so he could come closer, and began kissing my
neck.
Instinctively, I jumped off the counter, which resulted only in
my pushing even farther into him.
"I thought, well, um, aren't you . . ."
Two clear green eyes stared back at me, waiting.
"It's just that, uh, considering last night and the whole, you
know, Pratesi thing and the yoga class . . ."
Still waiting. No help here.
"Aren't you gay?" I held my breath, hoping he wasn't still in the
closet or, worse, out but self-hating.
"Gay?"
"Yeah, as in, liking guys."
"Are you serious?"
"Well, I don't know, it just seemed—"
"Gay? You think I'm a homosexual?"
I felt like I was roaming around on the set of some sort of reality
TV show where everyone was in on the secret but me. Clues,
so many clues, but no real information. I was trying to piece it all
together as quickly as possible, but nothing was quite working out.
"Well, of course, I don't know you at all. It's just that, well, you
dress so nicely and seem to care a lot about your apartment and,
uh, you have Helmut Lang cologne. My friend Michael wouldn't
even know who Helmut Lang is . . ."
He flashed those shiny teeth once more and tousled my hair
like one would a toddler's. "Perhaps you're just spending time with
the wrong blokes? I assure you, I'm very, very straight. I've just
learned to appreciate the finer things. Come now, there's time to
give you a lift home if we hurry." He shrugged on a cashmere
sweater and grabbed his keys.
We didn't say anything at all in the elevator ride to the lobby,
but darling Philip did manage to pin me against the wall and nibble
on my lips, which somehow felt utterly disgusting and heartstoppingly
amazing all at once.
"Mmm, you're delicious. Come here, let me taste you one last
time." But before he could once again use my face as his own personal
Chupa pop, the doors swept open and two uniformed doormen
turned to witness our arrival.
"Bugger off," Philip announced, walking ahead of me and raising
his hand up, palm forward, to the grinning men. "I don't want
to hear it today."
They snickered, obviously accustomed to the routine of Philip
escorting strange women out of his apartment, and silently pulled
open the door. It wasn't until we stepped outside that I had any
idea where we were: Christopher and Greenwich, all the way west,
about a block from the river. The famous Archives building.
"Where do you live?" he asked, pulling a silver helmet out from
underneath the seat of a Vespa, which was resting under a monogrammed
tarp three feet from the building's entrance.
"Murray Hill. Is that okay?"
He laughed, not nicely. "I don't know, you tell me. / sure
wouldn't clamor to live in Murray Hill, but hey, whatever turns
you on."
"I meant," I said tightly, no longer even attempting to keep up
with his psycho-style mood swings, "is it okay for you to drop me
off? I can certainly take a cab."
"Whatever you want, love. No worries for me. My office is midtown
east, so you're right on the way." He occupied himself by
fishing his keys from his pants pocket and securing his Hermes bag
to the back of the bike. Scooter. "Let's just get a move on, okay?
People are needing me right now." He swung his legs over the
bike and deigned to look my way. "So?"
I was momentarily speechless, until he actually snapped his fingers.
"C'mon, sweetheart, decision time here. Ride or not? It's not
so difficult. You sure didn't seem this indecisive last night. . . ."
I've always harbored the classic girl fantasy of having a real
reason to slap some jerk across the face, and the opportunity had
just presented itself in Technicolor. But I was dumbfounded by the
finger snapping and the suggestion that something actually had
happened last night, so I just turned my back and began walking
down the block.
He called out, sounding almost worried, "You don't have to be
so sensitive, love. I was just kidding around. Absolutely nothing
went down last night. Not you, not me. . . ."I heard him chuckle
at his own cleverness, but 1 just kept walking.
"Fine. Be that way. I don't have time for the drama right now,
but I'll track you down. Seriously, it's not often a woman can resist
my charms, so consider me duly intrigued. Leave your number
with my doorman and I'll give you a call." The Vespa's engine
caught and he sped away, and although I'd just been insulted and
abandoned, I still felt like I'd somehow won . . . if he was telling
the truth, of course, and I actually hadn't slept with him in a
wasted stupor.
The victory lasted all of forty minutes, during which time I
jumped in a cab, raced home, took a washcloth-bath in the bathroom
sink, and applied copious amounts of deodorant to my underarms,
baby powder to my scalp, and scented moisturizer
everywhere else. I raced around the apartment looking for clean
clothes and wondered how I would ever manage to be a good
mother when I couldn't even remember to care for my own dog.
Millington was sulking in the corner under the coffee table, punishing
me for abandoning her the previous evening. She'd also
peed on my pillow for good measure, but there wasn't time to
clean it up. I managed to wedge between the throngs of commuters
and arrive at the office at exactly one minute after nine. I
was fantasizing about devouring the only known hangover cure, a
large street coffee and bacon, egg, and cheese on a buttered roll,
when Elisa motioned me over. She'd saved a space near the sunniest
window and appeared to be quite eager to talk to me.
The office was a giant rectangle, surrounded on all sides by
sleek leather couches and sitting areas. There weren't technically
individual desks, just two giant, half-moon-shaped tables that
formed a circle with two small breaks where the half-moons didn't
quite meet, allowing access to the shared faxes and printers in the
middle. We each had our own laptop that we could either lock in
the closet or take home at night, and workspace was doled out on
a first-come-first-served basis every morning. We all scrambled to
sit in the two or three spots around the circle where Kelly couldn't
see your computer screen from her office, and Elisa had managed
to snag a few feet of prime space. I dropped my laptop on the
table and very carefully removed the coffee from its paper bag,
taking care not to spill a single golden drop. Elisa was practically
panting.
"Oh, Bette, sit the hell down already. Tell me everything, I can
barely stand it."
"Tell you what? I had a great time last night. Thanks for inviting
me."
"Shut up!" she was squealing, which appeared to be her only
method of communication. "How was . . ." Pause. Deep breath.
"Philippe?"
"Philippe? Don't you mean Philip? He sure didn't seem French
to me."
"Oh, God, you are truly missing the point. He's absolutely fabulous,
don't you think?"
"Actually, I thought he was kind of a jerk," I said, which was
partially true. This also made him tremendously intriguing, of
course, but it didn't seem necessary to admit that.
Elisa inhaled sharply and fixed her gaze on my face. "What did
you say?" she whispered.
"I said, I thought—"
"I heard you." She was nearly growling now. "I just can't imagine
why you'd say something like that. You sure looked like you
were having fun when you were all over him on the dance floor.
He's pretty good, huh? Who said practice doesn't make perfect?"
She very well could've still been talking about dancing, but
something in her expression, now dreamy and slightly far-off, indicated
otherwise.
"Elisa, what do you mean?"
"Oh, Bette, come on! This is Philip Weston we're talking about
here."
"And that should mean something to me?"
"Ohmigod, Bette, this is 50 humiliating for you. Are you serious?
You have no idea who he is?" She began ticking things off on
her fingers, one by one. "Graduate of Eton and Oxford, with a law
degree from Yale? Youngest lawyer ever to be named partner at
Simpson Thacher? Grandfather is a duke; father owns the majority
of land between London and Manchester, with additional large
chunks in Edinburgh? Trust fund large enough to rival the country's
national debt? Ex-boyfriend of Gwyneth, current boy toy of multi-
pie Victoria's Secret models, and crowned 'Nightlife Adonis' by
none other than Vanity Fair. Any of this ringing any bells?" She
was almost panting at this point.
"Not really," I said, trying to synthesize everything she'd said
while the sound of blood rushed through my ears. A duke?
Givynetb??
"It's so ironic," she mumbled to herself. "Every girl on the
planet makes it her lifelong goal to have sex with Philip Weston
and you go and do it without even knowing who he is? It's almost
too much."
"Have sex with him? What?" If by "having sex" you mean "listening
as he fires the maid for gross neglect of $4,000 sheets," then
yes, we had a mind-blowing night.
"Bette! Give up the 'I'm so innocent' routine. We all saw you
last night!"
At that exact moment, it was impossible to comprehend anything
other than the fact that the same man who used to have sex
with Gwyneth Paltrow had not only seen me naked, but had also
witnessed period underwear, unshaved legs, and a viciously overgrown
bikini line.
