Chapter Eleven - Chapter Fiften
11
"Okay, kids, quiet down," Kelly announced as she tottered into
the conference room in the high heels she wore every single day.
"Did everyone have a chance to read their Dirt Alerts already?"
"Sure did," piped up Leo from the other end of the glass table
that looked like it belonged more in a W hotel than in an office.
"Seems like our favorite new staffer got herself another mention."
I felt the familiar loopiness in my stomach begin its rounds.
I'd been ten minutes late this morning and hadn't yet read the Dirt
Alert, obviously a major misstep on my part. One of the assistants
specifically got in every morning by six A.M. to create the day's
Dirt Alert for all of us—a sort of survey of all the columns, papers,
and stories that might, in some way, be related to our clients
or industry—and place them on our desks by nine A.M., but everyone
generally scanned all the websites when they first got up in
the morning, skimming quickly between Drudge, Page Six, Liz
Smith, Rush & Molloy, USA Today, Variety, New York Scoop, an
assortment of blogs and columns, and a few of the bigger trade
headlines. It's best to know early if something bad happened and
your phone was going to ring off the hook, so the Dirt Alert was
more of a formality than any sort of breaking news. The only really
relevant information we got each morning was the Celeb Alert,
which included information on who's in town, why they're here,
where they're staying (and under what name), and how to best
contact them to bribe or beg them to attend an event. Four straight
weeks of logging on to analyze every imaginable website within
five seconds of waking up—supplemented by a professional report
a few hours later—and the one day I wasn't fully informed
of all the late-breaking gossip, of course, was the only one that
mattered.
"Urn, I haven't had a chance to see it yet this morning. And besides,
I can't imagine what could be in there, considering I was
checking out Sanctuary this weekend—with all of you—right up
until I went home. Alone," I added quickly, as though I owed my
coworkers this explanation.
"Well, let's see here," Kelly said, picking up a printout of the
online column. " 'New Kelly & Company employee seems determined
to fit in with her hard-partying coworkers. Sources say the
event planner's unnamed new girl—supposedly scoping out Sanctuary
on Saturday night as a potential venue for the ultra hushhush
Playboy party—mixed business and pleasure when she left
with Philip Weston and an unidentified model. Their final destination?
We have our ideas.' . . ." Kelly let the last words trail off and
turned to grin at me.
I felt myself turn crimson.
"What, exactly, is it implying? Because so far I haven't heard
one remotely true statement. And who the hell wrote that?"
"Ellie Insider, of course. There's a picture of you climbing into
the cab with Philip and this absolutely gorgeous girl, so I guess it's
not hard to figure out what she's suggesting. . . . " Kelly continued
smiling. She looked like she couldn't be any happier.
Was it utterly bizarre to be discussing this in our weekly staff
meeting, called today supposedly to discuss work events?
"Kelly, I'm really sorry for any impact any of this stuff has had
on you or the company. Honestly, I don't know why anyone
would care, but in all seriousness, it's just not happening like—"
" 'The newest It Girl, an associate at Kelly & Company.' Do you
realize how huge that is? Hopefully next time they'll use your
name. They probably just couldn't confirm it in time since you're
not on the industry roster yet."
I noticed Elisa was having trouble smiling.
"Not only that, but it says the rest of us are hard-partying," Leo
chimed in proudly.
"And it plugs the Playboy party!" Skye added.
"I just don't know who would give them that information," I
muttered. "It's not even true."
"Bette, honey, I don't care if it's true, I just care that it's being
covered. You've done wonderful things for the team in the short
amount of time you've been with us. Plus, Danny will be thrilled
about the plug for the club. Keep up the good work." And with
that, we moved on to one of Kelly's specialty brainstorming sessions.
"Okay, everyone, start talking. We've got the premiere for
Shrek 3 next month. Invites need to be out within two weeks.
Skye's in charge of this one. What's the enticement?"
"I still don't understand why we agreed to do a premiere for a
kids' movie," Skye whined, which I noticed she did a lot at meetings.
"Why can't the studio handle their own premiere for that
one?"
"That was a rhetorical question, right? We do premieres because
they're easy and pay well. You know DreamWorks has their
own internal PR, but as you also know, they're tied up with all the
awards shows and bigger pictures' publicity, and besides, virtually
all of the important press is in New York. We have relationships
with people they don't."
"I know, I know." Skye sighed in a very unteamlike way. I saw
Elisa shoot her a look, and she sat up a little bit straighten "It's just
that kids' movies are so boring."
"Well, Skye, if you're not interested in overseeing this, I'm sure
Elisa or Leo or Bette or even Brandon wouldn't mind stepping in. I
don't think I need to point out just how many celebs are having
kids these days . . . Liv, Courteney, Gwyneth, Sarah Jessica, just
to name a few. I hope you're not saying that their children are
boring."
"No, of course not. You can count on me—I'm up for it. We've
done a dozen of these. Okay. Does anyone have the report on the
Harry Potter premiere we did over the summer?"
"Yep, right here," Leo said, pulling a stapled packet from a
folder. "Sunday afternoon in August, at Christie Brinkley's estate in
Bridgehampton. Party started at eleven A.M., with the screening
from twelve to one-thirty to allow everyone enough time to get
back to the city. Children's entertainment included wading pools
filled with ice and juice packs, horseback riding, a small petting
zoo, a cotton-candy machine, a sno-cone maker, a few roving
clowns. Adults were kept amused by highly attentive and attractive
cocktail waitresses serving socially acceptable day drinks from a
hidden bar inside—mostly mimosas, Bloody Marys, screwdrivers,
champagne, margaritas, sangria, and the occasional frozen daiquiri
or pina colada if requested. Matt Lauer, Susan Sarandon, Katie
Couric, Aerin Lauder, Kate Hudson, Russell Simmons, and
Courteney Cox all had children in attendance, in addition to hundreds
of others who were slightly less recognizable but just as photogenic.
Pics appeared in People, US Weekly, Star, Sunday Styles,
Gotham, W, and a dozen online social pages, including but not
limited to the New York Social Diary and Patrick McMullen's website.
Warner Brothers was thrilled."
"Okay, kids, so we've got the template, and we obviously
know what works. Clearly we won't be in the Hamptons, but we
should stick with the same format. I like the Clearview in Chelsea
because they're pretty relaxed about having lots of action in their
lobby," Kelly said, efficiently checking things off a list. "What else?"
"Well, for food, the usual kid favorites," Elisa said. "Pigs in
blankets, quarter-sized burgers, candy hunts."
"Make your own sundae," Leo added without pause.
"Balloons, magicians, design your own cupcake, bubble machines,"
Skye said without the least bit of enthusiasm.
"Guy in a monster Shrek outfit."
"Face-painting the kids green."
"Parents hate face-painting. Plenty of other stuff you can do.
Maybe those mini-trampolines?"
"Are you kidding? Total liability. Might as well just have 'Sue
Me' in lights. Speaking of which, how about 'Shrek' spelled out in
a massive wall of green lightbulbs?"
Everyone nodded. I started to get slightly self-conscious about
not having contributed anything, but I'd never been to a movie
premiere and didn't know anything about them besides stars walking
down the red carpet.
"What if we have a green carpet instead of a red one?" I offered
before considering how stupid it sounded. I braced myself,
but the faces at the table looked fairly happy.
"Fab idea, Bette! We'll have a green carpet and a giant green
walk-and-repeat at the end where everyone can get photographed.
Green carpet should definitely mean more pictures. Things sound
like they're going smoothly there, so let's move on to what really
matters. Where are we with the Playboy party?"
The color had returned to Elisa's face, and she appeared more
composed. She stood with perfect posture in her Diane von
Furstenberg wrap dress and pointed to the bulletin board with her
Mason Pearson brush.
"As you can all see, we are just a few months away. After much
scouting and debating, we have selected Sanctuary as our location.
Leo, can you update us on the logistics?"
Leo looked at Elisa as if to say "Since when am I answering to
you?" but then cleared his throat and told the room he was interviewing
production companies (who would handle everything
from furniture to lighting) and should have the shortlist by the end
of the week. "I'm sure we'll end up with Bureau Betak," he said.
"We always do."
The meeting continued for another hour and a half (we covered
gift bags, potential sponsors, and invitations) before we were
released for lunch with the encouragement to go somewhere we'd
"see or be seen." I begged out of going to Pastis with the group
and roamed a few blocks east to a divey pizza joint where I surely
wouldn't run into anyone from the office. As soon as 1 had wedged
my body into a tiny booth near the restroom, I called Will at work
and was surprised to find him at his desk.
"Why are you there?" I asked. "It's not even deadline day." Will
only went to his office at the paper once or twice a week, less if
he could help it.
"Hello, darling. I'm struggling a bit with this week's column."
He was quiet for a split second before adding, "Lately, it seems I'm
struggling a bit with every week's column."
He sounded frustrated and resigned at the same time, two sentiments
I wasn't accustomed to hearing from Will.
• "Are you okay, Will? What's going on there?" I asked, forcing
myself to forget my own problems for just a few seconds.
He sighed heavily. "Nothing interesting, darling, that's for sure.
Readership of 'Will of the People' is way down this year. Another
few papers dropped it from syndication. My new thirty-one-yearold
editor has no sense of humor—keeps telling me that 'today's
readers' are more 'socially sensitive' and that therefore 1 should
strive to be more 'politically correct.' Naturally, I told him to fuck
off, but he won't stay quiet for long. Then again, why would anyone
want to read my column when they can read about pretty
young party planners gallivanting about with rich, famous pretty
boys?"
I felt like I'd been punched. "You saw."
"Naturally. Am I to assume there was any truth to that tawdiy
little write-up?" he asked.
"Of course not!" I wailed loud enough to cause the cashier to
turn and glare at me. "I saw- Philip at Sanctuary this weekend,
when I was there for work. We shared a cab home because it was
less complicated. The other girl was his family friend. Childhood
family friend. The whole thing could not have been less scandalous."
"Well, then, it seems this lillie Insider character is doing her job
splendidly. Take comfort in the fact that they didn't use your name,
darling. But don't think for a minute that it won't come soon."
"Do you know who she is, Will? I mean, you must have met
her somewhere along the line, don't you think?"
I heard Will chuckle and imagined the worst. "Well, I've certainly
heard lots of names bandied about, but there are no solid
leads. Some people insist it's some socialite ratting out all her
friends. Others seem to think it's an unknown with a few wellplaced
sources. For all we know, it could be that ex-fashion editor—
oh, what was her name? The one who keeps busy penning
nasty book reviews? I could see her writing trash like this."
"It's just creepy. I'm about ready for whomever it is to start focusing
on someone else, you know? Someone a little more interesting,
who might actually be living a scandalous life? I definitely
don't qualify." I bit into a piece of pizza, possibly the most perfect
slice in the world.
"I understand, darling, truly I do. But Philip qualifies, don't forget!
I hate to go rushing off, but my column doesn't seem to want
to write itself this week. Talk soon? Will we see you at dinner this
Thursday?"
"Of course," I said automatically before realizing that I was expected
to attend the launch of a new Gucci fragrance that night. I
knew I'd have to call back and cancel, but I just couldn't bring myself
to do it now. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. Talk to you later."
I finished my little slice of heaven and ordered a second, which
I also knocked off in record time. I was listlessly staring at a tattered
copy of the Post someone had left on the table when my
phone rang. HOME flashed on the caller ID.
"Hello?" I answered, wondering whether it was my mother or
father—or both, since they often enjoyed the tag-team calling of
first one, then the other, then all three of us talking from different
extensions.
"Bette, is that you?" my mother practically shouted. "Can you
hear me?" Her voice was, as usual, louder than necessary. She was
convinced that cell phones required above-average volume from
all involved parties and therefore screamed whenever she called
mine.
"I can hear you, Mom. Perfectly. How are you?"
"I can't really talk since I'm running into a scheduling meeting,
but one of the girls at the clinic today said she saw your picture on
some website. A picture of you and a famous boy and another girl?
Or something to that effect."
Impossible! My mother, who had only recently registered for
her own email address, was now receiving information about the
content of online gossip columns? I was quick to deny it. "It was
nothing, Mom, just a little photo of me at a work event."
"Bette, that's wonderful! Congratulations! I can't wait to see it. I
asked Dad to get online and print it out, but he couldn't seem to
open the page or something. Save us a copy?"
"Of course," I said meekly. "Will do. But seriously, it's nothing
important, just work stuff. I have to get back to the office, so can I
call you later?"
"Sure, dear. Congrats again. Not at the job long, and already
you're making headlines!"
If only she knew, I thought as I clicked off the phone. Thankfully,
there was no chance my father would ever figure out how to
register for the free account that New York Scoop offered to readers.
As long as no one actually printed it out and showed it to
them, I was safe. At least for now.
12
"I'd like to open tonight's meeting with a toast to Bette," Courtney
said, raising her mojito above her head.
I'd been reading a text message from Kelly politely requesting
(read: ordering) that I "put in an appearance" at the Mr. and Mrs.
Smith premiere that was being overseen by Skye and Leo. The
movie would end at exactly eleven o'clock, which meant I could
stop by the after-party at Duvet and still be home by twelve-thirty
and asleep by one A.M.—which would be the earliest night in
weeks. I had just concluded my calculations when the sound of my
name made me snap to attention.
"Me? What have I done to deserve a toast?" I asked distractedly.
The group stared at me as though unable to comprehend my
stupidity. Janie spoke first. "Excuse me, do you think we live in a
vacuum? That our lives cease to exist outside this book club?"
I just stared, having a fairly good idea where this was headed,
but still trying to prevent it from happening.
Jill mashed some limes with sugar in a bowl before spooning
more of the muddled mixture into my drink. "Bette, we all read
New York Scoop, you know—hell, everyone reads it. And you appear
to be the featured story every day. When on earth were you
planning to mention that your boyfriend just happens to be Philip
Weston?" She said his name with a slow deliberateness and everyone
laughed.
"Whoa, girls, let's hold on a second here. He is not my
boyfriend."
"Well, that's not what Ellie Insider seems to think," Alex
chirped in. Her hair was an unsavory shade of puke green tonight
and I marveled at the thought that even the East Village punk
crowd was reading that horrific column.
"Yeah, that's true," Vika added thoughtfully. "You do seem to
be with him quite frequently. And why not? He's wildly, undeniably,
fabulously gorgeous."
I thought about that for a moment. He was indeed gorgeous, and
every woman between the ages of fifteen and fifty seemed to want
him desperately, so what was so wrong with letting everyone think
we were dating? Unless I told them, no one would really know that I
hadn't been back to Philip's apartment since the first time I accidentally
woke up there. In fact, they probably wouldn't even believe it if
I explained that we only saw one another (and were subsequently
seen together) because I was expected to stop by every Kelly &
Company event—whether I'd worked on it or not. I'd run into Philip
"accidentally" almost every other night for weeks. After all, it was my
job to throw the best parties, and it was Philip's self-designated responsibility
to attend each and every one.
Why explain that even though we only chatted briefly at these
events, he always seemed to throw his arm around my shoulders
(or put his hand on my ass or his drink in front of my chest or his
mouth on my neck) precisely when a photographer happened to
stroll by? It appeared to anyone who was watching that we were
inseparable, but what got labeled as "lots of hot-and-heavy
canoodling" was about as sexual as my nightly cuddles with
Millington. Why, I wondered, would anyone possibly want to hear
all of that?
I knew the answer. Because he was the It Boy du jour, and I
was making out with him.
"He is cute, isn't he?" I asked. Philip Weston might be one of
the more arrogant guys I'd ever met, but it was ridiculous to deny
that I was absurdly attracted to him.
"Urn, yeah. And let's not overlook the fact that he's the most
perfect Harlequin guy you could imagine existing in real life."
Courtney sighed. "I think I'm going to model the hero of my next
novel after him."
"After Philip?" It was difficult to envision any leading Harlequin
man whining and bitching about his thread count, but I supposed
the genre could use some updating for the new millennium.
"Bette! He's tall, handsome, and powerful. He's even foreign,
for Christ's sake," she pointed out while waving a copy of Sweet
Savage Love and pointing to the hulking man in a loincloth on the
cover. "And better looking than Dominick, which is remarkable
when you consider that Dominick is drawn to look as gorgeous as
humanly possible."
The girl had a point. Philip fit the ideal of the romantic hero
more closely than any guy I'd met before—except for that small,
nagging little problem of his personality.
I spent the rest of book club distracted, dreamily wondering if
I'd see Philip later at the after-party and what might happen.
I ducked out of the meeting early and changed before heading
to Duvet. Where, of course, the first person I saw upon walking inside
was Mr. Weston himself.
"Bette, love, come say hello to a few mates visiting from England,"
he said, planting a brief but admittedly delicious kiss directly
on my lips.
I couldn't help it; I looked over my shoulder. I had promised
myself I'd be more aware of the photographers, but I saw nothing
unusual, just the regular beautiful writhing masses.
"Hi," I said, noticing (a) he looked even more like fictional
Dominick when he was standing in front of me, and (b) Courtney
was right: Philip was better-looking. "Can I meet you over there in
a minute? I've got to find Kelly and make sure everything's okay."
"Sure, love. Will you bring me a cocktail when you come back?
That'd be smashing!" And he scampered off to play with his
friends, as happy as a little boy at the playground.
I managed to check in with Kelly, ask Leo and Skye if they
needed anything, wave to Elisa as she made out with Davide, introduce
myself to two potential clients (the much-worshipped designer
Alvin Valley and someone who Kelly described to me as "the most
sought-after stylist in Hollywood"), and bring Philip a gin and tonic,
all in less than an hour. So much for what might happen with
Philip. He was busy entertaining his "blokes." The dull headache I'd
managed to ignore since morning had suddenly become sharper,
and I knew it couldn't be another late night. I slipped out the door
shortly thereafter and was home by twelve-fifteen (a solid fifteen
minutes ahead of schedule) and unconscious by twelve-thirty, after
deciding that silly nighttime rituals like teeth-brushing and facewashing
could easily be neglected. When my alarm went off six
and a half hours later, I was not looking good.
I grabbed the Dirt Alert before rushing out and read it as I inhaled
a large coffee and a buttered cinnamon-raisin bagel on the
subway. Unsurprisingly, New York Scoop was the first clipping of
the day's packet and, again, there was a huge picture—a closeup,
actually—of Philip kissing me the night before. Only the back
of his head was visible, but somehow the camera had zoomed in
on my face and caught me with some sort of faraway, dreamy
look caused by my eyes being only partially open while they
gazed adoringly at him. Or drunkenly, depending on how one
might interpret my half-blink. I probably should have expected it,
but since I'd never even spotted a camera, the full-page photo
made me physically recoil. That day's scoop was extra memorable.
As predicted, I'd graduated from being "Philip's gal pal" and "the
new girl" and "party girl" and "PR maven-in-training" to warranting
my own identity. Right there, under the picture—just in case
there was anyone left in New York State who didn't know my
whereabouts at all times—was my name, spelled in big, bold letters,
and a caption that read: APPARENTLY, SHE'S HERE TO STAY . . . BETTINA
ROBINSON KNOWS HOW TO PARTY. The feeling was a weird
mixture of embarrassment at having anyone see me in such a state,
indignation at the misrepresentation of it all, and a faint but persistent
misery at the realization that I no longer had anything remotely
resembling privacy.
The walk from the subway to the office felt six miles longer
than the actual three blocks it was, and it was made incrementally
worse when I overheard two perfect strangers talking about
Philip's "new girlfriend, what's her name?"
By the time I'd dropped my laptop bag on the circular table,
the entire staff had surrounded me.
"I suppose you've all seen it already?" I asked no one in particular,
flopping into a leather work chair.
"It's really nothing we don't already know," Kelly pointed out,
sounding disappointed. "It just says here that one Mr. Philip Weston
has been seen so frequently in the company of one Ms. Bettina
Robinson that it would only be fair to consider them an item."
"An item?" I asked, incredulous. In my horror at seeing the picture
and the caption, I'd simply forgotten to read the accompanying
text.
"Oh, yes, it says here that an unnamed source claims that the
two of you spend nearly every night together, after partying at all
the hot spots like Bungalow and Marquee."
"We are not dating," I insisted.
"The pictures are right here, Bette. And it very much appears
that you are, thank God." Kelly turned her twenty-inch flat-screen
Mac monitor toward the group so we could all enjoy the photos of
Philip and me.
My personal and professional lives had become not only intertwined
but completely dependent on one another. Any idiot could
see that my connection with Philip had made me an accepted part
of the team with a swiftness that made my head hurt.
"Well, it's just that dating is kind of a strong word," I said awkwardly.
Why did no one understand?
"Well, whatever you're doing, Bette, just keep on doing it. Do
you know we've been hired to represent BlackBerry solely because
you're dating Mr. Weston?"
Solely? I thought.
"Surprise, Bette! We got a call from their internal PR company
just this morning. They want us to introduce their new BlackBerry
to New York's younger set, and picked us because we clearly have
access to that world. BlackBerry's already huge, of course, with the
Wall Street crowd, and everyone who's anyone—and most people
who aren't—in Hollywood already has one, but they haven't hit as
big with the younger crowd. We will do our best to change that, of
course. And I'm happy to report that I'm putting you in charge of
all the logistics, reporting to me only for approval."
"In charge?" I stammered.
"Their account rep told us how much she'd love to have you
planning and Philip hosting the event, so I think it works out perfectly!"
she sang, not the least bit aware that Philip most likely still
didn't even know my full name.
"Skye will help you with whatever you need"—a quick glance
at Skye informed me that she wasn't thrilled with this pronouncement—"
and we'll all be here to support you. The party is scheduled
for November twenty-second, which is the Tuesday before
Thanksgiving, so you'd better get started immediately."
I did a few mental calculations and realized that it was less
than three weeks away. I said as much.
"Oh, Bette, stop stressing," Elisa said with an exasperated eyeroll.
"It's nothing. Find a venue, get sponsors, order invites, work
The List, and save all your presswork until that week. Anything
that Philip hosts will be automatically covered, so this is not exactly
going to be a lot of work."
When the meeting finally ended, I ducked out with my laptop
and headed to Starbucks in a panicky effort to figure out exactly
what needed to happen for the BlackBerry event. I almost hoped
Philip would make it some sort of quid pro quo that he'd host the
event if I'd sleep with him . . . and then immediately felt pathetic.
Everyone assumed we'd already consummated our relationship,
but the reality was that we both seemed to avoid the situation entirely.
Which wasn't difficult, considering he only seemed to want
to mug for the cameras. He was great with the suggestive remarks,
but he never really followed up on any of them, and he seemed almost
relieved when I brushed him off and left alone each night.
There hadn't been much time to think about it, but I figured he
had some sort of top-secret girlfriend (or five) that he kept sequestered
away and was content to let the general public think we
were dating. It was vaguely insulting—I still wanted him to want to
have sex with me—but we seemed to have an unspoken agreement
to maintain the present arrangement.
I left a message with Amy Sacco's office asking if we could reserve
Bungalow for the BlackBerry event, just as Penelope called
on the other line.
"Hey, what's going on? What warrants the middle-of-the-day
call? How's Aaron? Have you seen him lately?"
"Do you know how much the quality of my work life has improved
since you left?" Penelope asked. "No offense, but it's almost
worth not having you around to never have him utter the word
powwow. How's lover boy?"
"Oh, you mean my boyfriend? He's dreamy," I said.
"Tell me," Penelope said, trying to sound enthusiastic. I knowshe
couldn't stand the thought of Philip, but she'd been kind
enough not to say that outright . . . yet.
"Let's see. Things are, like, so amazing. We go to these wonderful
parties where he spends at least a few minutes talking to me
before flirting with every other girl there. Often I'm allowed to
bring him his favorite cocktail—gin and tonic, for the record. I let
him kiss me for the photographers and then we go our separate
ways. No sex, by the way. We haven't even spent the night together
since I passed out there the first time I met him."
"Maybe he's just so overwhelmed by the amount of sex he's
having with every model, actress, and socialite in London, Los Angeles,
and New York that he's just physically exhausted? it's possible,
you know."
"Did I ever tell you what a good friend you are, Pen? Seriously,
you always know exactly what to say."
She laughed. "Yeah, well, I don't have to spell out that I think
you're not doing yourself justice. But enough, let's talk about me
for a second. I have something to tell you."
"You're knocked up and feel guilty about getting rid of it because
you're engaged and old enough to take responsibility for
your own actions?" I asked eagerly, leaning in closer to the phone
as though she could see me.
She sighed, and I knew she was rolling her eyes.
"You're knocked up and it's not Avery's baby?"
When this elicited nothing but another exasperated sound, I
decided on just one more.
"You're knocked up and—"
"Bette." Her voice tightened and I could tell she wasn't enjoying
this nearly as much as I was.
"Sorry. What's up?"
"I'm leaving."
"You're what?"
"I'm leaving. Done. I'm finished."
"Ohmigod, no."
"Yes," she said.
"It's definite?"
"Yes."
"Are you serious? Just like that? Over? Are you okay with it?"
I was doing everything possible to contain my glee at the idea
that she wouldn't be going through with the wedding, but it was
difficult, especially since I knew she'd probably had to walk in on
Avery and some girl, a scenario I'd already decided was the only
way she'd ever believe it. That aside, she sounded good. Maybe it
was the best thing and she knew it.
"Honestly? I didn't expect this, but I couldn't be happier. I've
wanted to do it for a long time and, well, I'm just so excited about
what's next."
I slowly took a sip of my coffee and contemplated this new information.
"You wouldn't be this excited if you hadn't met someone
else. Who is he? I had no idea you and Avery were having
trouble—how could you not tell me?" I choked out. "What about
the ring? You know, etiquette dictates that if you're the one to
break off the engagement, you've got to give it back. Ohmigod, he
isn't cheating on you, is he?" I pretended to be horrified at even
the idea of it, as though it were just too impossible to even imagine.
"Is that bastard—"
"Bette, stop! I'm not leaving Avery, I'm leaving this job!" she
hissed, trying not to be overheard by her cubicle mates.
Serious one-eighty—and a major disappointment.
"You're leaving UBS? Really? What happened?"
"Well, I kind of had no choice. Avery got accepted to UCLA for
law school, so we're moving there. He doesn't start until January,
but we figured we'd go now to get settled and learn our way
around."
"UCLA?"
"Uh-huh."
"So you're not leaving Avery, you're leaving me?" I wailwhispered.
The juicy story of my best friend cheating on her
fiance had become the story of my best friend moving to another
coast.
"I'm not leaving you," she said, sighing. "I'm leaving this job
and this city and going to California. Probably just for the three
years, and then I'll be back. And we'll visit, of course. You'll love
coming out there when it's February and you haven't left your
apartment in twelve days because the temperature hasn't hit the
double digits."
"There aren't law schools on the East Coast? Avery really has to
be so selfish as to drag you all the way out, out, there?'
"Oh, Bette, shut up and be happy for me. UCLA is a great
school, and besides, I could use a change. I've lived in the city for
five years since graduation, and eighteen before it. I'll be back,
there's no getting around that. But for now I think it could be nice
to do something different."
It occurred to me right then that as a friend, I was required to
express some sort of support, however lame it might come across.
"Honey, I'm sorry, this is just all so surprising—you didn't even
mention he was applying out west. If this is what you want to do,
then I'm excited for you. And I promise to try very, very hard to
stop only thinking about how it will affect me, okay?"
"Yeah, he did the UCLA application at the last second, and I
never thought he'd want to go there. But seriously, I'm not too
worried about you. You've got a whole new crew now, and I have
a feeling you'll be just fine without me. . . ." She let the words trail
off, trying to sound casual, but we both knew this was the closest
she'd ever get to saying something more important.