"Nothing happened," I muttered, wondering how quickly I
could pack my bags, change my name, and move to Bhutan.
"Riiiiight." She smiled lasciviously.
"No, really. Granted, I woke up at his place, and granted, I was
wearing his clothes, but absolutely nothing happened."
She looked dumbfounded and disappointed. "How is that even
possible? He's much too gorgeous to resist."
"Did you sleep with him, Elisa?" I asked teasingly.
She looked as though she'd been slapped. "No!"
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to suggest . . . I was just kidding, I
didn't think you had—"
"Way to rub it in, is all. I've only been lusting after him forever
now, but he barely even glances in my direction. I see him out all
the time, of course, and he, like, totally knows who I am, so
maybe it's just a matter of time. . . ." Her voice once again took on
a dreamy quality.
I coughed and she snapped back to attention. I was just about
to be flattered by the fact that Philip had taken me home last night
when he could have had Elisa instead, but I didn't have a chance
to revel.
"I mean, the boy will sleep with any decent-looking girl he can
get his hands on, so I just don't understand what's wrong with
me," she said tonelessly.
"Any girl?" I asked, still determined to hold on to the illusion
that I might be his one and only.
"Well, pretty much any hot girl, which is why I can't understand
why he doesn't respond to me. Maybe he just doesn't like his
women thin."
Ouch. Unintentional, but painful. I waited while she continued
with her stock-taking.
"Let's see. Skye dated him, but that was years ago, way before
he became who he is now. So did one of the List Girls—the pretty
one—and that girl who was on the cover of Marie Claire last
month, and a solid handful of the hottest girls at Conde Nast." She
continued to tick off names of beautiful and social girls, some that
I recognized from years of idly reading the gossip columns and
party pages, but I could barely hear her. Luckily, she only hit about
a dozen before Kelly bounded from her office and called for me to
enter her animal-print hell—the whole room was done in a hallucinogenic
mixture of zebra, leopard, and tiger fabrics, replete with
oversized furry pillows and a giant, spotted shag rug.
"Hey there, Bette. How is everything?" she said happily, closing
the door and motioning for me to take a seat on a chair covered in
what felt like actual skin and hair.
"Uh, great. It's been a great first week so far."
"I'm so glad! I think so, too!" Biggest smile yet.
"Uh, yeah. Seriously, I'm so happy to be here, and I promise
I'll get all this stuff down as quickly as possible so I can start actually
contributing instead of just watching," I said with what
sounded to me like a reasonable level of sobriety and coherence.
"Uh-huh, that's nice. So tell me about last night!" She clasped
her hands together and leaned forward.
"Oh, right, last night. Yeah, I went to dinner with Elisa and
Skye and Leo and a couple others and we had such a nice night.
It's a really great group of people you have here. Of course, I
won't always let them keep me out so late. . . ."I laughed, trying
to sound casual, since I wasn't exactly used to discussing nights
out with my boss. Aaron most certainly hadn't been my go-to
morning-after confidant, but Kelly seemed eager for it.
"You mean, you won't let them keep you out until the next
morning . . . " She grinned and let her words trail off.
Ahem. I suspected we were toeing the line between personal
and professional, and I wasn't about to cross it. "It was a great dinner!
I just love everyone who works here." A slightly inane non sequitur,
but it was the only thing that came to mind.
She leaned forward, brushing her side-swept bangs even more
to the left, and placed her elbows on the rough-hewn wooden
desk. "Bette, dear, you can't expect to, ah, spend the night with
Philip Weston and not have the entire world know about it. Here,
look." She thrust a piece of computer paper across the table. My
hands shook as I took it.
I recognized it immediately as that day's edition of the column
that Abby and Elisa had been talking about the night before, New
York Scoop. It had been printed from the Scoop's website and the
headline read: MYSTERY GIRL CHECKS INTO WESTON'S HOTEL. The story
went on to detail how Philip had been "accosted" at Bungalow 8
the previous evening by a "pretty young thing" who some sources
"have fingered as a new hire at Kelly & Company. Keep it tuned
right here to see if she resurfaces anytime soon . . ." The byline at
the bottom of the piece read "Ellie Insider." Vial's a stupid name, I
thought.
Despite the "pretty young thing" semi-compliment that was undoubtedly
supplied to fill space, my stomach dropped and I
looked at Kelly in horror.
"I'm working feverishly alongside half of Manhattan trying to
figure out who Ellie Insider is. It's fucking brilliant. Do you believe
how quickly they get things posted? I suppose that's the benefit of
having it online, although I still can't help feeling that these, these,
blogs are just little diaries for people who can't actually get published."
"Kelly, it's so not what it looks like. I can explain. It's just that
after dinner, we—"
"Bette, I know exactly what happened. And I'm thrilled!"
"You are?" I was certain this was just her convoluted way of firing
me.
"Of course! Look, this is an ideal scenario. Philip Weston, Bungalow
8, a mention for the office. The only thing I ask is that next
time you make sure the real Page Six is watching, too. This is a
solid mention, but the column's still pretty new, and not completely
up to par yet with its circ numbers."
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. She
didn't seem to notice, though.
"He's amazing, isn't he? Just between you and me, I've always
had a thing for him."
"You have? For Philip?"
"Ohmigod, girl, who hasn't? He's splendid. Not only is he all
boldfaced mentions all the time, he also happens to look amazing
without a shirt."
Her face had taken on the same hazy expression as Elisa's had
earlier. "Did you date him?" I asked, praying with all my energy
that the answer was no.
"Good lord, I wish! Closest I ever came to sleeping with him
was watching him take his shirt off at a charity auction where the
organizers were selling a date with him. Three hundred other
women and I went berserk when he yanked it over his head. Very
Coyote Ugly, if you can picture it: wonderful and pathetic all at the
same time."
I let my guard down and forgot—for a split second—that I was
talking to my boss. "I saw that chest when he got out of the
shower this morning, and it was every bit as beautiful as you say,"
I added before I could realize what this implied.
Kelly's head snapped around, and she stared at me with an
odd combination of envy and urgency. "I'm assuming that when he
calls you again, you'll go out with him, right?"
This didn't really sound like a question. "Oh, I'm not sure he'll
be calling," I mumbled, realizing that absolutely no one would believe
we hadn't slept together.
She peered at me intently and then broke into a wide grin.
"Bette, sweetie, you might be the last person to realize this, but in
your own unique way, you're beautiful. And it's a widely known
fact that no one loves beautiful girls more than Philip Weston. Of
course he will call. And you'll say yes, right? And naturally, please
invite him to all our events or stay out as late as you need to when
you're with him."
I could feel a weird sense of elation—like a high school
crush—rising in my chest.
"Uh, sure. Okay, I'll keep that in mind." Suddenly, I wanted to
hug her.
"Great. I'm so excited for you! Definitely keep me updated.
Should we get started?"
"Yes, let's," I breathed, relieved to end this very strange discussion.
"You were going to tell me about The List, right?"
"Yes. The List. The single most crucial tool for ensuring a firm's
success. We're nothing without the people we can provide for our
clients, so I've spent years putting together one of the biggest databases
in the industry. Pull your chair around so you can see."
I yanked the furry stool to her side of the desk and settled in as
she double-clicked an icon on her desktop. "Here it is," she
purred. "My baby. The most comprehensive list of tastemakers
ever, anywhere."
The screen resembled a search page you might encounter on a
personals or apartment-rental website. You simply chose your
search requirements, ticked their adjacent boxes, and hit Find.
There were four main locations you could browse—New York, Los
Angeles, Miami, and the Hamptons—but smaller, less complete lists
existed for another dozen cities in the United States, and about two
dozen abroad. The search criteria appeared endless. In a vertical
row starting in the upper-left-hand corner, they were listed, in no
particular order: Art, Literary, Film Production, Newspapers, Fashion,
Record Label, Social, Young Social, Media Elites, Finance, Magazines,
Architecture, Retail, Miscellaneous.
"You just key in the types of people you're looking for and the
program provides you with all the information. Here, watch." She
quickly checked off "Literary" and "Young Social" and showed me
the thousands of returns. "We know everything about everyone.