"Well, we'll have to have a great big going-away dinner for you
guys," I said with forced cheer, not quite acknowledging my opportunity
to disagree.
"As you can imagine, our mothers are already on that. We're
leaving sort of soon, so they planned a joint dinner at the Four
Seasons on Saturday. You'll be there, right? It'll be dreadful, but
you're obligated to attend nonetheless." She cleared her throat.
"And, of course, Philip is always invited."
"Pen! Of course I'll be there. And I'll certainly spare all of you
Philip's company."
My call waiting beeped with a 917 number I didn't recognize. I
decided to answer it in case it was related to the BlackBerry party.
"I'm sorry, Pen, I've got to take this call. Can I call you later?"
"Sure, no worries."
"Okay, I'll talk to you in a few. And congratulations! If you're
happy, then so am 1. Grudgingly, of course. But happy for you."
We hung up and I clicked over right before the phone went
to voice mail. "May I speak with Bette?" I heard a gravelly male
voice ask.
"Speaking."
"Bette, this is Sammy calling from Amy Sacco's office. You
called about a date you wanted to reserve the club?"
Sammy? Wasn't that the name of the Bungalow 8 bouncer?
Could there be more than one Sammy in her employ? I didn't
know that bouncers did office work.
"Yes, hi, how are you?" I said as professionally as possible, although
he certainly didn't know my name or remember me as the
cranky girl with no umbrella.
"Great. We got your message, and Amy asked me to call you
back because she's tied up all afternoon." The rest was drowned
out by the screech of sirens.
"Sorry, I missed that. It's just the loudest siren I've ever heard.
It must be eight fire trucks or something," I screamed, tiying to be
heard over the wails.
"I hear it, too, only not just through the phone. Where are you
now?"
"I'm at the Starbucks near Eighth and Broadway. Why?"
"That's weird. I'm literally across the street. I was just leaving
class when I got the message from Amy to call you back. Hold on,
I'm coming over." He hung up, and I stared at the phone for a second
before frantically yanking a lip gloss and brush out of my bag
and sprinting for the bathroom, which, naturally, was occupied. I
watched as he approached the front door and then bolted back to
my table in a side nook, falling back into my seat before he even
saw me.
There was no subtle way to fix anything right now since I
needed to focus my energy on pretending to look both busy and
indifferent, which was impossible. I knew I'd choke if I tried to
drink or drop my phone if I pretended to be talking, and so I just
sat, staring at my Filofax with such determined interest that I briefly
wondered if it might just up and ignite from the intensity of my
gaze. A quick mental survey of my physical state revealed a list of
cliched reactions—shaking hands, pounding heart, dry mouth—
that could indicate only one thing: my body was telling me that I
liked Sammy or, quite possibly, that I worshipped him. Which, if
one cared to draw a parallel, was exactly how Lucinda felt right
before her first one-on-one meeting with Marcello in The
Magnate's Tender Touch. This was the first time I could ever remember
feeling all tingly with nervous anticipation, just like the
women in my books always did.
I felt him standing over me before I saw him, a sort of amorphous
figure in all black. And he smelled good! Like freshly baked
bread or sugar cookies or something equally as wholesome. He
probably stood there for thirty seconds, staring at me stare at my
Filofax, before I finally mustered the nerve to look up, just as he
cleared his throat.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey," he said right back. He was unconsciously rubbing at
what appeared to be a flour stain on his black pants, but he
stopped when he noticed me watching.
"Uh, would you like to sit down?" I stammered, wondering
why it was utterly impossible for me to make one intelligible or coherent
statement.
"Sure. I, uh, I just thought it might be easier to do this in person
since I was, uh, right across the street, you know?" It was comforting
that he didn't sound much better.
"Yeah, definitely, it makes perfect sense. Did you say you were
just coming from class? Are you taking a bartending course? I've al-
ways wanted to do that!" I was rambling now, but I couldn't help
it. "It just seems like it'd be the most useful thing, whether or not
you actually work in a bar. I don't know. It'd be nice to know how
to mix a decent drink or something. You know?"
He smiled for the first time, a megawatt ear-to-ear shiner, and I
thought I might just cease living if he ever stopped. "No, it's not for
bartending, it's for pastry-making," he said.
It didn't make much sense that the bouncer was into pastries,
but I thought it was nice that he had outside interests. After all,
aside from the nightly ego rush of rejecting people based on appearance
alone, I imagined it got pretty boring.
"Oh, really? Interesting. Do you cook a lot in your free time?" I
was only asking to be polite, which, unfortunately, came across
loud and clear in my voice. I rushed on. "I mean, is that a particular
passion of yours?"
"Passion?" He grinned again. "I'm not sure I would call it a
'passion,' but yeah, I like to cook. And I sort of have to, for
work."
Ohmigod. I couldn't believe he'd called me out for using that
ridiculous word, passion.
"You have to?" It came out sounding downright snotty. "I'm
sorry, I didn't mean it like that. Where do you cook?"
"I'm studying to be a chef, actually," he said, diverting his eyes
from mine.
This was a new and interesting development. "A chef? Really?
Where?"
"Well, nowhere yet, really. I already graduated from CIA and
I'm taking a few classes at night. Like pastry-making." He laughed.
"How'd you get into that?"
"I'm not particularly into it, but it's good to know. Aside from
making omelet dinners growing up when it was my turn, I didn't
really ever cook. I lived in Ithaca for a summer in high school with
a buddy and worked as a waiter at the Statler Hotel on Cornell's
campus. One day the general manager saw me refilling a guest's
coffee by holding the carafe almost four feet above the cup and
freaked out—he loved it. He convinced me to apply to the hotel
school there. He got me a few scholarships, and I worked the
whole time—busboy, waiter, night manager, bartender, you name
it—and when I graduated he hooked me up with a yearlong apprenticeship
at a Michelin-starred restaurant in France. It was entirely
his doing."
I was vaguely aware that my mouth was quite unattractively
hanging open in shock at this information, but Sammy graciously
saved me from myself by continuing.
"You're probably wondering why I'm working as a bouncer at
Bungalow, huh?" He grinned.
"No, not at all. Whatever works for you. Um, I mean, it's just a
different side of the hospitality industry, right?"
"I'm paying my dues now. I've worked in what feels like every
imaginable restaurant in this city." He laughed. "But it'll be worth it
when I finally open my own place. Hopefully it'll be sooner rather
than later."
I must have still looked confused because he just laughed.
"Well, clearly the first and foremost reason is the money. You can
actually make a decent living piecing together a few security and
bartending gigs, and I have a bunch of that stuff going on. It keeps
me from going out at night and spending, so I stick it out. Everyone
says there's nothing like opening a restaurant in this city. I've
been told it's really important to know all the social politics, from
who's sleeping with whom to who's really important and who's
just pretending they're a player. It doesn't really interest me, but I
don't exactly run with that crowd, so there's no better way than to
watch them in their native environments."
He clamped a hand over his mouth and peered at me. "Look, I
probably shouldn't have said all that. I didn't mean any offense to
you and your friends, it's just that—"
Love. All-consuming and overwhelming love. It was all I could
do not to grab his face and kiss him full on the mouth . . . he
looked so horrified.
"Seriously, don't say another word," I said. I moved my hand to
touch his reassuringly, but I lost my nerve at the last minute and
my fingers ended up awkwardly suspended above the table. Lu-
cinda from Magnate would've been cool enough to pull off that
move, but I, apparently, was not. "I think it's really great what
you're doing. I can't imagine some of the things you must see
every night. Ridiculous stuff, right?"
It was all he needed to hear. "Christ, it's incredible. All those
people—they have so much money and so much time and don't
seem to want to do anything but beg me to let them into these
clubs every night," he said. His eyes met mine.
"It's got to be kind of fun, though, isn't it? I mean, people fall
all over themselves trying to be nice to you," I managed, too distracted
by his gaze to think straight.
"Oh, come on, Bette, we both know it's hardly like that. They
kiss my ass because they need me, not because they know anything
about me or like me as a person. I have a very short shelf life
for respect and likability—namely, the few minutes between the
time they arrive and the time they walk inside. They wouldn't remember
my name if they saw me anywhere away from that velvet
rope."
The look of distress returned to his face, and I noticed how his
forehead wrinkled when he frowned, and it only made him cuter.
He sighed and I had a bizarre desire to hug him. "I have such a big
mouth. Forget everything I just said. I really don't take the job all
that seriously, so I shouldn't make it sound like it's a bigger deal
than it really is. It's just a means to an end, and I can put up with
anything if it'll get me closer to my restaurant one day."
I was desperate for him to keep talking, saying anything about
anyone just so I could continue to watch his perfect face and examine
the way his mouth moved and his hands gestured, but he
was finished. When I opened my mouth to tell him that I understood
exactly what he meant and had never really thought of it
from that perspective, he gently cut me off. "I guess you're just
easy to talk to," he said and smiled so sweetly that I had to remind
myself to breathe. "I'd appreciate if you didn't mention any of this
stuff to anyone at your office. It's just easier for me to do what 1
need to do without everyone, well, uh, you know."
I sure did know. Without everyone knowing where you came
from and where you were going, trying to decide at every moment
if you fell into their own personal "worth knowing" or "safe not to
acknowledge" categories. Without everyone angling for position or
trying to manipulate the situation to their own benefit or slowly but
surely chipping away at your confidence because it made them
feel better about themselves. Uncle Will was joking when he always
said, "If you can't have, discredit," but most of this crowd
weren't. Yes, I got it, loud and clear.
"Of course. Totally. I understand completely. I, uh, I think it's
really cool what you're doing," I said.
Another blinding smile. Ah! I tried to think of something, anything,
I could say that would elicit another smile, but one of us finally
remembered that we were there on business.
He seemed completely recovered from any moment of vulnerability
when he said, "I'm getting a coffee, and then we can figure
out the event details. Can I get you something?"
I shook my head and pointed to my coffee cup.
"No grande sugar-free vanilla extra-hot no-whip skim latte?"
I laughed and shook my head again.
"What? You think I'm kidding? I actually order that fucking
drink every time I come here."
"You do not."
"I do, I swear I do. I made it through twenty-some years of life
being perfectly fine with a cup of regular coffee. Sometimes I had
it light and sweet, and sometimes late at night I asked for it decaf,
but it was definitely just coffee. Then a friend mentioned how
good lattes were. Soon after that a girl from school announced that
adding flavoring made it even better. The rest of it just followed,
and it's gotten totally out of hand. I wish, just once, they'd refuse
to make the damn thing, just say, 'Get ahold of yourself, Sammy.
Be a man and drink a goddamn cup of regular coffee.' But they
never do and, alas, neither do I." And with that, he was off.
I watched as the barista flashed him an undeniable I'm-yoursfor-
the-taking smile. I don't think I blinked the entire time he was
gone, and I audibly exhaled when he reclaimed his seat next
to me.
"Okay, enough confessional for one day. Should we get this
party worked out?" He brushed the back of his head, and I
couldn't help thinking that I'd seen him do that a million times before.
"Sure. What first?" I sipped my coffee and concentrated on
looking cool and professional.
"How many did you say the event is for?"
"I'm not exactly sure, since I haven't put together a finalized list
yet"—or any list, for that matter, but he didn't need to know that—
"but I'm thinking it'll be in the area of a couple hundred."
"And will Kelly & Company be bringing in its own people for
everything or using ours?"
Again, not something I'd considered yet, but I tried to think
back to past meetings and cobble together a semi-reasonable answer.
"Well, I'll definitely be securing some sponsors, so I think
we'll do alcohol but use your bartenders. I'm assuming we'll be
using your, uh, your . . ."
"Security?" he provided helpfully, somehow sensing my discomfort
at using the word bouncers.
"Yes, exactly, although I'll have to check on that."
"Sounds good to me. As of now, only Lot 61 is free that night,
but Amy may want to consider rearranging the schedule. Who will
be hosting?"
"Oh, uh, a guy named Philip Weston. He, uh, he's—"
"I know who he is. Your boyfriend, right? I've seen you guys together
a lot lately. Yeah, I'm sure Amy will be thrilled to hear that, so
I wouldn't worry about Bungalow being free that night."
"No, no, he's certainly not my boyfriend," I said as quickly as
possible. "It's not like that at all. Actually, he's just this weird guy I
sort of know who—"
"None of my business, that's for sure. Guy always seemed like
kind of an asshole to me, but what do I know, right?" Was that bitterness
I detected? Or wanted to detect?
"Yes, I suppose it's not any of your business, is it?" I said with
such prissiness that he actually physically recoiled.
We stared at each other briefly before he looked away.
He took another sip of his coffee and began to gather his stuff.
"Well, then, this has been fun. I'll check with Amy and get back to
you about the venue. Assume it's fine. Like I said, who wouldn't
jump at the chance to have Mr. British Royalty himself throw a
party, right? He's going to have to start tanning now if he has any
hope of being dark enough in time."
"Thanks for your concern, I'll be sure to pass that along. In the
meantime, you enjoy making your little puff pastries. I'll work out
the details of the event on my own or directly with Amy, since as
much as 1 enjoy being verbally attacked by you, I don't really
have the time right now." I stood up with as much steadiness as I
could manage and began to lurch toward the door, already wondering
how things had managed to go so terribly wrong in so little
time.
"Rette!" he called just as I was about to pull open the door. He's
so sony. He just had a really long day and is under a lot of stress
lately and hasn 't been getting enough sleep and he didn 7 mean to
take it out on me. Either that, or he's so wildly, insanely jealous of the
fact that Philip and I are dating that he simply couldn't refrain from
saying something nasty. Or perhaps a combination of the two, I
thought. Either way, I would of course forgive him when he begged
for me to understand and apologized profusely.
I turned around, hoping all the time that he would rush toward
me with a plea for forgiveness, but instead he was holding up
something and waving it. My cell phone. Which naturally began
ringing before I'd reached the table.
He glanced down and I spotted the tightness in his face before
he forced a smile. "What a coincidence, it's the man of the hour.