Full name, home address, work address, all phones, faxes, pagers,
emails, country houses, beach houses, international addresses,
birthdays, spouse information, and details on both the children and
their nannies. There's also a subset—if you need to narrow it down
even further—that tells you if a particular person is gay, straight,
single, monogamous, or cheating, in addition to whether they
party, travel, or get mentioned in gossip columns a great deal. It
makes it pretty easy to hand-pick exactly who will be there when
you know everything about their lives, you know?"
I just nodded, as there seemed no more appropriate response.
"Here, let's take your uncle, for instance." She typed his name
into a search field and up popped all his relevant info: Central Park
West address and phone, office information, his exact title at the
paper and the name of the column, the number of years he'd been
writing, his nationwide readership, his birthday, and a short sentence
about how he traveled frequently to Key West and Europe.
Under "cross-reference" he was described as "Gay," "Literary,"
"Newspaper," and "Media Elite." I noticed there was no Christian
Coalition Reactionary category, but I said nothing.
"I've never seen anything like this." I was unable to tear my
eyes from the screen.
"It's incredible, isn't it? And that's not all. If you'll notice, there
are no regular media people or celebrities in this database. We
have separate ones for them since those are the two most crucial
groups."
"Separate ones?"
"Well, sure. Look." She closed down the first program and
clicked on an icon that read "Press." "There are media elites—people
like your uncle, Frank Rich, Dan Rather, Barbara Walters, Rupert
Murdoch, Mort Zuckerman, Tom Brokaw, Arthur Sulzberger,
Thomas Friedman, etcetera, etcetera, who of course you want at
events because of their high profile, but you can't honestly expect
them to cover anything. They're just like celebrities in their own
right, which is why we need to have a completely separate database
of real working media—all the people at the papers, magazines,
TV, and radio who can actually give us the coverage we
promise our clients. Of course, there's always overlap. You can
have a socialite who also happens to work in magazines or a film
exec who writes reviews for a local paper, so we just cross-list
everyone."
I took the mouse from her and scrolled through the separate
fields, noticing that the media database was broken down by demographic,
so you could best pitch the specific people covering
music, design, travel, lifestyle, fashion, entertainment, gossip,
celebrity, sports, or social engagements.
"This is absolutely incredible. How many are there total?"
"Between all three databases, probably close to thirty-five thousand.
You haven't even seen the celeb one yet, which is our most
important." Another couple clicks and a list of the world's richest,
most famous, and most beautiful people popped to the forefront.
"This is the industry list. With each celeb, we've also listed their
current publicist, agent, manager, assistants, and family information,
in addition to birthdays, current and upcoming projects, and
preferences—everything from airlines to flowers, waters, coffees,
liquors, hotels, designers, and music. We update this one pretty
much hourly."
She opened the profile for Charlize Theron and I saw that she
had homes in South Africa, Malibu, and the Hollywood Hills; was
dating Stuart Townsend; would only fly American Airlines first class
or private jet; was currently shooting a movie in Rome; was signed
on for another film in five months; and maintained a staff of four,
with her agent temporarily also acting as her publicist.
"How do they all get updated? I mean, how could you possibly
know all this stuff?"
Kelly threw her head back, clearly delighted by my shock.
"Elisa introduced you to the List Girls, yes?"
I nodded.
"It's not the most glamorous job in the world, but they've got the
right connections, and we give them lots of perks to read every sin-
gle publication known to man—in print and online—and take from
that whatever they can to fill in the blanks. There are three of them,
and they're all very socially connected family-wise, and they go out
constantly anyway and meet people everywhere. Just this morning
New York magazine came out with their Baby Power issue—the fifty
kids in New York under the age of thirty who are the most accomplished
in their fields. If they weren't in there already, every one of
them has now been entered into our database."
"Amazing. Really, Kell, it's amazing."
"It sure is. Why don't you put a practice list together? Let's say
we're planning a party for Asprey to celebrate the opening of their
second store in the United States. It'll be held at the store on Fifth,
and the company's main concern is that Americans simply aren't as
familiar with the brand as the English are, and they're looking for
more name recognition. Pull five hundred total fits: four hundred
regular attendees and a hundred mixed of celebs and targeted
press. Of course, an actual event like that would only have a hundred
to a hundred fifty, max, but this will just be an exercise."
It had suddenly occurred to me that I still hadn't dealt with my
hangover, which was gearing up again in such a way that it demanded
immediate attention.
"Sure, I'll have that to you on Monday?" I asked as cheerily as
possible, standing up carefully to avoid any extra queasiness.
"Perfect." Kelly nodded. "Think about potential party favors,
too. Oh, and Bette?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you have any plans to see Philip this weekend?"
"Philip? Who's Philip?" I thought she was still talking about The
List, but apparently we'd transitioned seamlessly back to my personal
life.
"Bette!" She giggled. "That gorgeous super-stud whose bed you
occupied last night? You will be seeing him, right?"
"Oh, right, Philip. It wasn't exactly like that, Kelly. It was more
like—"
"Oh, Bette, stop right there. You don't owe me any explanations
at all. It's your life, you know," she pointed out, apparently
seeing no irony whatsoever in the statement. "I just hope you'll
consider going out with him over the weekend, is all. Maybe have
dinner at Matsuri or stop by Cain or Marquee?"
"Uh, well, I'm not sure he'll call me, but if he does, then well, I
guess—"
"Oh, he'll call, Bette, he'll call. I'm glad to hear you're into the
idea. Because frankly, you'd be crazy if you weren't! I'm headed
out early today, so have a great weekend, okay?"
"Sure. Will do. You, too, Kelly," I said, inching closer to
the door, still not really believing that I had just promised my boss
I'd continue sleeping with a guy I hadn't slept with yet. "See you
Monday."
She picked up the phone, smiled, and gave me a thumbs-up. I
beelined for my area, near Elisa, but was stopped several times on
the way by people grinning at me in knowing ways or calling out
"Nice work" or "Great work with Philip." Elisa had gone out to
lunch (read: a liter of Fiji water, a Baggie of baby carrots, and a
half-dozen Marlboro Lights), according to a note she left on my
computer, so I picked up the phone and called Penelope.
"Hey, how are you?" she asked.
"I'm fine. And you?" I responded in my detonation voice, so
quiet and uptight that it gave the impression something might blow
up at any second.
"Great. Thanks for inviting me to dinner last night. It was, uh,
really interesting."
"So you hated it?"
"No! Bette, I didn't say anything like that. I didn't hate it at all.
It was just, uh, different from what we usually do. Hope you don't
mind that I bailed early, but I was exhausted. How was the rest of
the night?"
"Are you asking just to be polite or have you not seen the
news today?" I mentally crossed my fingers that she hadn't heard.
"Yeah, I'm just being nice. Avery forwarded it to me first thing
this morning. It's taken every last ounce of willpower not to call
you. I want the full play-by-play. Start with 'When I met him at
Bungalow he was wearing a black ribbed shirt and black pants
with a thirty-four-inch inseam and he bought me a Stoli Vanilla and
Sprite.' Proceed at that detail level, please."
"Pen, I can't really get into it here," I said tersely, looking up to
notice that half of my coworkers were pretending to stare at their
screens while listening to me intently.
"Bette! You can't be serious! You go and have sex with one of
the hottest guys in the free world—Avery's always talking about
how every female in Manhattan worships him—and you can't tell
me about it?"
"I didn't sleep with him!" I all but screamed into the phone.
Skye and Leo—in addition to a few assistants—jerked their heads
up and grinned at me in unison.
"Whatever," I heard someone else whisper.
Leo just rolled his eyes as if to say, "Oh, dear God, we're not
all that stupid."
And for a minute I was flattered. So what if it was slightly
slutty to meet someone and sleep with him that very night? Better
everyone considered it a possibility that Philip Weston would
deign to have sex with me, I suppose, than just assume he'd taken
me in for the night out of pity and a sense of obligation and spent
as little time as possible actually in the bed I occupied.
"Whoa," Penelope was saying. "Touchy, touchy. Okay, so you
didn't have sex with him. I believe you. The only question I have
now is, why the hell not? I'm sure you don't need me to remind
you of your recent celibacy. What are you holding out for? He's
supposedly incredible!"
I finally laughed for what I realized was the first time all morning.
Seriously, what was the big deal? If I wasn't going to get fired
for my rather public indiscretion—and that certainly didn't seem to
be an option—then why not just enjoy it?
"I remember very little about what actually happened last
night," I whispered, placing my hand over the receiver, "but I'll tell
you whatever I can dredge up when I get home tonight."
"Can't. Avery and I have dinner at his parents' house and I
can't seem to talk him out of it. What about tomorrow night? Can
we meet /or a drink at the Black Door?"
"I'd love to, but I'm meeting the book club for dinner and
drinks. Little Italy, I think."
She sighed. "Well, we should probably make a plan now for
the weekend after next since I'm in St. Louis for work the next two
weeks. Are you around?"
It felt strange to have plans with people other than my book
club, Will, or Penelope, but work had already begun to seep into
my weekends, too. I checked my rapidly filling calendar. "Yeah, totally,
I just promised Kelly that I'd go with our group from here to
scout a new location for the Playboy party. It's still four months
away, but everyone's already panicking. Want to come?"
Penelope hesitated. I could tell she wasn't into the idea, but
she couldn't really say no since she'd already admitted to being
free. "Uh, sure. That sounds great. We'll figure out the details this
week. And of course, if you suddenly 'remember' anything about
last night, I'll take that, too."
"Bitch," I shot back.
She just laughed.
"You have fun with your future in-laws, you hear? Be sure to
listen up when they tell you exactly how many grandchildren they
want, broken down by gender and eye color. You do, after all,
have certain obligations now. . . ."
It was good to hear her laughing again.
"Bettina Robinson, I'm not sure you're in a position to offer advice
on such things right now, considering your rather tawdry exploits
in the last twenty-four hours. . . . Talk to you later."
"Bye." I hung up the phone and decided that such a night and
morning warranted a second bacon, egg, and cheese on a buttered
roll. I still had to do that invitation list for five hundred and party
favors, but I decided it could wait. My hangover could not.
9
Three weeks later—three weeks of list-making, wardrobebuilding,
party-going, and general immersion in the culture of
Kelly & Company—I stood waiting for Penelope to arrive. The line
outside Sanctuary looked absolutely unbearable. Whole hordes of
girls smoothed their Japanese-reconditioned hair with manicured
hands while the boys—revitalized from various steak dinners—
gripped their forearms to keep them from tottering over sideways
on their heels. The early November night was chilly, but no one
seemed to notice that it wasn't July anymore. Skin—scrubbed,
buffed, waxed, moisturized, tanned, and glowing—was everywhere,
from huge expanses of bronzed cleavage to slightly
sparkling stretches of stomach to those inches of upper thigh that
are rarely spotted away from the beach or the gynecologist's office.
A few people swayed in time to loungy music emanating from behind
the imposing steel door, and most seemed to twitter at the
mere idea of what the night held: the sensation of that first martini
hitting your bloodstream, the feeling of music pulsating through
your hips, the cigarette smoke burning but delicious, the chance to
press some of that perfect skin against someone else's. There was
nothing quite as heady as a Saturday night in New York when you
were standing outside the newest, chicest place in the city, surrounded
by all sorts of glittering, pretty things, the kind of vibe
where every fantasy was just waiting to unfold . . . if you could
only get inside.
To my surprise, Will had been less than thrilled with the coverage
of my non-one-night-stand three weeks earlier. I'd called after
work to say hi, figuring he didn't even read New York Scoop and
there was a good chance he hadn't seen it, but I was very, very
wrong. Everybody, it seemed, had begun reading New York
Scoop—and worse, they were reading it solely for Ellie Insider's
column.
"Oh, Bette, your uncle has been champing at the bit, just waiting
for your call. Hold on a second, I'll get him," Simon said rather
formally, not even bothering to ask how I was or when I'd next be
over for dinner, as he always did.
"Bette? Is that really you? The celebrity herself deigns to call her
old uncle, huh?"
"Celebrity? What on earth are you talking about?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe just that little piece about my 'mystery
niece.' Apparently your new boyfriend is rather fashionable,
and so his, urn, conquests are often recorded for posterity within
the Scoop's highly journalistic pages. Did you not see it?"
"My boyfriend? You're referring to the illustrious Philip Weston,
I'm guessing?"
"Indeed I am, darling, indeed I am. Not exactly what I had in
mind when I encouraged you to get out there and meet someone,
but what do I know? I'm just an old man, living vicariously
through his beautiful young niece. If you find that whole British
trustafarian thing appealing, well, then, far be it from me to say
otherwise. . . ."
"Will! I should think you of all people would understand that
you can't necessarily believe everything you read in the papers,
you know? It didn't exactly happen like that."
"Well, darling, since you seem to be a bit late to the game,
everyone's been reading Ellie Insider lately. She's surely a conniving
little wench, but she does always seem to have the scoop. Are
you telling me you didn't go home with him? Or that it was a different
new Kelly hire? Because if that's true, then I'd recommend
having that corrected as soon as possible. I'm not sure that's the
reputation you'd be looking to create for yourself."
"It's complicated" was all I could manage.
"I see," he replied quietly. "Well, look, it's certainly none of my
business. As long as you're enjoying yourself, that's really all that
matters. See you at brunch on Sunday. We're in prime pre-holiday
wedding season, so I imagine there'll be some real winners in Sunday's
announcements. Wear your snarky shoes, darling."
I'd agreed, but I felt unsettled. Something had changed—or
shifted, at least—and I couldn't quite pinpoint it.
"Hey, Bette, over here," Penelope called a bit too loudly as she
settled up with the cabdriver and waved to me from the backseat.
I waved. "Hi! Right on time. Elisa and crew are already here,
but I didn't want you to have to come in alone."
"Wow, you look great," she said, putting a hand on my hip and
examining my outfit from head to toe. "Where'd you find clothes
like that?"
I laughed, pleased that she had noticed. I'd only been working
at Kelly & Company for a month, but it was long enough for me to
get sick of looking like I was always dressed for a funeral. I'd
thrown my drab suits in the back of my closet, ripped a couple
pages out of Lucky and Glamour, and made a beeline for Barney's.
Standing at the register, I'd mentally added up the years it was
going to take to pay for all this stuff and then bravely handed over
my credit card. When the salesperson gave it back, I could have
sworn it was warm to the touch. In one afternoon I'd managed to
kiss both dorkiness and credit health good-bye.
While it wasn't exactly couture, I was pretty happy with my
new look: Paige Jeans that cost more than all my monthly bills
combined; a silky, lace-lined lingerie top in kelly green; a tweedy,
fitted blazer that didn't match anything but which the salesman,
Jean-Luc, had declared "ravishing"; and the classic Chanel clutch
Will had bought me for my twenty-first birthday because apparently
"it's criminal to pass into womanhood without a single designer
paving your passage. Welcome to what I hope will be a
long life of shallow consumerism and brand worship."
I had worked at UBS for five years, slaving away for eighty
hours a week. Since I'd never had any time to spend money, I'd
managed to build a little nest egg without really trying. After eight
weeks of unemployment and one afternoon at Barney's, that nest
egg had been seriously compromised, but my ass had never
looked better in denim. Standing outside Sanctuary among the thin
and beautiful people, I felt like I belonged. It had been worth it.
"Hi there," I said, hugging Penelope's tiny frame. "Do you like
it? It's my 'I've never been remotely cool but I'm trying real hard to
be so now' look. What do you think?"
"I think you look hot," she said, forever the good friend. "Is
someone planning on seeing a certain English deity this evening?"
"Hardly. I don't think Philip Weston calls girls who don't immediately
fall into his bed with their legs spread. Actually, I don't
think he calls girls who do, either. Whatever. He's beautiful, but he
was unbelievably arrogant and full of himself."
"And no one likes that, of course," Penelope said with mock
seriousness.
"Of course not," I replied. "Come on, everyone else is inside
and it's freezing. Let's go in."
"Have you seen this line? What's going on here tonight? You'd
think they were handing out free lap dances or something."