Shall I take a message for you? Don't worry, I promise to tell him
we're on a jet on our way back from Cannes and not sitting at a
downtown Starbucks."
"Give that to me," I snapped, wanting to kick myself for programming
Philip's number into my phone while yanking it from
Sammy's fingers and noticing only briefly how nice it was to touch
his skin. I silenced the ringer and tossed it in my bag.
"Don't not answer on my account."
155
156 lauren weisberger
"I'm not doing anything on your account," I announced. I
looked back only once as I stormed out, only to see him watching
me and shaking his head. Not exactly how the same scene ivould've
played out in The Magnate's Tender Touch, I thought with not a little
remorse. But I cheered myself up slightly with the rationalization
that all new relationships—even the fictional ones—have
obstacles to overcome in the beginning. I would not give up hope
on this one. Not yet.
13
The rest of the day after the Starbucks encounter passed in a
blur as I alternately obsessed over my bizarre fight with Sammy
and Penelope's news that she was moving. Both of these, combined
with the reality that I was entirely responsible for planning
an event that was to take place in two and a half weeks, made me
want to curl up with Millington and watch back-to-back showings
of When Harry Met Sally on TNT. By the time I arrived at home,
my small-talk quotient was rapidly approaching zero, and I still
had to traverse the entire lobby to reach the elevator, where I
would surely be accosted by Seamus. I'd managed to press the button
and was silently rejoicing in my victory when he materialized,
as always, out of nowhere.
"Good day?" he asked with a huge smile.
"Urn, yeah, it was fine, I guess. And you?"
"Fine sounds very different from good, Bette!" he was practically
singing. What sort of vibe did I give off that said "Talk to me"?
"I suppose it is different, but I think 'good' would be an overstatement.
It was definitively fine," I explained, wondering if it'd be
worth it to climb thirteen flights of stairs rather than wait for the elevator
and endure the interim conversation.
"Well, let's just say I have a really good feeling it's going to get
better," he replied with what was, unmistakably, a wink.
"Mmm, really?" I said, desperately staring at the elevator doors
and willing them to open. "That'd be nice."
"Yep, you heard it here first. I officially predict that your day is
going to improve significantly within the next couple of minutes."
He said this with such certainty—and in that particularly rankling
I-know-something-you-don't-know tone—that I actually looked up
at him.
"Is there something I should know? Is someone here?" I asked,
both horrified and curious as to who might be staking out my
apartment, waiting for me to get home.
"Okay, well, I've said enough, that much is for sure!" he sang.
"It's none of my business, of course. Time for me to get back to
the door." He tipped his hat and turned on his heels and I wondered
if there was any possible way to ask him nicely never to
speak to me again.
I knew exactly what he'd meant when I stepped off the elevator
and rounded the corner to lucky number 1313. Resting against
the door were the most gorgeous flowers I'd ever seen. My first
thought was that they'd been mistakenly left in front of my door
and were actually for someone else, but as I got closer, I could see
my name written in black marker on the outside of the envelope
that was nestled behind the cellophane wrapping. After accepting
that it wasn't a delivery glitch, a second thought popped into my
head immediately: they were from Sammy, who'd thought over
everything that had happened earlier and wanted to apologize for
his behavior. Yes! I knew he wasn't such a bad guy, and flowers
were such a sweet, gentlemanly way of getting in touch to say he's
sorry. I'm sorry, too, I mentally directed toward the flowers. I don't
know why I was so bitchy and nasty, especially since I haven't
stopped thinking about you for one second since then. Yes, I'd love
to meet you for dinner and put that whole stupid conversation behind
us. And if you must know, I'm already beginning to envision
you as the father of my future children, so we'd best be getting to
know each other. How much our kids will love hearing that our lifelong
love affair began with a fight and makeup flowers/ It's almost
so romantic I can't bear it. Yes, darling, yes, I forgive you and I
apologize a hundred times myself and I know this will make us
stronger.
I heaved the arrangement upward and unlocked the door, so
delighted with this surprise that I barely even noticed Millington
wrapping herself around my leg. Flowers always featured promi-
nently in romance novels, which made receiving such a first-rate
bouquet even more wonderful. There were actually three dozen
roses in shades of bright purple and hot pink and white, all clustered
tightly together in a short, round bowl that appeared to be
filled with some sort of sparkling glass marbles. Completely absent
was any sort of adornment—no ribbons, bows, filler greenery,
or ugly baby's breath; it screamed simple and elegant and very,
very expensive. The card wasn't the ordinary sort, either. It was
a heavy cream vellum and I couldn't tear it from the purplelined
envelope fast enough. But it took only a split second for my
eyes to find the signature, and when they did, I thought I might
pass out.
Doll, I'll absobloodylutely host the BlackBerry event! We'll make
it the poshest party of the year. You're brilliant. Big kiss! Philip
What?! I reread it a few dozen times to make sure my brain was
correctly processing the words, and then I read it again because I
still couldn't believe it. How did he know where I lived? How on
earth did he know anything about the event when I hadn't even
mentioned it yet? But more to the point, where was Sammy, with
his declaration of undying love? I flung the card across the room,
left the flowers on the kitchen counter, and flopped quite dramatically
onto the couch. Within seconds, my cell phone and land line
began ringing simultaneously, and a cursory check of each yielded
even more disappointing results: Elisa on the cell and Uncle Will
on the home phone. No Sammy.
I flipped open my cell and told Elisa to hold on before she
could even speak and then clicked the portable on and said hi to
Will.
"Darling, is everything all right? You're late, and Simon and 1
are worried that you're drowning your public-humiliation sorrows
all alone. We both thought you looked great in that last New York
Scoop photo! Let's get sloshed together! Are you on your way?"
Dammit! I'd forgotten all about dinner. Even though Thursday
nights had been the standing plan since the day I'd graduated from
college, I'd missed the last few weeks for Kelly events and had obviously
completely flaked on tonight.
"Will! I'm sorry I'm late, but I was at the office until two minutes
ago and I just ran home to feed Millington. I'm literally walking
out the door this minute."
"Sure, darling, of course. I'll buy that story if it's the best you're
offering, but I'm not letting you out of tonight. We will see you
soon, yes?"
"Of course. In just a few minutes . . ."
I hung up without saying good-bye and turned back to my cell
phone.
"Hey, sorry about that. My uncle just called and I—"
"Bette! You'll never guess what! I have the best news in
the whole world. Are you sitting down? Ohmigod, I'm just so excited."
I didn't think I could handle another engagement announcement,
so I just leaned back into the cushions and waited patiently,
knowing that Elisa wouldn't be able to hold out for long.
"Well, you'll never imagine who I just spoke to." Her silence indicated
I was supposed to respond, but I couldn't muster the energy
to ask.
"None other than our favorite gorgeous and no-longer-eligible
bachelor, Mr. Philip Weston. He was calling to invite the whole
crew to a party and I just happened to answer and—oh, Bette,
don't be mad, I just couldn't hold out—I asked him if he'd host
your BlackBerry event and he said he'd love to." At this point, she
actually squealed.
"Really?" I asked, feigning surprise. "That's great. Of course I'm
not mad; that saves me from having to ask him. Did he sound excited
about it, or just willing?" I didn't really care, but I couldn't
think of anything else to say.
"Well, I didn't technically speak to him, but I'm sure he's totally
thrilled."
"What do you mean by 'technically'? You just said that he
called and—"
"Oh, did I say that? Oops!" She giggled. "What I meant to say
was that his assistant called and I ran the whole thing by her and
she said of course Philip would be delighted. It's totally the same
thing, Bette, so I wouldn't worry about it for a second. How great
is that?"
"Well, I guess you're right because I just got flowers from him
with a card saying that he's going to do it, so it seems like everything
worked out."
"Oooooooh, my god! Philip Weston is sending you flowers?
Bette, he must be in love. That boy is just so amazing." Long sigh
on her part.
"Yes, well, I've got to run, Elisa. Seriously, thanks for figuring it
out with him. I really appreciate it."
"Where are you off to? You guys have a hot date tonight?"
"Uh, no. I'm just headed to my uncle's for dinner and then
straight to bed. I haven't been home before two A.M. since I started
this job, and I'm just ready to—"
"I know! Isn't it great? I mean, what other job would actually
require that you stay out and party all night? We're so lucky." Another
sigh, followed by a moment for both of us to reflect on this
truth.
"We are, yeah. Thanks again, Elisa. Have fun tonight, okay?"
"Always do," she sang. "And Bette? For all it's worth, you may
have gotten this job because of your uncle, but I think you're
doing great so far."
Ouch. It was classic Elisa: a backhanded compliment meant to
sound entirely sincere and positive. I didn't have the energy to
start, so I said, "You do? Thanks, Elisa. That means a lot to me."
"Yeah, well, you're dating Philip Weston and, like, totally planning
a whole event yourself. It took me almost a year to do that
once I started."
"Which one?" I asked.
"Both," she said.
We laughed together and said good-bye and I hung up before
she could insist that I attend another party. For that very brief moment,
she actually felt like a friend.
After a quick scratch for Millington and an even quicker change
into jeans and a blazer, I shot one last bitter glance at the flowers
and bolted downstairs to get a cab. Simon and Will were bickering
as I let myself into the apartment and waited quietly in the ultramodern
foyer, perched on a granite bench underneath a bright
Warhol that I knew we'd covered in art history but about which I
could recall not a single detail.
"I just don't understand how you could invite him into our
home," Simon was saying in the study.
"And I'm not sure what you don't understand about it. He's my
friend, and he's in town, and it would be rude not to see him,"
Will replied, sounding nonplussed.
"Will, he hates gays. He makes a living hating gays. Gets paid
to hate gays. We're gay. What's so hard to understand?"
"Oh, details, darling, details. We all say things we don't quite
mean in the public arena to generate a little controversy—it's good
for the career. It doesn't mean we actually mean it. Hell, just in last
week's column I had a moment of weakness, or perhaps hallucination,
and wrote that pandering line about how rap music is its own
art form, or something inane to that effect. Seriously, Simon, no
one actually thinks I believe that. It's very much the same situation
with Rush. His Jew-gay-black hating is strictly for ratings; it's certainly
not reflective of his personal opinions."
"You are so naive, Will, so naive. I can no longer have this
conversation." I heard a door slam, a long sigh, and ice cubes
being dropped into a glass. It was time.
"Bette! Darling! I didn't even hear you come in. Were you lucky
enough to witness our latest tiff?"
I kissed him on his clean-shaven cheek and assumed my usual
perch on the lime green chaise. "I sure did. Are you actually inviting
Rush Limbaugh here?" I asked, slightly incredulous but not
really surprised.
"I am. I've been to his home a half-dozen times over the years,
and he's a perfectly nice fellow. Of course, I was never quite
aware of how heavily medicated he was during those evenings,
but it somehow makes him even more endearing." He took a deep
breath. "Enough. Tell me what's new in your fabulous life?"
It always amazed me how he could be so cool and casual
about everything. I remember my mother explaining to me as a
child that Uncle Will was gay and that Simon was his boyfriend
and that as long as two people are happy together, things like gender
or race or religion don't mean anything at all (not applicable,
of course, to me marrying a non-Jew, but that went without saying.
My parents were as liberal and open-minded as two people
could get when they were talking about anyone besides their own
kid). Will and Simon visited Poughkeepsie a few weeks later and
as we sat at the dinner table, trying to choke down fistfuls of
sprouts and what felt like never-ending rations of vegetarian dahl, I
had asked in my sweet ten-year-old voice, "Uncle Will, what's it
like to be gay?"
He'd raised his eyebrows at my parents, glanced at Simon, and
looked me straight in the eye. "Well, dear, it's quite nice, if I do say
so myself. I've been with girls, of course, but you do soon realize
that they just don't, ah, well, work for you, if you know what I
mean." I didn't know, but I was certainly enjoying the pained faces
my parents were making.
"Do you and Simon sleep in the same bed like Mommy and
Daddy?" I'd continued, sounding as sweet and innocent as I possibly
could.
"We do, darling. We're exactly like your parents. Only different."
He took a swig of the scotch my parents kept on hand for his
visits and smiled at Simon. "Just like a regular married couple, we
fight and we make up and I'm not afraid to tell him that even he
can't pull off white linen pants before Memorial Day. Nothing's different."
"Well then, that was an illuminating conversation, wasn't it?" My
father cleared his throat. "The important thing to remember, Bette,
is that you always treat everyone the same, regardless of how they
might be different from you."
Booooring. I had no interest in another love-in lecture, so I settled
on one last question: "When did you find out you were gay,
Uncle Will?"
He took another sip of scotch and said, "Oh, it was probably
when I was in the army. I sort of woke up one day and realized I'd
been sleeping with my commanding officer for some time," he
replied casually. He nodded, more sure now. "Yes, come to think
of it, that was rather telling for me."
It didn't matter that I was slightly unclear on the terms sleeping
with and commanding officer; my father's sharp inhalation and the
look my mother shot Will across the table were perfectly sufficient.
When I'd asked him years later if that was actually when he realized
he preferred men, he'd laughed and said, "Well, I'm not sure
that was the first time, darling, but it was certainly the only one
that was appropriate for the dinner table."
Now he sat calmly, sipping his martini and waiting for me to
tell him all about my new and improved life. But before I could
come up with something to offer, he said, "I assume you've gotten
the invitation to your parents' for the Harvest Festival?"
"I have, yes." I sighed. Every year my parents threw their Harvest
Festival party in the backyard to celebrate Thanksgiving with
all their friends. It was always on Thursday, and they never served
turkey. My mother had called a few days earlier and, after listening
politely to the details of my new job—which to my parents was
only slightly preferable to padding the coffers of a huge corporate
bank—she'd reminded me yet again that the party was coming up
and that my presence was expected. Will and Simon always RSVPd
yes, only to cancel at the last moment.