"I don't know too much except that it opened last night and is
supposed to be the ultimate exclusive place, sort of a VIP room on
steroids. Kelly wanted us to check it out in case it actually does
live up to the hype. If it becomes the new place, we'll already have
it booked for the Playboy party."
Kelly & Company had been commissioned by Playboy over a
year ago to put on the Manhattan portion of their never-ending
Fiftieth Anniversary celebration, which would start in Chicago in
January and eventually end in a blowout at the mansion in Los Angeles
in March, making stops in Vegas, Miami, and New York along
the way. It was going to be a massive undertaking—definitely our
biggest project to date, and it pretty much dominated every workday.
Kelly had gathered us around the day before to change the
number on the countdown board to 164 and then asked for updates.
The List Girls were already running simultaneous searches
on all A- and B-list celebs, preparing to construct a final winning
group. Meanwhile, the rest of us spent half of each day fielding
calls from every imaginable person in every sector of the city looking
to wrangle invitations and request invites for themselves, or
clients, or both. Combine all the anticipation with Hefs paranoid
insistence that all details (including—but not limited to—location,
date, time, and attendees) be kept lockbox-quiet, and we had the
recipe for total chaos.
"I looked it up on Citysearch today. They quoted the manager
as saying they expected the clientele to be 'upscale creative,' which
I sort of thought applied more to menus than people, but what do
I know?" Penelope sighed.
I'd recently begun to understand that the concept of exclusivity
was an organizing principle of life in Manhattan. Part of this was
undoubtedly due to the sheer concentration of people on such a
tiny island. New Yorkers instinctively compete for everything from
taxis at rush hour to seats on the subway to Hermes Birkin bags to
Knicks season tickets. Impenetrable co-op boards take years to
navigate. Icy hostesses at the city's most desirable restaurants
haughtily demand reservations six months in advance. "If they let
you in without a hassle," people say, "it's probably not worth
going." Since the days of Studio 54, and probably long before (if
there even were nightclubs before then), club-goers have made
getting into trendy nightclubs a competitive sport. And at the
chicest places, like tonight, there are levels of access. Getting in the
front door is just the beginning—any NYU sophomore in a tube
top can manage that. "The main bar?" I'd heard someone say in
reference to Sanctuary. "I'd rather be at TGI Friday's in Hoboken."
Elisa had provided explicit instructions to make our way directly to
the VIP lounge, apparently the only place to find some "real action."
Jagger and Bowie partied in Studio 54's legendary private
rooms. Today Leo, Colin, and Lindsay hold court, unmolested by
prying eyes. And everyone else clamors to get in.
I'd grown accustomed to being a non-VIP quite some time
ago—it hadn't occurred to me that VIP was even a possibility for
me. It had taken the opening of a VIP room outside of the confines
of the nightclub arena to really stir my righteous indignation. In
what I could only interpret as the first sign of the apocalypse, my
dentist, Dr. Quinn, had opened a VIP waiting room in his office.
"So the doctor's high-profile, important clients will have a place
where they feel comfortable," the assistant had explained. "You can
have a seat in our regular lounge." I sat in Dr. Powell's very uncool
and very public waiting room, thumbing through a two-year-old
issue of Redbook and silently willing the overweight gentleman
next to me to cease cracking his gum. I gazed longingly at the
door marked VIP and fantasized about the plush dental wonderland
that surely lay beyond. I resigned myself to the fact that I would always
be one of those people on the outside looking in. But there I
was, a mere few months later, standing outside Sanctuary in my
cool new clothes with a gaggle of fabulous friends waiting inside.
It felt like my luck was changing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a girl who looked exactly
like Abby kiss the bouncer and make her way into the lounge, but
I couldn't positively identify her from where I stood. "Hey, you'll
never guess who I saw the other night. I can't believe I forgot to
tell you! Abby was at Bungalow that night you left after dinner."
Penelope's head snapped toward mine. She hated Abby more
than I did, if that was possible. She'd refused to acknowledge her
presence since Abby had cornered her in an empty classroom
sophomore year and told her not to take it personally that Penelope's
father was sleeping with his secretary, that it was certainly
no reflection on his love for her. Penelope had been so shocked
she'd merely asked, "How do you know?" and Abby had smirked
in return. "Are you serious?" she'd asked. "Who doesn't know?"
"You saw that midget and didn't tell me? What'd she have to
say for herself?"
"Her usual. She's now at the vortex of the media world, you'll
be happy to know. Goes by Abigail now, not Abby, so of course I
said 'Abby' as many times as I possibly could. Had her boobs done
and half her face rearranged, but she's still exactly the same."
"Girl would walk over her own mother in spike heels if it
helped her get ahead," Penelope mumbled.
"Sure would," I confirmed cheerfully. "And you just might have
the pleasure of seeing her here tonight. I think she just walked in."
"Great. That's just great. Lucky us."
I linked arms with Penelope and boldly walked to the front of
the line, hopefully projecting some level of confidence. A highly
manorexic black guy sporting a giant, fake Afro wig and a longsleeved
mesh T-shirt over hot pink Lycra tights peered at us
through sparkle-encrusted eyelashes.
"Are you on the list?" he asked in a voice that was surprisingly
gruff for someone who cross-dressed so expertly.
"Yep, sure are," I said casually. Silence. "Urn, yes, we are on
the list. We're here with Kelly & Company."
No response. He held the clipboard but didn't consult it, and I
decided he hadn't heard me.
"I spoke with the manager earlier today to arrange a visit?
We're actually here to check out the venue for a potential—"
"Name!" he barked, wholly disinterested in my explanation. But
as I spelled out my last name, four guys in seventies leisure suits
and a girl in something that looked an awful lot like a flapper outfit
walked directly in front of me.
"Romero, darling, move that silly rope aside so we can get out
of the cold," the girl ordered, placing a hand gingerly on the
bouncer's cheek.
"Of course, Sofia, come right in," he cooed deferentially, and I
realized that the flapper was Sofia Coppola. The entourage followed
her lead and nodded their respects to the bouncer, who was
glowing with pride and happiness. It took him a full three minutes
to regain his composure and another two to remember that we
were still there.
"Robinson," I said, sounding definitely more irritated. "R-OB-
I—"
"I can spell it," he snapped, apparently now in a full-fledged
snit. "Yes, fortunately for you, I have you on the list. Absolutely no
one is getting in tonight otherwise."
"Mmm" was about all I could manage in reply to this fascinating
piece of information.
He placed his hand on the velvet rope but didn't lift it. He
leaned over and addressed Penelope directly, and none too quietly:
"Just FYI for next time, girls: you're really a bit more casual
than we like to see here."
Penelope giggled, obviously unaware that our new transvestite
friend was not kidding.
"Hey, I'm just giving it to you straight," he continued, his voice
getting louder every second. A sort of silence had overtaken the
previously fidgety and excited crowd, and I could feel fifty pairs of
eyes staring at us from behind. "We prefer to see a little more style,
a little more effort."
My mind began to race, in search of a snappy retort, but of
course I managed to say nothing. Before I knew what was happening,
a girl so young, so tall, and with breasts so enormous they'd
only ever work in LA, came over and volunteered a brief but
highly informative lecture on the current fashion situation.
"We especially like to see forties looks lately." She smiled
warmly.
"Huh?" Penelope said, verbalizing exactly what I was thinking.
"Well, it's just one option, of course, but it's quite effective.
Black and white with bright red lipstick, you know? Perhaps some
vintage Prada heels or something even chunkier. It's all about distinguishing
yourself." I heard a few people laughing appreciatively
in the background.
It was at this point that I noticed that she looked like something
out of / Want a Famous Face gone horribly awry.
What did I say? What did I do? Absolutely nothing. Instead of
maintaining one iota, one tiny shred of self-respect, we proffered
our left hands for the obligatory stamp and sort of shuffled shamefully
past the velvet rope that had finally been lifted. The final indignity
came just as the door was shutting behind us, when the
cosmetically enhanced giraffe announced to the circus freak, "It
wouldn't be quite so bad if they just minded their labels."
"Did that just happen?" Penelope asked, looking as dumbfounded
as I felt.