"I suppose I'll drive us all up there Wednesday when you're
done with work," Will said now, and I barely managed to keep
from rolling my eyes. "How is everything going, by the way? Judging
from everything I'm reading, you seem to have, ah, embraced
the job." He didn't smile, but his eyes sparkled, and I swatted him
on the shoulder.
"Mmm, yes, you must mean the new little write-up in New
York Scoop." I sighed. "Why are they after me?"
"They're after everyone, darling. When your sole mission as a
columnist—online or otherwise—is to cover what's being consumed
in the Conde Nast cafeteria, well, nothing should really surprise
you. Have you read the latest?"
"This isn't the latest?" I felt the familiar dread begin to build.
"Oh, no, darling, I'm afraid to say it isn't. My assistant faxed it
here an hour ago."
"Is it awful?" I asked, not really wanting an answer.
"It's less than complimentary. For both of us."
I felt my stomach flip. "Oh, Christ. I can understand Philip,
but for whatever reason they've made me their project, and
there's not a damn thing I can do about it. Now they're including
you?"
"I can hold my own, darling. I'm not thrilled, but I can handle
it. As far as you're concerned, you're right. There's not much you
can do, but I would certainly advise you not to do anything exceptionally
stupid in public, or at least while you're in the company of
this certain gentleman. But I'm not telling you anything you don't
already know."
I nodded. "I just don't think my life is interesting enough to
chronicle, you know? I mean, I'm no one. I go to work, I go out
because I have to, and all of a sudden, my activities are fair game
for public consumption."
"Not yours—his," Will pointed out, absentmindedly fingering
the platinum ring that Simon called a wedding band and Will referred
to as "Simon's security blanket."
"You're right. I just can't seem to extricate myself. He's omnipresent.
And it's such a weird situation."
"How so?" We both smiled when Simon swooshed by in an
angry huff of ivory linen, and Will mouthed the word snit.
"Well . . . I don't actually like Philip as a person, but—"
"Darling! Don't let that stop you from dating someone! If liking
the person was a requirement for having sex with them, well then,
we'd all be in trouble."
"See, that's the other thing. I'm not actually sleeping with him.
Or rather, he's not sleeping with me."
Will raised an eyebrow. "I have to admit, that one puzzles me."
"Well, at first it was because I didn't want to. Or at least
that's what I thought. I just thought he was kind of a jerk, and even
though I'm sure of it now, there's something that attracts me to him.
Not in any kind of redeeming-quality way whatsoever, but he's cer-
tainly different from everyone else I know. And he's just not interested."
Will was about to say something but stopped himself just as his
mouth opened. He appeared to regroup for a minute and then
said, "I see. Well, ah, I have to say, I'm not actually surprised."
"Will! Am I that much of a cow?"
"Darling, I have neither the time nor the inclination to spoonfeed
you compliments right now. You know that's precisely not
how I meant it. I just find it unsurprising since it's the men who
talk about sex the most, the ones who make it such a crucial element
of their identities, who actually define themselves by it, are
usually the ones not performing up to par. With most people,
when they're happy with that area of their lives, they're also happy
to keep it private. All of this is by way of saying that I think you
have the best situation possible right now."
"Oh, really? Why's that?"
"Because from what you've mentioned before, it's important
to your boss and colleagues that the Brit stay in the picture,
right?"
"Correct. Your niece is a glorified prostitute, and it's all your
fault."
He ignored that comment. "Well, it seems that it's an easy out,
no? You can continue spending time with him as you—or your
company—see fit, but you don't actually have to, ah, participate in
anything unsavory. You're getting credit for minimal work, darling."
That was an interesting way of looking at it. I wanted to tell
him about Sammy, maybe even ask his advice, but I realized it was
ridiculous to talk about my unrequited crush. Before I could
broach the subject either way, my cell phone rang.
"Philip," I announced, wondering, as usual, whether to answer
it. "He seems to instinctively call at the most inopportune
times."
"Answer it, darling. I'm going to find Simon and soothe his jangled
nerves. That man is a walking basket case, and I'm afraid it's
due in no small part to yours truly." With that, he strolled out.
"Hello?" I said, pretending, as everyone does, that I had no
idea who was calling.
"Please hold for Philip Weston," a hollow voice replied. A moment
later, Philip came on. "Bette! Where are you? The driver said
you're not home, and I can't imagine where else you'd be."
There were a few things to process here, not the least of which
was how I'd just been blatantly accused of having no life outside
of him.
"I'm sorry, who's speaking?" I asked formally.
"Oh, stop banging on like that, Bette. It's Philip. I sent a car to
your flat, but you're not there. Bungalow is blowing up tonight and
I want to see you. Get over here," he commanded.
"While I appreciate the sentiment, I have plans tonight, Philip. I
can't make it," I said for emphasis.
I could hear Eminem in the background and then muffled
words from another male voice.
"Hey, some guy wants me to say hello for him. The fucking
bouncer. Jesus, Bette, you must patronize this establishment more
than I had originally thought. Man, what's your name?"
If I'd been given the choice at that moment, I would've chosen
death over talking to Sammy through Philip. But before I could
change the subject or ask him to move away so I could hear him
better, Philip said, "Are you listening to my conversation? Sod off,
man."
I cringed.
"Philip, thank you so much for the gorgeous flowers," I blurted
out, trying desperately to divert his attention. "They were the most
beautiful I've ever seen, and I'm so happy you'll be doing the
BlackBerry party."
"What?" More mumbled talking. "The bouncer's called Sammy
and he says he's working with you on a party or something. What's
he talking about, Bette?"
"Yes, that's what I was just saying. The BlackBerry party." I was
screaming into the phone now, trying to be heard over the background
noise. "The one you agreed to do . . . the flowers . . . the
note . . . any recollection?"
"Flowers?" He sounded genuinely confused.
"The ones you sent me just earlier today? Remember?"
"Oh, right on, love. I suppose Marta sent them. She's quite attentive
to the details, sending shit at all the right times. She's my
best girl."
It was my turn to be confused. "Marta?"
"My assistant. She runs my life, makes me look good. Works
well, doesn't it?" I could almost hear him grinning through the
phone.
"So did she tell you that she agreed on your behalf to host this
party?" I kept my voice as steady and measured as was humanly
possible.
"Not for a second, love, but that's all right. If she's keen on it,
then so am I. She'll just tell me where to be and when. What?" he
asked, sounding distracted.
"What?" I asked back.
"Hold on a moment, the bouncer wants to talk to you. He said
it's about work."
This was unacceptable. I'd almost—almost—forgotten that
Sammy had been standing there listening to this entire exchange.
He'd heard the bit about the flowers, and certainly how patronizing
Philip had been during his charming pronouncement that
the bouncer wanted to talk to me. "Wait! Philip, don't just go
and—"
"Hello, Bette?" It was Sammy. I couldn't even speak. "You still
there?"
"I'm here," I said meekly. The flutter feeling described so
vividly in all my books began immediately, and with great forcefulness.
"Hey, listen, I just wanted to—"
I cut him off without thinking and blurted, "I'm sorry he
sounds like such an asshole right now, but he really can't help it,
since that's exactly what he is."
There was a momentary silence and then a deep, appreciative
laugh. "Well, you said it, not me. Although I won't disagree
with you." Again I heard some sort of muffled exchange and
then heard Sammy call out, "I'll keep it right here for you,
man."
"What's going on?" I asked.
"Your boyfr—your, uh, your friend—spotted another, uh, a
friend and went inside to say hello. He just left me with his phone.
Hope he's not too upset if it gets accidentally run over by a cab.
Listen, I really wanted to apologize for this afternoon. I don't know
what got into me, but I had no right to say that stuff to you. We
don't even know each other, and I was totally out of line."
Here it was! My big apology, and he couldn't have sounded
more sincere had he showed up outside my apartment and serenaded
me in the adorable Calvin Klein boxer briefs I just knew he
wore. I wanted to crawl through the phone and into his lap, but I
managed to maintain some semblance of cool.
"Not at all. I'm sorry I snapped at you like that, too. It was just
as much my fault, so please don't worry about a thing."
"Great. So this won't get in the way of our professional relationship,
right? Amy told me today that I'm going to be the primary
liaison for your party, and I didn't want this to affect how well either
of us does our job."
"Uh, right." Our jobs. Of course. "Yes, yes, no problem at all."
I tried to hide my disappointment and obviously didn't do well
because he stammered right back, "Uh, yeah, well, our jobs, and of
course our, uh, our friendship. You know?" I could almost feel him
blushing and wanted nothing more than to stroke his face with my
palm right before wrapping my entire body around his.
"Right. Our friendship." This was getting worse with every
passing second, and I decided that no matter how nice it was to
hear his voice, nothing good could come from continuing the conversation.
"Oh, Bette, I almost forgot to tell you! I spoke to Amy and she
okayed you guys having Bungalow that night. It's in the books and
there's no problem whatsoever. She just has a few requests for
some of her people that she'd like included on the list, but otherwise
you'll control the guest list entirely. She almost never agrees
to that. Perfect, right?"
"Wow!" I said with forced enthusiasm. "That's really great news.
Thanks so much!"
Some girls started giggling in the background, one of them
saying his name a few times, obviously trying to get his attention.
"Well, duty calls. I better get back to work. Good talking to
you, Bette. And thanks for being so understanding about today.
Can I call you tomorrow? To, uh, discuss the other details?"
"Sure, sure, that'd be great," I said quickly, eager to hang up
since Will had just walked back in, and he had ominously placed a
sheet of paper in his lap. "I'll talk to you then. Bye."
"Was that your boyfriend?" Will asked, picking up his drink
again and settling back into the chair.
"No," I sighed, reaching for my own martini. "It most definitely
was not."
"Well, not to rain on this little party here, but you'll have to
read it at some point." He cleared his throat and picked up the
sheet. "By Ellie Insider. She writes a paragraph about her trip to
Los Angeles last week and all the movie stars with whom she partied.
That's followed by a short ditty concerning her immense popularity
with designers, to the point where they all clamor to dress
her for events. We're up next. It's short, but not sweet. 'Since any
friend of Philip Weston's is a friend of ours, we realized we didn't
know much about his new girlfriend, Bette Robinson. We do know
that she's a graduate of Emory University, an ex-employee of UBS
Warburg, and the new darling of Kelly & Company PR, but did you
know that she's also the niece of columnist Will Davis? The oncefavored
arbiter of all things Manhattan has, admittedly, become a
bit passe, but what must he think of his niece's very public antics?
We're willing to guess he's less than pleased.' That's all she wrote,"
Will said softly, calmly tossing the paper aside.
I instantly had a queasy feeling, as though I'd just awakened
from a nude-in-the-high-school-cafeteria dream. "Oh, my god,
Will, I'm so sorry. The last thing I ever wanted was to drag you
into this. And what she said about your column is patently untrue,"
I lied.
"Oh, Bette, darling, do shut up. We both know she's exactly
right. But you can't control what these people write, so let's not
worry about it for another moment. Come, let's dine." He said all
the right words, but the tension in his face said something else,
and I was left with an odd feeling of sadness and nostalgia for the
way things had been before my new and improved life.
14
"Tell me again why your mother is throwing you a going-away
dinner when she's so pissed you're moving?" I asked Penelope.
After a full day of list-checking and sponsor-calling for the Black-
Berry party—which was now only four days away—it seemed like
everything was shaping up nicely, and I'd retreated to Penelope's
in the hope of discussing something, anything, that wasn't related
to publicity. I was flopped on the floor of the bedroom that Avery
and Penelope now shared, although it didn't appear that Avery had
compromised much on combining their stuff: the king-sized waterbed
rested on an imposing black platform, a frat boy-style black
leather couch ate up what little room remained, and the only item
that could qualify as "decor" was an oversized and slightly discolored
lava lamp. The apartment's piece de resistance, however, was
a fifty-five-inch plasma screen that hung from the living room wall.
According to Penelope, Avery didn't know how to wash a dish or
launder a pair of socks, but he carefully detailed his flat-screen
with special nonabrasive cleaning solution every weekend. The last
time I'd been over I'd heard Avery instruct Penelope to "tell the
maid to keep that surface cleaner away from my flatty. That shit
fucks up the screen. I swear to God, if I see her go near my TV
with that can of Lysol, she's gonna be looking for a new job."
Penelope had smiled indulgently, as if to say "Boys will be boys."
She was currently packing Avery's clothes in the Louis Vuitton suitcases
his parents had bought them for their engagement-party trip
to Paris while simultaneously bitching about the dinner that was to
be held in their honor that night. I didn't inquire why Avery
couldn't pack his own clothes.
"You're asking me? She said something asinine about 'keeping
up appearances' or something like that. Honestly, I think she didn't
have anything else scheduled for tonight and couldn't bear the
thought of staying home."
"That's a really positive way of looking at it." The empty bag in
my hand reminded me that I'd just plowed through sixteen ounces
of Red Hots in twelve minutes flat. My mouth alternated between
numb and tingly, but that never slowed me down.
"It's going to suck and you know it. The best I'm hoping for
right now is tolerable. What the hell is this?" she mumbled, holding
up a bright blue T-shirt with yellow lettering that read i DO MY OWN
NUDE SCENES. "Eww! Do you think he's ever worn this?"
"Probably. Toss it."
She threw it in the garbage. "Are you sure you don't hate me
for making you come tonight?"
"Pen! I hate you for moving, not for inviting me to your goingaway
dinner. I mean, I'm not exactly complaining about your parents
picking up the tab for dinner at the Grill Room. What time
should I get there?"
"Whenever. It starts at eight-thirty or so. Come a few minutes
early, maybe, so we can do shots in the bathroom?" She smiled
wickedly. "I'm seriously considering bringing a flask. Is that bad?
Ick. Not as bad as these . . . " This time she held up a pair of faded,
well-worn boxers with a none-too-subtle arrow in fluorescent pink
pointing directly to the crotch.
"A flask is definitely in order. What am I going to do without
you?" I moaned pathetically. I had not yet come to terms with the
idea that Penelope, who'd been my best—and only—girlfriend for
the past ten years, was moving across the country.
"You'll be fine," she said, sounding more certain than 1
would've liked. "You've got Michael and Megu and your whole
new crew at work, and you've got a boyfriend now."
It sounded weird for her to mention Michael, considering we
almost never saw him anymore.
"Puh-lease. Michael has Megu. The 'crew' at work is precisely
that—a bunch of people with mysterious access to huge piles of
cash and a penchant for spending it on lots and lots of alcohol. As
for the boyfriend remark, well, I'm not even going to dignify that."
"Where's my favorite girl?" Avery called right after the front
door slammed. "I've been waitin' all day to get home and get that
cute ass of yours into bed!"
"Avery, shut up!" she called, appearing only slightly embarrassed.
"Bette's here!"
But it was too late. He'd already shown up in the doorway,
shirtless, with his jeans unbuttoned and unzipped to reveal lime
green seersucker boxers.
"Oh, hey, Bette." He nodded in my direction, looking not the
least bit distraught that I'd been witness to his seduction scene.
"Hey, Avery," I said, diverting my eyes to my sneakers and
wondering for the umpteenth time what, besides his admittedly flat
stomach, Penelope saw in him. "I was just heading out. Gotta get
home and get ready for the big dinner tonight. Speaking of which,
what does one wear to the Four Seasons?"
"Whatever you'd normally wear to dinner with your parents,"
Penelope said as a very ADHD Avery starting shooting hoops with
his balled-up pairs of socks.
"You might want to reconsider that. Unless, of course, you
want me showing up in palazzo pants with a matching GIVE PEACE A
CHANCE T-shirt. I'll see you both there tonight."
"Right on," Avery said, holding up two fingers in a sort of combination
peace/gangster sign. "Later, B."
I hugged Penelope and let myself out, trying not to envision
what would inevitably take place the moment I left. If I hurried
home, there'd be time to drag Millington out for a quick walk and
maybe even take a bath before dinner. I cabbed it home and
chased Millington around the apartment for a few minutes as she
made a concerted effort to duck me. She instinctively knew when
I was planning to take her outside, and unlike any dog I'd ever
met, she hated it. All that dust and pollen and ragweed—she'd be
incapacitated for hours afterward, but I thought it was important
for her to get out every now and then. Otherwise it was around
the block and back. I marveled at her metabolism. We'd just made
it to Madison Square Park and managed to dodge the crazy guy
who usually chased Millington with his grocery cart when I heard
my name.
"Bette! Hey, Bette, over here!"
I turned to see Sammy sitting on a bench, drinking coffee, his
breath visible in the icy air. With what appeared to be an absolute
knockout of a woman sitting right next to him. Dammit. There was
no escape. He'd obviously seen me and then watched as I looked
right at him, so there was no conceivable way to pretend the
whole thing had never happened. Plus, Millington decided to be
social for the first time in her entire short life and took off toward
them, yanking her Extend-a-Leash to its maximum capacity and
hurling herself into his lap.
"Hey there, puppy, how are you? Bette, who is this cutie?"
"Charming," said the brunette, eyeing Millington coolly. "Of
course, I prefer the Cavalier King Charles, but Yorkies can be appealing
as well."
Meow.
"Hi, I'm Bette," I managed to say, extending my hand to the
girl. I'd tried to smile warmly at Sammy, but I imagine that it
looked like a grimace.
"Oh, formal, are we?" she said with a little laugh. She gave me
her hand after making me wait three seconds longer than was
comfortable. "Isabelle."
Isabelle was no less attractive up close, but she was older than
I'd originally figured. She was tall and thin in the way that only the
truly hungry can be, but she lacked that certain freshness of youth,
that dewy-faced contentment that said "I haven't gotten too beat up
by the Manhattan dating scene—I still even hold out hope that I'll
meet a good guy one day." Isabelle had clearly given up the dream
long ago, although I imagined that her size 2 Joseph pants combined
with her gorgeous chocolate brown Chloe bag and obscenely
pert breasts provided some sort of comfort.
"Uh, so what brings you here?" Sammy asked, clearing his
throat with such awkwardness that it was obvious these two were
not friends or siblings or coworkers. And more to the point, he
wasn't volunteering any explanations.
"Walking the dog. Getting some fresh air. You know, the
usual," I said, realizing that I sounded more than a little defensive.
For some reason my polite conversation skills had just evaporated.
"Yeah, same here," he said, sounding sheepish and slightly embarrassed.
When it was clear that neither of us could think of anything else
to say, I scooped Millington from Sammy's lap, where she was obviously
enjoying being stroked—how I could understand!—mumbled a
good-bye, and tore off in the direction of my apartment with a speed
that bordered on humiliating. I could hear Isabelle laughing and asking
Sammy who his little friend was, and it took every ounce of
willpower not to whip around and suggest that next time she have
her doctor adjust her Botox injection so she wouldn't have that telltale
deer-caught-in-headlights expression.
So it was official, I thought, as I stood under the shower's
scalding hot water: Sammy had a girlfriend. Or, rather, I suppose it
was more appropriate to call her a woman friend, since the female
in question couldn't conceivably be a day under forty. Of course
he hadn't been jealous that day in Starbucks when he'd made fun
of Philip. Feeling more ridiculous with every passing moment, I
quickly dressed in one of the old, navy bank pantsuits that had
been relegated to the back of my closet and spent not one second
longer than necessary drying my hair and applying the faintest
traces of concealer.
By the time I'd arrived at the Four Seasons, I'd almost managed
to convince myself that I didn't care. After all, if Sammy really
wanted to date someone with better clothes, more money, and a
chest three times the size of mine, well, that was certainly his prerogative.
Who needed someone that shallow, anyway? I was just
working myself up to start a list of his many, many flaws (none of
which were immediately apparent, but which certainly must exist
somewhere) when my cell phone rang. It was Elisa, probably calling,
as usual, to ask obsessively detailed questions about when,
where, why, and with whom I'd last seen Philip, so I screened it
and approached the maitre d'. The phone rang again mere seconds
later, and even though I switched it to vibrate, she sent a text message
that read: 911- CALL IMMEDIATELY.
"Bette? Hey, have you found them yet?" Michael asked, walking
toward me, looking haggard and slightly miserable. Penelope had
told me he was on yet another huge M&A deal. All-nighters four
days and running.
"No, are we the first ones here?" I kissed him on the cheek and
thought about how long it'd been since I'd seen him. Weeks and
weeks; so long I couldn't remember. "Where's Megu?"
"She's at the hospital. I think Pen said they might all have a private
table in the back, so let's go there."
"Perfect." I took the arm he offered and had an odd feeling of
homecoming. "You know, it's been forever since we've all hung
out. What are you doing afterward? Why don't we talk Pen into
going to the Black Door for a drink or six?"
He smiled even though it looked like it took all his energy and
nodded. "Definitely. We're all already in the same place, and when
the hell does that ever happen? Let's do it."
The table looked to seat about eighteen or twenty, but just as I
was saying my hellos to Penelope's father, my phone began to vibrate
again.
"I'm so sorry, please excuse me," I said to Penelope's dad and
bolted toward the door again to turn it off. Elisa again. Christ, what
could be so important that she needed to take the full-stalk approach?
I waited for it to stop buzzing and then flipped it open to
turn it off, but she must have dialed again because I heard her
voice emanating from my palm.
"Bette? Is that you? Bette, it's crucial."
"Hey, listen, this really isn't a good time for me. I'm at my
friend's—"
"You've got to get down here right away, Kelly's freaking out
because—"
"Elisa, you didn't even let me finish. It's eight-thirty on a Saturday
night and I'm just about to start dinner at the Four Seasons
with my friend and her entire family and it's really important, so
I'm sure you can handle whatever Kelly's freaking out about." I
congratulated myself on being firm and setting boundaries, something
my mother had been trying to teach me from age six.
She was breathing heavily at this point, and I heard the faint
clinking of glasses in the background. "Sorry, hon, but Kelly's not
taking no tonight. She's at dinner with the BlackBerry people right
now at Vento and she needs us to meet them at Soho House by
nine-thirty, latest."
"Impossible. You know I'd be there if I could. It's mandatory
that I stay here for at least the next couple hours," I said, hearing a
waver in my voice. "I mean, nine-thirty is ridiculously early, and I
don't understand why, if she expected us to meet them, it has to
be on a Saturday night, or why she couldn't have mentioned it beforehand."
"Look, I hear you, but there's no way out. You're in charge of
the party, Bette! They came into town early and Kelly thought a
dinner meeting would appease them, but apparently they want to
meet you . . . and Philip. Tonight. Since the party is so close, and
apparently they're nervous."
"Philip? You can't be serious."
"You are dating him, Bette. And he did agree to host this event
for us," she said, sounding like a bossy older sister. I saw Penelope
approaching me out of the corner of my eye and knew I was being
horrifically rude.
"Elisa, I really—"
"Bette, honey, I don't want to pull rank here, but your job's on
the line. I'll help as much as possible, but you've got to be here. I'll
send a car to the Four Seasons in thirty minutes. Get in it."
As the call cut off, Penelope threw her arms around my neck.
"I love your plan!" she said, grabbing my hand and walking me
toward the table. I overheard Mr. Wainwright talking loudly about
a lawsuit he was overseeing to a rather subdued, dignified-looking
woman, and I wondered if Penelope might not want to save her
grandmother from her future father-in-law.
"Plan?"
"Yes, Michael told me about the reunion at the Black Door
tonight. Such a good call! It's been forever since we've done that
and"—she looked around—"I'll need to drink heavily after this.
You have no idea what Avery's mother did tonight. Took my mom
and me aside and presented me, quite proudly, with a copy of Fete
Accompli!: The Ultimate Guide to Creative Entertaining and the entire
Barefoot Contessa cookbook series. Oh, but it gets better. Not
only did she highlight all of her suggestions for dinner-party
themes, she also made notes by all of Avery's favorite dishes so I
may properly instruct the cook. She made a special point of letting
me know that as a general rule, he doesn't like any food that
should be consumed with sticks, in her words."
"Sticks?"
"Chopsticks. She said they 'confuse him.'"
"That's fantastic. She sounds like a real treat."
"Yep. My mother just stood there, nodding. She did manage to
comfort Avery's mom by pointing out how easy it would be for us
to find household help in California, what with the hordes of Mexican
immigrants. The 'promised land of cheap labor,' I think were
her exact words."
"Let's just remember never to allow our parents in the same
room again, okay?" I said. "They'd have a field day with this one.
You remember what a disaster it was last time?"
"Are you kidding?" she said. "How could I not?"
We'd cleverly kept our two sets of parents from being in the same
place through four years of college, but during graduation it had
proven impossible. Each was curious about the other and after much
prodding from both mothers, Penelope and I had grudgingly scheduled
a dinner for everyone on Saturday night. The stress began with
the restaurant selection: my parents were rallying to try the all-organic
raw-food bar that had published a number of famous cookbooks,
while Penelope's parents insisted on going to their usual place when
they visited—Ruth's Chris Steak House. We compromised on some
high-end, pan-Asian chain that displeased everyone, and things only
spiraled downward from there. The restaurant didn't serve my
mother's type of tea or Penelope's father's favorite cabernet. As far as
conversation topics went, politics, careers, and future plans for the
graduates were out, since there were no shared opinions or ideas
whatsoever. My father ended up talking to Avery for most of the meal
and then making fun of him later; I spoke to my mother, Penelope
talked only to hers, and her father and brother exchanged the occasional
sentence or two in between gulps from the three bottles of red
wine they killed together. It had ended as awkwardly as it started,
with everyone eyeing each other suspiciously and wondering what
their daughters saw in one another. Penelope and I had dropped
them all at their respective hotels, hit the bars immediately, and proceeded
to drunkenly imitate each one, all while swearing to never repeat
that evening.
"Come here—talk to my father for me, will you? It's been a few
decades since he's socialized outside the office and he doesn't
seem to know what to do." She seemed in reasonably high spirits,
and I wondered how to tell her that I could only stay through
drinks because I had to go to a party with the gorgeous bad boy I
was supposedly dating.
"Pen, I'm so sorry to do this and I acknowledge that it's the
shittiest, most selfish thing in the whole world, but I just got a call
from work and I have absolutely positively no choice but to go because
I'm in charge of this particular project and there are people
in from out of town that my boss is currently with and she's insisting
that I meet them and even though I told her that I was at
something really, really important she basically threatened my
job)—through a third party, of course—if I'm not downtown in
under an hour and I argued and argued, but she was adamant, so
I'm planning to get down there and back as quickly as possible
and of course I'm still up for the Black Door if you guys don't
mind waiting for me." Stop. Deep breath. Ignore death look on
Penelope's face. "I'm sorry!" I wailed loud enough to cause a few
of the waiters to glance in our direction. I somehow managed to
ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach, Michael's surprised look
from a few feet away, and the reproachful stare from Penelope's
mother for making the commotion.
"When do you have to leave?" Penelope asked calmly, her expression
revealing nothing.
"In a half-hour. They're sending a car."
She unconsciously twisted the small diamond stud in her right ear
and gazed at me. "Do what you need to do, Bette. I understand."
"You do?" I asked, not quite believing her, but hearing no
anger in her voice.
"Of course. I know you want to be here, and sure, I'm disappointed,
but I know you wouldn't go unless it was really important."
"I'm so sorry, Pen. I promise to make it up to you."
"Don't worry about it. Go on, take that seat over there next to
Avery's cute single friend and at least enjoy the time you have."
She was saying all the right things, but the tightness of her mouth
made her words seem forced.
Avery's decidedly uncute single friend immediately started reminiscing
about his wild and crazy frat days at Michigan while I
quickly worked my way through drinks two and three. One of
Penelope's friends from the bank, a girl I didn't know when I was
there but who seemed to be with Pen all the time now, made an
impromptu toast that was adorably funny and charming. I tried to
suppress my bitterness when Penelope threw her arms around the
girl, and I insisted to myself that it was my paranoia speaking and
that no one was staring at me, thinking me an awful friend. The
half-hour passed in a split second. I thought it better to steal away
than make a big production and explain myself to everyone, so I
tried to catch Penelope's eye but simply left when it seemed like
she was deliberately avoiding me.