"I think so. Just how pathetic were we? I'm almost afraid to
ask."
"There are actually no words for that level of pathetic-ness. It
was like watching Jeopardy!—I knew all the answers, just ten seconds
too late."
I was about to suggest that we medicate ourselves with as
much undiluted vodka as we could locate, but Elisa found us first.
"This place is so hot," she breathed into my ear while waving
hello to Penelope. "Check it out. Far right, back corner, Kristin
Davis. Far right, just in front of her, Suzanne Somers. Random, I acknowledge,
but celeb nonetheless. Far left, not quite in the corner,
more like twelve o'clock, Sting and Trudie Styler, making out. At
the round leather couch in the middle, Heidi Klum and Seal, and
Davide heard them say that Zac Posen is on his way."
"Wow," Penelope said, making an admirable effort to sound
impressed, "there are a lot of people here tonight. Bette? What do
you say about getting a drink?"
"I'm not finished," Elisa hissed, pulling my arm tighter toward
hers and continuing to scan the room. "Flirting with the waitress,
by the side door, Ethan Hawke. Made significantly more awkward
by the presence of Andre Balazs, Uma's new man, sitting with
business associates at first banquette on the right. And look! That
ugly little lesbian troll blogger who can't stop writing about how
much blow she does every night is sort of lurking in the back
there, watching them all. Tomorrow she'll have everything plastered
all over her blog, making it sound like she was partying with
everyone rather than spying all night long. Oh, and look! Right behind
her, an assistant from Rush & Molloy. They rotate them constantly
so no one ever knows who they are, but we have a source
there who faxes over pictures and bios of the new ones right
away. . . . Hmm, it doesn't look like Philip is here tonight. Shame. I
bet you were wanting to see him, no?"
"Philip? Uh, no, actually, not really," I mumbled somewhat
truthfully.
"Oh, really? Does that mean he still hasn't called? How sad. I
know what it's like, Bette. Don't take it personally—he obviously
just has very strange tastes."
1 had spent three weeks dodging Elisa's questions, trying to appear
nonchalant about Philip Weston. I was about to repeat that I
couldn't care less that he hadn't called, that I hadn't even left my
number as instructed, but I figured it wasn't worth it. This was
clearly a sensitive point and best left alone. Besides, I didn't exactly
adore the fact that I hadn't heard from him, number or not.
Penelope and I followed Elisa over to a small circle of white
suede couches—a phenomenally stupid idea for a place where
people do nothing but eat, drink, and hook up—and said hello to
Leo, Skye, Davide, and someone Elisa introduced as "the brains behind
this entire production."
"Hi, I'm Bette, and this is my friend Penelope," I said, extending
my hand to the Semitic-Iooking-yet-mullet-sporting guy Elisa
had referenced.
"Yo. Danny."
"Without Danny, we wouldn't be here tonight." Elisa sighed,
and everyone at the table nodded knowingly. "He came up with
the whole concept that is Sanctuary and put the whole project together.
. . . Isn't that right, Danny?"
"Word."
I was wondering why this short Jewish guy from either Great
Neck or Dix Hills was attempting to sound as though he'd grown
up on the playgrounds and basketball courts of Cabrini Green.
"Oh, so you were the one who hired that charming bouncer,
huh?" I asked, and Elisa shot me a warning look.
Danny apparently sensed nothing amiss. "Fag freak, but whatever.
Gets his shit done. Keeps out the losers—all that matters to
me."
Mmm. Penelope nodded seriously in agreement and simultaneously
nudged me, and I gnawed the inside of my cheeks to keep
from laughing. Compared to two minutes ago, Danny was being
downright verbose.
"So, Danny, what gave you the idea for Sanctuary?" Penelope
asked, staring at him with wide, fascinated eyes.
He took a swig from his Stella Artois and peered at her as
though he were trying to determine which language she'd just
used, his eyes scrunched up in confusion, hand on his crinkled
forehead, head shaking slightly from side to side. "Dude. Everywhere
else is so fucking stressful. The line at Bungalow's a nightmare
and I can't stand all those fuckin' media types at Soho House.
Figured we all need a place that could be, like, a y'know, what's
the word? A place to chill."
"A sanctuary?" I supplied helpfully.
"Right on." He nodded, obviously relieved. The amount of
product in his hair was nothing short of astounding.
Unfortunately, before this fascinating conversation could see itself
to its logical end—most likely the one where Danny eventually
remembered the name of his own club)—I spotted an exceedingly
familiar tan.
"Ohmigod, it's him," I stage-whispered to our motley crew, immediately
leaning my head in for both cover and consultation.
Heads turned.
"Philip. Philip Weston is here. Just walked in with that, that,
that model," I spat out, not even remotely aware of how insanely
jealous I sounded. And looked.
"Bette, is that jealousy I hear?" Elisa asked, leaning in to whisper
in my ear. "And here I thought you were immune to the Weston
charms. Good to see you're a red-blooded American girl after
all. Of course, just because you're interested doesn't mean he
is. . . ."
"Dude! Philip! Over here," Danny was calling, and before I'd
even realized what was happening, Philip was kissing me hello on
the mouth.
"Hi, love, I was hoping you'd be here. You can run, but you
can't hide. . . ."
"Pardon?" was about all I could manage, since at this point I
was fairly certain he'd meant to direct both the kiss and comment
elsewhere. Like toward the knockout who was patiently waiting
about three feet behind him, not looking the least bit distressed
about anything.
"You didn't leave your number with my doorman. What do you
call that here? Playing hard to get. Well, I always fancy a good
game, so I decided to play along and find you myself."
I saw Elisa collapse into the couch behind him, her mouth
hanging open quite unattractively, shock flashing across her face.
"Play along?" I asked him.
"Girls don't exactly flee from me, love, if you know what I'm
saying. Hey, mate, may I get a Tanq and tonic?" he said, addressing
Danny as though he were our waiter.
"Right on, dude, coming right up," Danny said, moving as
quickly as one might expect only when the offer of drugs or girls
was promised.
He turned around when Philip called, "And hey, something for
Sonja here, too." He turned not to me but to the girl with infinite
legs. "Sonja, doll baby, what can I get for you? Ginger ale? Vegetable
juice? Talk to me, honey."
She stared back, uncomprehending, and I was almost—almost—
amused by the idea that Philip had brought along one girl
for accompaniment as he pursued another. He was pursuing me,
wasn't he?
Elisa had returned to Davide's lap, apparently recovered from
Philip's unexpected arrival. I saw her very discreetly remove a
small packet of white powder from her seafoam green Balenciaga
bag and slip it to Skye, who immediately bolted in the direction of
the ladies' room. Ever resourceful, Elisa then stuck a hand into the
bag's side pocket and distributed a few tablets among the table's
remaining people. Hands simultaneously found their way to
mouths, and the mystery pills were quickly washed down with
champagne and vodka and what Skye—our very own drink
critic—had described as "the only decent cosmopolitan in this entire
fucking city."
"Oh, Pheeeely, I think it will be nice to have the tom-ahto
juices, out?" Sonja said, biting her lower lip seductively.
"Hey, y'all, come and play. We've got more than enough to go
around!" Elisa called over the Hotel Costes CD that might've passed
for relaxed lounge music had it not been pumped out at decibels
capable of drowning out a 747.
Danny left to fetch drinks for Philip and Sonja, while Penelope
tried gamely to make conversation with an ever more wasted Elisa.
I just stood there, acutely aware that I looked awkward and dumb,
but not really possessing the faculties to move.
"So, Philip, introduce me to your, uh, your friend," I managed,
wondering what the protocol was when the guy whose bed you'd
recently shared made the effort to track you down with his girlfriend
in tow.
"Sure thing, love. Sonja, this is the smashing creature I was
telling you about—the one who turned me down a few weeks ago,
if you can believe it. She was completely blotto, of course; it's the
only feasible explanation." Sonja nodded, not necessarily comprehending
anything, lie rapidly switched to French and the only
word I managed to catch was name, which I immediately assumed
meant he was informing her he didn't know what mine was.
"Bette," I said, extending my hand to Sonja while ignoring
Philip.
"Son-yaaah." She giggled, revealing shiny teeth with absolutely
no nicotine stains.