On the sidewalk, I offered a dollar to a well-dressed man for a
cigarette, but he refused and tossed me one for free, adding a pitiful
headshake. There was no car in sight and I thought about going
back in for a few more minutes, but just then a very familiarlooking
lime green Vespa pulled up alongside the curb.
"Hey, love, let's do this," Philip said, flipping up the screen on
his helmet and plucking the cigarette from my fingers for a drag.
He kissed me roughly on the mouth, which, incidentally, hung
open from shock, and dismounted to get the second helmet from
underneath his seat.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, inhaling sharply on my
cigarette when he handed it back.
"What does it look like I'm doing here? It seems we are obliged
to attend. So let us hurry this along, okay? Nice suit." He looked
me up and down and snickered.
His cell phone rang to the tune of "Like a Virgin"—it was my
turn to snicker—and I heard him tell someone we'd be there in ten
minutes.
"I'm actually waiting for a car that Elisa's sending," I said.
"Afraid not, love. Elisa sent me. We're going to pay a visit to
my dear friend Caleb, and Elisa's going to bring the business
blokes to us."
This was not making any sense, but he did seem to be working
on direct orders from Elisa. "Why are we going to your friend's
apartment?" I asked.
"He's having a little birthday gathering at his place. Costume
party, actually. Let's go." It was only then that I noticed he was in
full seventies disco gear, from brown polyester bell-bottoms to a
skintight white collared shirt and some sort of bandanna tied
around his head.
"Philip, you just said we had to meet Kelly and the BlackBerry
people. We can't be going to a costume party right now. I don't
understand!"
"Hop on, love, and stop stressing. I'm handling it." He revved
the Vespa, if such a thing is possible, and tapped the seat behind
him. I hopped on as gracefully as my pantsuit would allow and
wrapped my arms around his waist. His rock-hard abs pushed
back.
I still don't know why I turned around. I don't remember thinking
anything was out of the ordinary—if you discount the fact that
I was being kidnapped by a raging metrosexual celebrity on a
Vespa—and yet I looked over my shoulder before we flew off,
only to see Penelope standing on the curb. She was holding out
her hand, my scarf draped limply over it, her mouth open, staring
at my back. My eyes met hers for just the briefest moment before
Philip revved the scooter and it shot forward, away from Penelope,
leaving no time to explain anything at all.
15
"Will you just relax, love? I told you, I'm handling it." Philip
parked the Vespa on the sidewalk carpet outside a beautiful West
Village apartment building and slipped the doorman some cash,
which was met with a discreet nod. I was struck by the sudden realization
that this was the first time Philip and I had been alone together
since the morning I woke up in his apartment.
"Relax? You're asking me to relax?" I shrieked. "Excuse me, sir,
could you please hail me a cab?" I asked in the direction of the
doorman, who immediately looked to Philip for permission.
"Bette, just chill the fuck out. You don't need a cab. The party's
here. Now come inside, and let's get you a little drinky, okay?"
Drinky? Did I just hear that? This guy has shagged every attractive
female in Manhattan betiveen the ages of sixteen and forty-five
and he says "drinky"? I couldn't dwell on this disturbing development,
though, as I had less than ten minutes to get to Soho House.
He continued. "Elisa called and I told her I couldn't possibly
go; I'm expected at Caleb's party. She asked if she could bring the
BlackBerry people here, said that they'd think it was cool to see a
'real downtown party' or some bullshit like that. So they'll be here
any minute. This is where we're supposed to be, okay?"
I looked at him dubiously, wondering how this had all unfolded.
Was Elisa diverting me deliberately? I considered that for
a moment but then realized there was no way she could sabotage
this party without Kelly knowing, and besides, why would she
want to? Granted, she might have wanted Philip at one point, and
maybe she'd seemed less friendly lately, but I figured it was just
because we were all really busy at work, planning individual
events in addition to laying all the groundwork for the Playboy
party. All I wanted to do was call Penelope, explain that I hadn't
lied to get out of her dinner so I could run off into the night with
this sad excuse for a boyfriend. Philip had already strolled past
the doorman and was waiting impatiently for me to join him, and
as soon as we stepped into the elevator, true to form, he attacked
me.
"Bette, I simply cannot wait to take you home later and shag
you all night," he crooned into my hair, his hands running all over
my body and sliding under my shirt. "Even in that silly getup
you're hot."
I pushed his grabby hands away and sighed. "Let's just get
through this, okay?"
"Why do you get your knickers in such a twist, love? Oh, I see
now, you'd like it if I tried a touch harder. I am most willing to accommodate.
. . ." And with that, he thrusted his entire lower half
into mine with minimal skill and his characteristic tongue lashing.
Had Gwyneth really endured such treatment? Was it actually possible
he'd slept with so many girls only once that none had bothered
to tell him that he had no idea what he was doing? It was sickening,
as was the sudden realization that Philip only pursued me with
this passion when he knew we couldn't go through with it. Tonight
was no different; there was no risk of me tearing off my clothes
and pleading for sex when the elevator doors would swing open at
any moment. Which they did, directly into Caleb's penthouse
apartment. A quick and subtle backhanded wipe across my face
and neck removed most of the saliva, and I was as ready as I'd
ever be.
"Philip, baby, come on over!" a lanky guy with long hair called
from the couch, where he was hunched over a mirror, rolled-up
bill in hand. What appeared to be a naked girl was draped across
his lap. She stared up at him with a look that surpassed admiration
and approached worship. He snorted quickly, effortlessly,
handed the girl the bill, and then pulled his mask back over his
face.
"Cally, Cal-man, this is Bette. Bette, Caleb, the thrower of this
most fabulous party, and as of today, a gentleman no longer in his
twenties."
"Hi, Caleb, nice to meet you," I said to the mask. "Thanks for
inviting me."
All three of them looked at each other and then at me and
started laughing. "Bette, why don't you come join us here for a little
taste, and then we'll head upstairs? Everyone's on the roof."
"Uh, I'm good, thanks," I said, unable to take my eyes off the
girl. She finished the two small lines Caleb had left for her and
rolled onto her back. Technically, she wasn't completely naked, if
you counted the swatch of fuchsia silk that hung low on her hips
and covered only the front of her pelvis, leaving her entire backside
bare. The thong I thought she'd been wearing when I first saw
her turned out to be nothing more than a tan line, and her breasts
had long since broken free from their own silk constraints, a contraption
shaped something like a bra but with no actual hooks,
straps, or shape. She curled up in a ball with a happy smile and
sipped her champagne, announcing that she was just going to
party downstairs a little longer before joining everyone else.
"Suit yourself, babe," Caleb said, motioning for us to follow
him. We stepped back in the elevator, where he used a special key
that allowed us to select the Terrace button. I almost passed out
when the doors opened again. I don't know what exactly I'd been
expecting, but this sure wasn't it. Perhaps I'd thought it was going
to be like Michael's Halloween party, when a bunch of his friends
from UBS and college had gathered in his fourth-floor walk-up.
The kitchen table had held bottles of cheap booze and mixers and
a few cereal bowls of candy corn, pretzels, and salsa. Some guy in
drag announced that pizza was on the way to the assorted costumed
revelers, who sat around talking about college, who had
gotten engaged or promoted, and how badly President Bush was
fucking up in Iraq.
This scene was very, very different. The rooftop itself looked
like an exact replica of Skybar in LA, all sleek and chic and streamlined,
with low-rider lounging beds and heat lamps and geometrical
candelabras casting a soft glow over everything. A frosted-glass
bar peeked out from behind some sort of intimidating vegetation,
and a DJ booth had been installed in another corner, mostly out of
sight so as not to block one inch of the incredible city views that
spanned below us. Nobody seemed much interested in the Hudson
right then, though, and I immediately understood why: the flesh on
display was far more compelling than some river, and far more expansive.
There are parties and there are costume parties, and then
there's what was unfolding on Caleb's rooftop, something that by
definition would technically qualify as a costume party but what in
reality looked more like a revival of Hair—plus La Perla lingerie,
minus tacky sixties updos. I felt an immediate desire to strip off my
shoes and suit and roam around in nothing but my bra and underwear,
if for no other reason than an intense desire to remain as inconspicuous
as possible. Kven then I'd surely be wearing more
clothing than any other woman here, but at least I wouldn't stand
out quite so much.
Caleb had disappeared briefly and returned with a glass of
champagne for me and a tumbler of something amber-colored for
Philip. I downed it in one long gulp and gaped openly at the girl
he'd brought over to meet us. The introduction was preceded by a
long and very visual kiss during which both Caleb and the girl
opened their mouths so wide and with such tongue enthusiasm
that I almost felt like an equal participant.
"Mmm," he murmured, playfully biting her neck after reclaiming
his tongue from the depths of her face. "Guys, this is . . . the
most gorgeous girl at the parry. How hot is she? Seriously, have
you seen anything so stunning in your lives?"
"Gorgeous," I concurred, as though she weren't there. "You're
absolutely right." The girl apparently wasn't bothered that Caleb
appeared to have forgotten—or never discovered—her name. Not
so weird, I figured; it seemed like lots of people hung out together
but didn't really know one another's names. The music was always
too loud and everyone was usually wasted, but mostly it was because
no one cared. "I'll remember her name when I read it on
Page Six," I'd heard Elisa announce on the subject. This girl didn't
seem to mind much, perhaps because she didn't appear to comprehend
a single word we were exchanging. She just giggled and
occasionally adjusted her outfit and concentrated very hard on
touching Caleb as often and as suggestively as possible. Yet another
guy in drag (this one sporting a full-body mask with bare
breasts, shimmery eyeliner, and a black-and-white-checked headdress
a la Yasir Arafat) came over to announce that the cars would
arrive in just a few minutes to take us to Bungalow 8 for Caleb's
"real" party.
"It will hopefully be an improvement over my rubbish birthday
party last year," Philip replied.
"Why rubbish?" I asked, not caring but trying to appear involved
so my staring wouldn't be quite so obvious.
"The fuckwits at the door let everyone in, and within an hour it
was overrun with B&T. Bad times."
"Was," agreed the she-male Arafat. "Bad times all around.
Tonight will be better. That big one, what's his name, Sammy's at
the door. He's no genius, but he's not a complete fucking idiot, either."
Sammy! I wanted to sing out his name, hug the guy who'd just
uttered it, dance in little circles at the thought of seeing him. But
first I had to get through this.
"So, what are you?" the turbaned guy asked me.
"She's going as an uptight bi . . . businesswoman," Philip
kindly answered on my behalf. And as I looked around, I wondered
what it was about costume parties that always made guys
dress like girls and girls dress like sluts. Regardless of the coolness
of the party or the price of the alcohol served, it happened each
and every time, without fail. I looked around for the scantily clad
kittens, nurses, princesses, singers, French maids, cheerleaders,
Catholic schoolgirls, devils, angels, or dancers, but these girls didn't
bother with such repressive titles. None of their outfits were technically
costumes, just an amalgamation of shiny fabrics and sparkly
accessories designed to showcase some of the best bodies God
had ever created.
A brunette reclining on one of the beds was wearing a pair of
flowing magenta gypsy pants that billowed out from a low-slung
belt and were gathered together at her ankles, the transparent material
allowing us to view her diamond-studded thong, which was
tucked between perfectly firm butt cheeks. On top she wore a diamond-
studded bra that created cleavage in that flawless way that
said, "Look at me" but not "I'm an aspiring Pamela Anderson." Her
friend, looking all of sixteen and lying next to her, playing with her
hair, wore a pair of silver fishnets that stretched so far across her
infinite legs that they looked partially shredded. She had pulled on
a pair of red leather boy shorts over them, which dipped so low at
the hips and so high at the thigh that she'd definitely needed to
make a special request at the waxer's. The only accompaniment to
the "costume" were the silver fringe tassels hanging from the nipples
of her apple-sized breasts and a giant tiara of multicolored
feathers and fur that cascaded down her back. I've never had a single
sexual impulse toward another woman in all my twenty-seven
years, and yet I thought I would sleep with either one of them
right then.
"They look like lingerie models, for chrissake," I muttered
under my breath to no one in particular.
"They are," Philip responded, staring with what can only be described
as lust. "Don't you recognize Raquel and Maria Thereza
here? They're Victoria's biggest girls this year, the youngest Brazilian
crop ever."
I was devastated to see that they don't airbrush nearly as much as
I'd always convinced myself they did. We roamed around the glassenclosed
roof—only the ceiling was open to the sky—as Philip
handed out high fives to Jimmy Fallon and Derek Jeter in quick succession
and cheek kisses (always just missing the lips) to a long line
of fashion-magazine editors, sitcom actresses, and Hollywood starlets.
I was checking my cell to see if Elisa or Kelly had called when I
spotted Philip massaging the back of the titty-tasseled girl, who I
now recognized as the one who'd modeled the cotton bikini panties
I'd recently ordered from the VS catalog and who I'd mentally
blamed for misrepresentation when I'd put them on and looked in
the mirror. The Hotel Costes soundtrack thumped out of some flat-
tened, plasma-like unit that hung from one of the outdoor walls
while people alternately danced, smoked, did drugs, munched sushi,
and ogled each other. I kept checking the door for Elisa, worried
they wouldn't find us on the terrace, and eventually sent her a text
message with elevator instructions. At some point I accepted a drink
from a gorgeous, shirtless waiter wearing a loincloth and heels, but I
remained rooted near the door, making sure I could see everyone
who arrived and left. There was a brief break in the fun when Caleb
announced that a fleet of cars was waiting downstairs to transport
everyone to the club, but then the partying continued straight
through the elevators and into the two dozen Town Cars that lined
the block as far as I could see.