"Sonja's folks have entrusted her to me for the week while she
interviews at all the agencies," he explained in his irritatingly
adorable British accent. "Our parents have neighboring villas in St.
Tropez, so she's always been like a little sister to me. Only fifteen.
Can you believe it?" In all fairness, he was neither leering nor lecherous,
but it felt as though he should have been.
I once again found myself in the rather uncomfortable position
of being unable to speak or respond with any sort of consistency,
and so I was delighted when Penelope announced that she was
ready to go.
"I know we just got here," she said quietly in my ear, "but this
just isn't my scene. Are you okay here by yourself? Your whole office
is here. It should be fine, right?"
"Pen, don't be crazy! I'm coming with you," I announced,
mostly eager for an excuse to leave, with only a hint of desire to
stay and talk to Philip.
Danny returned, leading a cocktail waitress over to us. Philip
and Sonja received their requested drinks and I was thoughtfully
provided with a mini bottle of Piper and a red-striped sipping
straw. Penelope received nothing.
"Here, have a drink before we go," I said, and thrust the bottle
in her direction.
"Bette, I'm just done, okay? I really think you should just stay
and—"
"AVERY!" Elisa shrieked all of a sudden, propelling her emaciated
figure off the couch and into the arms of a tall blond guy wearing an
aggressively preppy pink shirt. Both Penelope and I turned simultaneously
to see her fiance embracing my coworker as though they'd
known one another for years. "Come here. Y'all just have to meet my
favorite party boy, Avery Wainwright. Avery, this is—"
Apparently the look on both our faces was enough to stop her
mid-sentence, a feat I'd never before thought possible.
"Hey, honey, I didn't know you were coming here tonight,"
Avery said, extracting himself from Elisa's signature arm-grip and
enveloping Penelope in a rather awkward bear hug.
"I didn't know you were, either," she said quietly, not quite
meeting his eyes. "You said you were going to dinner with the
boys tonight."
I wished I could scoop up Penelope and whisk her off to the
Black Door, where we could drown that yucky feeling—he hadn't
done anything technically wrong, but I knew her stomach was
sinking anyway. But there was nothing to do but try and divert attention
away from their two-person show.
"I did go to dinner with the boys. We all went to Sparks, and
then most of them wanted to get home, but I decided to check this
place out with Rick and Thomas. See, they're right over there," he
said quickly, the words tumbling out in the panicky tone of someone
who'd just been caught.
Rick and Thomas were, in fact, located where he'd indicated.
In the thirty seconds since they'd arrived, a group of very young
girls had accepted their invitation to join them at their VIP table
and were just beginning to shimmy and dance on the banquette.
Penelope looked like she was ready to throw up. I could tell it
was coming to her in waves, the realization that if she hadn't been
there, Avery would most likely be grinding against one of those girls
right now.
"Mmm," she murmured, watching as Rick and Thomas sandwiched
a girl between them and gyrated. "I see."
"Pen, come here, baby, it's not like that. They know those girls
from work and they're just being friendly."
"Work?" Her voice was steely and her eyes had turned to ice.
Everyone was waiting for a colossal fight, so I began chatting up
Elisa, Philip, Danny, and Sonja simultaneously and nudged Penelope
to move a few feet away to spare us a scene.
"So, Sonja, what sort of agencies are you interviewing with?" I
asked, wondering if Philip had perhaps meant "schools" instead.
She was really, really young.
"Oh, you know, the common ones. Elite, Ford, Wilhelmina.
Phee-ly says I will make beautiful model."
"Sure do, doll. Ever since this one was a mere tyke, trolling
around the villa in nappies, I thought she was splendid. Jailbait,
but splendid." He was now officially leering.
"Gel-bet? What is gel-bet?" she asked us both, her eyes crinkling
adorably.
"Nothing, doll. Why don't you sit right here and look ravishing
and let me talk to Betty for a minute, okay?"
"You know, Betty is really cute, but I prefer Bette," I said as
nicely as I could manage.
"You are a randy one, aren't you?" He put his hands on my
hips and pulled me close, but didn't make a move to kiss me. It
was hard to concentrate on his flawlessly chiseled face when I
could hear Avery pleading in the background.
"Honey, I don't know why she called me a 'party boy.' You
know I like to go out. Hell, I wish you'd come with me more.
Elisa's just a silly cokehead who happens to know where the good
parties are, that's all."
That bastard. He had the nerve to stand there and call Elisa a
cokehead through clenched teeth and a lower jaw so jittery it
looked like it was hooked up to electrodes. Penelope knew a lot
of things the rest of us didn't—how to wrap presents, when to
write thank-you notes, the best way to set a dinner table—but she
was painfully clueless when it came to Avery, drugs, or Avery and
drugs. Skye finally came back from the bathroom, her jaw all atwitter
as well. The DJ switched from chill lounge music to OutKast,
which apparently inspired Elisa to grab Davide and Skye and begin
dancing on the banquettes. She rarely took her eyes off Philip,
who had walked across the room, but he didn't seem to notice.
Her stilettos began piercing neat, clean holes in the white suede,
and I felt better with each little ripping sound.
But not for long. The voice behind me was unmistakable, and I
immediately felt my stomach sink.
"Bette! So funny seeing you here!" Abby tugged on my arm,
causing my champagne to splash on the suede.
"Hey, Abby," I said as flatly as possible, looking around for a
possible escape before even making eye contact.
"So, you and Philip are looking pretty hot and heavy, huh?"
She winked and I suppressed an urge to scratch the grin off her
face.
"Mmmm. What brings you here?"
She laughed and adjusted a five-inch heel, which did little to
disguise her height. "Does anyone need a reason to have a little
fun? Ohmigod, is that Avery Wainwright? We haven't had a chance
to catch up recently. That boy grew into a very handsome man,
don't you think?"
"He's engaged," I snapped. "To Penelope. You remember Penelope,
don't you?"
She feigned cluelessness. "Hmm. Well, you know what they
say . . ."
"No, what's that?"
"Nothing's final until the vows are exchanged." She rubbed her
hands together as though she was anticipating something very delicious
or exciting.
At my reaction she said, "Oh, Bette, calm down. I was just kidding!"
A look of mock horror passed over her face. "You should really
work on that sense of humor, you know. Speaking of which—"
"Abby, it was really great bumping into you, but I've got to get
back to my friends. Sort of a work night, you know?" I ducked out
from behind her and began sliding away.
"Sure, honey, but let's get that lunch sometime soon, okay? I'd
love to hear all about Philip and the new job and everything.
Everyone's still talking about that mention in New York Scoop,"
she called after me.
I wanted to make sure Penelope was holding up, but Avery
had her cornered and neither looked thrilled, so I made my way
back to our table, where Davide handed me a drink.
Penelope immediately walked over. "Bette, I think we're going
to head out," she said wearily, sounding as though she'd rather kill
herself than either stay or leave.
"You okay? Seriously, why doesn't Avery just stay here and
hang out and you and I can go get something to eat? I wouldn't
mind leaving before I do something I'll seriously regret, like going
home with Philip and making mad, passionate love to him, even
though I think he's the most obnoxious guy I've ever met."
She sighed. "No, thanks. I think we really need to get home. I'll
call you tomorrow."
I wondered if they'd sleep at all that night. Avery was so
amped up on coke that it would take a horse tranquilizer to put
him to sleep. Or maybe he'd start having flashbacks from all the
acid he did in college and try to eat a parakeet or fly out a window.
Poor, sweet Penelope.
"Bette, love, are you ready to leave?" Philip asked, draping his
arms over my shoulders as though he were my long-term
boyfriend instead of the guy I didn't want to want to sleep with.
"Let's go back to my flat. Maybe you won't be too drunk tonight
to—"
"Uh, yeah, why don't you, me, and Sonja," I said a bit more
snottily than I intended, "have a slumber party? Wouldn't that be
fun!"
He slid his hand up the back of my lingerie top. "What's with
all the attitude? Seriously, love, you've got to relax. Come on, I'll
put Sonja in a suite upstairs and then you and I can spend a little
quiet time together, okay?"
Before I could respond, Philip was whispering to Sonja in
French. She did little except nod enthusiastically, raise her perfect
eyebrows, and giggle when he was finished. "Out, out, of course it
is okay to spend the time alone together," she said, providing us
with her blessing to engage in slightly drunk, somewhat random
sex.
"You know what, Philip?" I said, not knowing how to explain
that I wasn't really up for tonight when I wasn't even sure myself.
"It's not right to put her in a hotel when she's just with you for a
week. I mean, she's only fifteen. Don't you think you should keep
an eye on her? She can't walk three feet without guys hitting on
her, you know."
He looked thoughtful, as though he was actually buying my
whole "concern for Sonja" thing. He nodded. "Quite right, love. I'll
take her home and tuck her in, and then we'll head to a hotel
somewhere. Good call. Cheers," he announced in the direction of
the others, who merely glanced once in our direction and nodded
in acknowledgment. Elisa stopped gawking long enough to give
me a none-too-subtle thumbs-up.
I figured it'd be easier to drop them both off at the Archives and
then redirect the cab to Murray Hill than argue about it, so I waved to
Elisa and followed Sonja and Philip to the front door, feeling like the
chubby, uncoordinated child of two Olympic athletes.
"Hey, ,guy, call us a cab, will you?" Philip called to the doorman,
snapping his fingers in that general direction. It was undeniably
obnoxious, but considering what an asshole the guy had been
to us, it seemed perfectly acceptable to me. That was, until a closer
look revealed that it wasn't the malnourished, wig-sporting Romero
but the cute (and rude) bouncer from Bungalow 8. Sammy. He
turned to look at Philip with a venomous expression and noticed
me trying to hide off to the side. His eyes bore into mine with just
a moment's recognition before he turned his attention back to the
street and silently hailed a cab from the dozens that were flying
past.
Sonja scooted in first and Philip dove in next to her, leaving me
standing four inches from Sammy as he held the cab door open. I
don't know why I got in with them, but I did. It was like my body
was following some invisible script.
"Thanks," I managed to say quietly, just as Philip said, "Mate,
I've got two gorgeous girls coming home with me, if you know
125
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what I mean. You mind being quick about this?" Sonja giggled and
rested her delicate head on Philip's shoulder; Sammy looked at me
one last time, expressionless, and slammed the door. Just as the
cab pulled away, I looked at the restless line outside the club, the
camera-ready paparazzi waiting for celebrities to exit, the crush to
be inside like its own form of addiction. And even though I
couldn't pinpoint why, I was quite sure I wanted to cry.
10
"How do you eat like that and stay so tiny?" I asked Penelope
for the thousandth time since we'd met. We'd just settled into a
booth at EJ's after an hour-long wait. I was famished enough to
order one of everything on the menu, but I was enjoying my stillthin
figure too much to jeopardize it now. I'd managed to cut out
all trips to Dylan's and even most of my morning bacon, egg, and
cheeses—with the occasional Slim Jim acting as my only real indulgence—
and it was almost starting to feel normal to police myself
with food. Which only made it all the weirder when Penelope ordered
the way we always had—three-egg cheese omelet with
bacon and hash browns, accompanied by a short stack of chocolate-
chip pancakes and a baby fistful of oozing, melted butter. She
raised her eyebrows when I ordered an egg-white omelet with
spinach and tomatoes and two slices of dry whole-wheat toast, but
she kindly refrained from commenting, with the single exception
of a murmur: "Elisa influence much?" I ignored her wan smile and
changed the subject.
"Is everything okay with you and Avery?" I asked as sympathetically
as I could, wanting very much to draw her out and not
sound critical. I'd helplessly watched them leave Sanctuary, knowing
how upset she was but feeling powerless to do anything but
watch. When she'd called early this morning, I immediately ducked
out of my standing Sunday brunch plans with Will and Simon and
jumped in a cab downtown.
She avoided my eyes and instead concentrated on slicing her
pancakes into small, even pieces. Slice, spear, mouth, repeat. I
watched this cycle three times before she spoke. "Everything's just
fine," she said tonelessly. "Once he explained everything to me, I
could see that last night was just a big misunderstanding."
"I'm sure. It must have been surprising to see him there when
you weren't expecting it," I prompted, hoping to elicit some sort of
acknowledgment from her.
She laughed without pleasure. "Well, you know Avery. Likely
to crop up just about anywhere, any time of the night. It's good
one of us is social, I suppose, or else we'd drive each other crazy
sitting in the apartment all the time."
I didn't know where to go with that, so I just nodded.
"What about you? Looked like you were having fun when I left,
talking to Elisa and Philip. Was it a good night?"
I stared at her, thinking about how awkward I'd felt with Elisa
and Philip, as if I were a trespasser in a members-only world—a
feeling that had become pretty familiar to me since I'd joined Kelly
& Company. I thought about how I'd gotten in the cab and argued
to be dropped off alone and how—much to my surprise—Philip
hadn't argued back, not one bit. I thought about how empty my
apartment had seemed when I got home, and how even Millington
curled up beside me in bed didn't make me feel much better. And
I looked at Penelope and wondered just when, exactly, we had
grown so far apart.
"It was all right, I guess. I was hoping to hang out with you
more . . . " I stopped short when I realized it sounded accusatory.
She lifted her gaze and looked at me sharply. "I'm sorry, I
wasn't expecting the situation with Avery. Also, I would have loved
for it to be us, going out, like we used to, but you were the one
who had us meet up with all your work friends to scout the location.
It seems like they're omnipresent these days."
"Pen, I'm sorry, I didn't mean for it to sound like that. I was just
saying that I'd rather hang out with you any day. After you left, it just
got worse. Philip was babysitting some girl from home and 1 shared
a cab home with them because I didn't want to start a big scene at
the club, but then people saw me getting in the backseat, and I felt
like shit. Oh, and Abby, too. It was just a giant mess and I wish I'd
left when you did."
"So did you go home with him? Where did the girl sleep?"
"No, I just got in the cab because it seemed easier than listening
to him throw a fit. I made them drop me off first, but people
watching would never know that."
"Why didn't you go home with him? And who's 'people'?" I
could tell she was trying to keep everyone straight, but she hadn't
even met all the players.
"Well," I lied, "I'm not sure I'm ready to get involved in Philip's
world. He's tied in to just about everyone and everything at work,
which makes it all even weirder."
"I wouldn't know. You didn't introduce me," she said lightly.
I felt the reprimand and knew she was right, but I didn't want
to turn it into a big discussion. "No? Last night was a little hectic.
Trust me, you're not missing much. He's gorgeous, that much you
saw, but otherwise he's your basic spoiled party kid, just with a
fantastic accent. Damn shame he's so cute, though." I sighed
audibly.
"Well, that little speech sounds all well and good, my dear, but
you should've seen your face when he walked in with that model.
I thought you'd die. You like him, don't you? Admit it."
I didn't know how to say that of course something attracted me
to him, but something simultaneously repelled me. I didn't want to
say aloud how flattered I was that someone like Philip could want
someone like me, even if he didn't seem to be all that great of a
guy. I didn't want to explain the entire situation at work, how I
suspected Elisa might be jealous that Philip was interested in me,
or how Kelly had seemed ready and willing to whore me out to
Philip because it meant good things for the business. I just
shrugged and salted my omelet, making sure to fix my coffee cup
to my lips so I wouldn't have to say anything just yet.
Penelope understood that I wasn't going to get into it then. It
was the first and only time in the nearly nine years we'd been
friends that I could remember both of us sitting at a table and willingly
withholding information from each other. She'd refused to tell
me her real feelings about her relationship with Avery; I'd taken a
pass on commenting on Philip. We sat in a comfortable enough but
foreign-feeling silence until she said, "I know I don't know the entire
situation, and of course I know you're more than capable of
handling everything yourself, but please, for me, just be careful?
I'm sure Philip is a perfectly nice guy, but I've seen enough with
Avery's friends and now your work friends to know that the whole
scene just freaks me out. Nothing concrete, but I worry about you,
you know?"
She placed her hand over mine and I knew we'd get back to
our old selves at some point. In the meantime, we'd have to settle
for thinking about each other from afar.
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