"Philip, we can't leave this party!" I hiss-whispered as he tried
to hustle me into the elevator. "We're waiting for the BlackBerry
people."
"Stop fretting, love. Elisa rang to tell me that your boss rang to
tell her that the meeting is canceled for tonight."
I couldn't have heard that correctly. It was impossible!
"What? You can't be serious." I couldn't even consider the possibility
that I'd been forcefully removed from Penelope's dinner to
tend to clients who didn't need tending.
He shrugged. "That's what she said. Come on, love, you can call
from the car."
I wedged myself between Caleb and Philip and tried not to
touch any of the exposed body parts of the girl who was lying
across all our laps.
I dialed Hlisa and nearly screamed with frustration when it
went to voice mail. Kelly answered on the third ring, sounding
vaguely surprised to hear from me.
"Bette? I can barely hear you. Anyway, the meeting's off for the
night. We had a lovely dinner at Soho House and then had drinks
by the pool, but I don't think they're quite used to New York partying.
They went back to the hotel already, so you're off the hook.
But they're very excited about this week!" She was screaming
above music somewhere and didn't realize that even though she
couldn't hear herself, I could hear her perfectly.
"Oh, well, okay. Urn, that's fine. As long as you're sure—"
"Are you with Philip?" she shouted.
At the sound of his name coming through the phone, he
squeezed my knee and started moving his hand upward.
"I am. He's right here. Do you want to talk to him?"
"No, no, I want you to talk to him. 1 hope you guys are at Bungalow.
It's going to be a huge night—everyone will be there for
Caleb's birthday."
"Huh?"
"Lots of photogs, lots of opportunity . . ."
Despite the weirdness of Kelly's obvious pimping tactics, I
liked my job—and Kelly—at that point. I knew I didn't ever want
to go back to mutual funds. I wanted this BlackBerry party to be
the best event of the year and I supposed it wouldn't hurt to take a
few pictures with Philip before sneaking out and meeting Penelope
and Michael at the Black Door. Besides, we were already heading
there anyway, right? Despite my outrage at being yanked from
Penelope's dinner, I tried to tell myself it wasn't that bad. . . .
"Sure thing, I hear you," I said with faux cheeriness while removing
Philip's hand from where it currently resided—my inner
thigh—and tapping it the way a grandmother might. "Thanks, Kell.
See you Monday."
The cars pulled up single file along Twenty-seventh Street and
I saw that the line was almost a hundred people, all of whom
stared, slack-jawed, as we exited the fleet of cars in our outrageous
costumes. Sammy was standing off to one side while a man from
the party wearing a long blond wig and very high heels yelled at
him. I tried to get his attention as we cut in front of the entire line,
but another bouncer approached us first.
"How many are you?" he asked Philip pleasantly, giving no indication
that he knew who anyone was.
"Oh, I don't know, man, forty? Sixty? Who bloody knows?"
"Sorry, dude—not tonight," the doorman replied, turning his
back. "Private party."
"My man, I don't think you understand. . . ." Philip clapped
him on the back and the bouncer looked like he might deck him,
but then he noticed the credit card Philip was brandishing—the
one and only Black Card. The negotiations began.
"I only have three tables right now. I'll let in six per table and
an additional ten people, but that's the best I can do," he said.
"Any other night, no problem, but tonight it's really out of my
hands."
This guy was clearly new and had no idea who he was dealing
with, and Philip looked like he was ready to let him know. His
voice tight and controlled, he got within three inches of the
bouncer's face and said, "Look, man, 1 don't give a toss what your
problem is. Caleb is one of my closest mates and it's his party.
Three tables is bullshit. I want six tables, starting with two bottles
apiece, and everyone admitted. Now."
I noticed Sammy finishing his conversation and tried to slink
away from the front as quietly as possible so I could lose myself in
the crowd; I was desperate not to let him see me with Philip. All
around me, guys were working their cell phones, calling anyone
and everyone they knew who might get the bouncer to release the
velvet rope; girls approached the doormen with puppy eyes,
stroking their arms and quietly making their pleas for admittance.
Sammy walked toward Philip and caught my eye as I moved closer
again to hear what was happening. I fervently hoped he would tell
them all to fuck off, to take their money and party elsewhere, but
he just looked quickly at me again and addressed the other
bouncer.
"Anthony, let them in."
Anthony, who'd already been surprisingly accommodating and
nonconfrontational, appeared dismayed at this development and
began to argue. "Dude, they have like eighty fucking people. I
don't care how much cash they got, it's my ass on the line if—"
"I said let them in. Clear out whatever tables you need to and
give them whatever they want. Do it now." And with that, Sammy
glanced at me one last time and stepped inside the door, leaving
Anthony to handle us.
"See there, mate?" Philip gloated, unable to help himself, assuming
it was his fame that had secured our entrance. "Do what
the good man said. Take this card here and get us our goddamn
tables. You can handle that, can't you?"
Anthony took the Black Card, his hands shaking with rage, and
held the door open for the forty or so of us who had already arrived.
The line quieted as we filed inside, and everyone tried to see
the famous among us.
"There's Johnny Depp!" I heard one girl stage-whisper.
"Ohmigod! Is that Philip Weston?" asked another.
"He dated Gwyneth, didn't he?" one of the guys said.
Philip swelled with noticeable pride and directed me to the
table that the maitre d' had just emptied for us. The evicted party
stood a few feet away, holding their drinks, their faces flush with
shame as we took our seats around the banquette.
Philip pulled me onto his lap and rubbed my leg, kneading it
in that way that tickles uncomfortably and hurts at the same time.
He mixed me a vodka tonic using the S400 bottle of Grey Goose
that was immediately deposited at our table, and greeted every single
person who walked past by name, occasionally burying his
face in my neck.
During one of these burrowings, he rested his chin on my
shoulder and gazed at the model sitting next to me, legs crossed
seductively, face in her hands, elbows on her knees, nipple tassels
slipping slightly off-center.
"Just look at her," he whispered, his voice husky, his eyes fixed
on the youngest-looking girl of all. "Look how she imitates the
older models, watching how they move their hips, their eyes, their
mouths, and doing exactly that because she knows it's sexy. She's
just growing into that body of hers, doesn't quite realize what she
possesses, and she's learning like a newly hatched chick. Isn't it
smashing to watch?"
Mmm, absolutely smashing. Downright gripping, actually, I
thought, but I just shook him off and announced I'd be right back.
He nearly fell on her as I untangled myself from him, and 1 heard
him complimenting her directly as I walked toward the front of the
club.
Elisa was draped across an attractive man at a banquette near
the door, her head and shoulders leaning against his chest while
her bare feet—still red with sandal-strap lines—rested in Davide's
lap. She didn't appear to be too concerned—or even aware of—the
BlackBerry situation. I wasn't sure she was conscious or even alive
until I got close enough to see her concave stomach rise and fall
with the slightest motion.
"Bette, honey, there you are!" She mustered enough energy to
make herself heard over the music even though she probably
hadn't consumed enough calories that day to remain in a standing
position. I decided to address the BlackBerry debacle another time.
"Hey," I mumbled, displaying my lack of enthusiasm.
"Come here. I want you to meet the most talented skin-care
therapist in Manhattan. Marco, this is Bette. Bette, Marco."
"Aesthetician," he immediately corrected.
I'd been on my way to thank Sammy, but there was no avoiding
putting in at least a few minutes at their table. I sat down and
immediately poured myself a vodka tonic. "Hi, Marco, nice to meet
you. How do you know Elisa?"
"How do I know Elisa? Why, I like to think I can claim responsibility
for that flawless, glowing skin!" He held her head between
his manicured fingers and thrust it toward me as though it were an
inanimate object. "Here, look. Do you see this evenness? Do you
see the complete and utter lack of blemishes or discoloration? This
is achievement!" He spoke with a slight Spanish accent and much
flourish.
"Mmm, she does look great. Maybe you could help me out
sometime," I said, because I couldn't think of anything else.
"Mmm," he said back, examining my face. "I'm not so sure
about that."
I took that as my cue to excuse myself, but Elisa hoisted herself
into a sitting position and said, "Darlings, amuse yourselves for a
few minutes while Davide and I say hello to a few friends."
I looked up to see Davide lean forward so the table would obscure
his hands. He deftly opened Elisa's white and gold Dior bag
on the floor, removed a key from its ring, poured white powder
from a tiny packet into the key's longest groove, and held it
quickly up to his nose. His hand covered the entire key, and if you
weren't watching very closely, it wouldn't look like anything more
than a casual nose itch, perhaps a little allergy sniffle. He refilled it
within a second or two and passed it invisibly to Elisa, who also
worked so quickly that I wasn't even sure what had passed under
her nose or when. Another few seconds and the key ring was back
in her purse and the two were jumping out of their seats, ready to
work the room.
"They could at least have offered us some, don't you think?"
Marco asked.
"Yeah, I guess so," I said, not quite sure whether to announce
that I'd never tried it, and while I was immensely curious, I was
more scared.
Marco sighed meaningfully and took a long pull from his drink.
"Rough day?" I asked, again unsure of both how to proceed or
escape.
"You can say that again. Elisa fucked up my schedule again.
She knows how much I hate it when she passes out in my chair."
Another sigh.
"She passed out? Is she okay?"
His huge eye roll was followed by a long, exhausted exhalation.
"Look at her—does she look okay to you? I ley, I'm all about
starving yourself—I've certainly had to do it myself a few times—
but you've got to take responsibility for your actions! You know
when you're about to pass out! There are little flashes of light before
your eyes and you get really dizzy. Your body does this to let
you know that it's time to take a bite of that PowerBar you should
be toting around for occasions like this. You gotta heed the warnings,
you know, and get the hell out of my chair, or else you're
going to screw up my entire schedule."
I wasn't quite sure how to respond to this, so I just sat and listened.
"These girls think they can come in after a long week of nose
drugs and no food and just conk out in my chair and I'll take care
of them. Well, that used to be okay, but I've got better things to do
now. The way I see it, it's the same as some heroin junkie: I
couldn't care less if you're using, man, just don't overdose in my
home because then it becomes my problem. You know?"
I nodded. The world is lucky to have a guy as sensitive as
Marco, I thought.
"People have it worse than I do, though," he continued
earnestly. "Friend of mine's a makeup artist. He brings one case of
makeup with him, and another of PowerBars and fruit-juice boxes
because the girls are always conking out on him. At least when
mine faint in the chair, I don't have to start all over. He also usually
sees them right before big events, at their hungriest, since they've
been on super-starvation to fit into their dresses. It's tough, man.
They leave us to pick up the pieces."
"Yeah, I hear that. Listen, it was really nice to meet you, but
I've got to run and say hi to a friend. Will you be here for a few
minutes?" I asked, realizing that if I didn't escape soon, it might
never happen.
"Sure, whatever, great to meet you. Catch you later." He nodded
in my direction before leaning over to mix another drink.
I wanted to find Sammy and thank him for what he'd done,
maybe explain that I was not there as Philip's date or his girlfriend
or even by choice, but by the time I fought past the door crowd—
which seemed to have expanded exponentially in the last hour—
Sammy was nowhere in sight.
"Hey, have you seen Sammy?" I asked Anthony, trying to sound
casual.
He appeared to have calmed down since our last interaction
and shook his head while glancing over his clipboard.
"Nah, he headed out early to meet his girl. Left me here alone
for one of the biggest parties of the year. Wouldn't usually do that,
so it musta been important. Why, you gotta problem? I'll try and
help you in a few when I get rid of some of these people."
"No, no problem. Just wanted to say hi."
"Yeah, well, he'll be back tomorrow."
I bummed a cigarette from a guy in an emerald green prom
dress and willed myself to go back inside. I didn't have to, though.
The party had come to me.
"Bette! I was hoping I'd see you here!" Abby screeched as her
behemoth breasts threatened to overtake her entire face. "You
should be inside keeping an eye on that boy of yours, don't you
think?"
"Hey, Abby. I'd love to chat, but I was just leaving."
"It's Abigail now, actually. Come inside and have one cigarette
with me, okay? For old times' sake."
I wanted to tell her that there had been no old times, but I was
already feeling defeated by the mental image of Sammy curled up
with Isabelle, the Botox beauty.
"Sure," I said listlessly. "Whatever."
"So, tell me. How is everything with Philip? It's just so amazing
that you two ended up together!" she said, leaning in conspiratorially.
"Amazing? Not really." I tried to think of something, anything,
to end the conversation.
"Bette! Of course it is! Now, I hope you don't mind if I ask you
a personal question, but I've always been dying to know: How is
he in bed? Because, as I'm sure you're aware, there are rumors
that—"
"Abby, 1 don't want to be rude, okay? But I really need to
leave. I cannot have this conversation now."
She appeared completely unfazed. "Sure, no problem. I know
how tired you must be from the new job. Anyway, we'll be sure to
catch up soon, right? Oh! And I just love what you did with that
suit—only you could make something so average look so good!"
I backed away as though she were a rabid dog and began to
stumble back to Elisa's table to collect myself. Instead, I headed to
the bar and drank down a martini—mixed just the way Will liked
them. It wasn't half-bad, actually, sitting and getting drunk solo,
but when an entire horde of gorgeous and mostly naked girls commandeered
my personal space, the temptation to leave was just too
great to resist. No matter Kelly's photo ops—I just couldn't endure
more of Philip's fascinating musings on the growth cycle of South
American models or Marco's suggestions for the most efficient starvation
techniques, so I texted both Philip and Elisa one line claim-
ing sudden illness and collapsed into the backseat of a cab. I
looked at my watch—one-thirty in the morning. Would they still be
at the Black Door? I got my answer when Michael slurred hello on
the fifth ring.
"Sorry," I said.
"Just got home," he replied. "You missed a good night. But the
Black Door with Pen and Avery is a lot different from the Black
Door with Pen and Bette!"
I began calling Penelope as soon as the meter began running
and continued calling until I finally fell asleep, a little after three in
the morning. It went to voice mail every time.
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