Everyone worth Knowing -Lauren Weisberger Five

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21
The week after Thanksgiving was brutal. My parents' concerns
were weighing on me. Philip was calling nonstop. And although I
told myself there was no reason to worry, I hadn't yet heard from
Sammy. I'd passed a couple of days dreamily reliving The Kiss, remembering
the way Sammy had pulled me from the car, and wondering
when he'd finally get in touch, but this was starting to lose
its charm. To make matters worse, Abby hadn't stopped writing
about me even though I hadn't been in town for a full five days.
The whole thing had been a blur, but I knew for a fact that Abby
had not been present at my parents' Harvest Festival, which was
why it was so distressing to see my name jump out from the headline
of New York Scoop, TROUBLE IN PARADISE? ROBINSON RECOUPS IN
HOMETOWN. Abby had gone on to comment on how my "sudden
absence" was noteworthy because Philip and I had been "inseparable,"
and the fact that I'd "fled" to my parents' house upstate obviously
indicated some major relationship trouble. There was even
an extra-special line implying that my "weekend away from the
party circuit" might have something to do with the need to "detox"
or perhaps "lick rejection wounds." She ended the piece by
encouraging everyone to stay tuned for more details on the
Weston/Robinson saga.
I had torn the first sheet from the stapled packet, balled it up,
and thrown it as hard as I could manage across the room. Relationship
trouble? Detox? Rejection? Even more offensive than the implication
that Philip and I were dating was the suggestion that we
weren't. And detox? It was bad enough being portrayed as an outof-
control party girl, but it was almost more embarrassing to be the

person who couldn't handle it. The whole thing was becoming too
ridiculous to comprehend. It took three straight days to reassure
Kelly (and Elisa, who seemed particularly concerned) that Philip
and I were not fighting, that I was not in Poughkeepsie scouting
potential rehab clinics, and that I had no intention of "dumping"
Philip for any reason anytime soon.
I'd now spent most of December attending as many events as
possible, mugging with Philip and generally inviting nasty commentary
from Abby (who was only too happy to oblige), and
everything had returned to some twisted version of normal. Kelly
had placed us on a rotating holiday schedule; since we all couldn't
take off at the same time, I'd agreed to work a cocktail party for
Jewish professionals on Christmas Eve in exchange for having New
Year's Eve off. I was looking forward to spending New Year's with
Penelope in Los Angeles, finally taking her up on her offer to visit
and buying my ticket the moment I learned my work schedule.
Christmas was two weeks away, and our Monday-morning staff
meeting was more frantic than ever. I was daydreaming about how
Pen and I would soon be catching up over Bloody Maiys in shorts
and flip-flops, beachside, in the middle of winter, when Kelly's
voice broke into my thoughts.
"We've accepted a new client I'm really excited about," Kelly
announced with a huge smile. "As of today we officially represent
the Association of Istanbul Nightclub Owners."
"There's nightlife in Istanbul?" Leo asked, examining what appeared
to be a flawless cuticle.
"I didn't know they allowed clubs in Syria!" Elisa exclaimed,
looking shocked. "I mean, Muslims don't even drink, right?"
"Istanbul's in Turkey, Elisa," Leo said, looking pleased with
himself. "And even though it's a Muslim country, it's really, really
westernized and there's, like, total separation of church and state.
Or mosque and state, I guess I should say."
Kelly grinned. "Exactly, Leo, that's exactly right. As you all
know, we're ready to expand to international clients, and I think
this will be a perfect start. The association is made up of nearly
thirty club owners in greater Istanbul, and they're looking for

someone to promote the city's active night scene. And they've chosen
us."
"I didn't know people went to Turkey to party," Elisa sniffed. "I
mean, it's not exactly Ibiza, is it?"
"Well, that's precisely why they need our assistance," Kelly
said. "It's my understanding that Istanbul is a cosmopolitan city,
really very chic, and they have no problem drawing all sorts of fabulous
Europeans who love the beaches and clubs and cheap shopping.
But tourism has suffered since nine-eleven and they want to
reach out to Americans—especially young ones—and show them
that partying in Istanbul is just as accessible as going to Europe,
more affordable and exotic. It's our job to make them the destination."
"And how, exactly, are we going to do that?" Leo asked, studying
the buckle on his Gucci belt and looking supremely bored.
"Well, for starters, you'll have to get acquainted with what
we're trying to promote. Which is why you'll all be spending New
Year's in Istanbul. Skye will stay behind with me to keep things
running here. You leave December twenty-eighth."
"What?" I almost shouted. "We're going to Turkey? In two
weeks?" I felt a combination of horror at telling Penelope I wouldn't
be coming to LA and excitement at the prospect of going somewhere
so amazing.
"Kelly, I agree with Bette. I'm not sure that's such a good idea.
I, like, don't make it a habit to visit war-torn countries," Elisa said.
"I wasn't saying that I didn't want to go," I whispered meekly.
"War-torn? Are you stupid?" Skye asked.
"I don't mind war-torn, I just don't think it sounds all that appealing
to go to some third-world country where the food's dangerous,
the water's unsafe, and you can't get decent room service.
For New Year's? Really?" Leo said, looking at Kelly.
"See, this is part of the problem," Kelly said, keeping her cool
far better than I would have in her position. "Turkey is a Western
democracy. They're trying to join the EU. There's a Four Seasons
and a Ritz and a Kempinski right in town. There's a Versace boutique,
for chrissake. I have the utmost confidence that you'll all be

perfectly comfortable. Your only requirement while you're there is
to check out as many clubs and lounges and restaurants as humanly
possible. Take cute clothes. Drink the champagne they'll
give you. Shop. Lay out. Party as often and as much as you can
manage. Ring in the new year together. And, of course, entertain
your guests."
"Guests? The nightclub owners, you mean? I am not fucking
whoring myself out to some Turkish club owners, Kelly! Not even
for you," Elisa said, folding her arms across her chest in a show of
moral fortitude.
Kelly grinned. "That's funny." She paused for emphasis. "But
fear not, young Elisa. The guests to which I'm referring are a carefully
selected group of tastemakers from right here in Manhattan."
Elisa's head snapped to attention. "Who? Who's coming? What
do you mean? We'll have fabulous people with us?" she asked.
Davide and Leo perked up, too. We all sat, leaning slightly forward,
waiting for Kelly to give us the full scoop. "Well, we haven't
gotten final confirmations from everyone yet, but so far we have
commitments from Marlena Bergeron, Emanuel de Silva, Monica
Templeton, Oliver Montrachon, Alessandra Uribe Sandoval, and
Camilla von Alburg. It helps that there's nothing really major
planned here for New Year's Eve—everyone's looking for something
to do. You'll all fly via private jet and stay at the Four Seasons.
The client will take care of everything: cars, drinks, dinners,
whatever you'll need to show them—and the photographers—a
good time."
"Private jet?" I murmured.
"Photographers? Please tell me you're not sending us over there
with a planeload of paparazzi," Elisa whined.
"Just the usual; there won't be more than three, and all are
freelance, so they won't be tied down to any one publication.
Throw in three—maybe four—writers, and we should get some
fantastic coverage."
I considered this information. In less than two weeks, I'd be en
route to Istanbul, Turkey, charged with drinking, dancing, and
lounging by the pool of one of the world's nicest hotels, my only

real assignment having to keep a carefully selected handful of socialites
and scenesters plied with enough alcohol and drugs to ensure
that they were drunk enough to look happy in pictures but
still coherent enough to say something remotely intelligible to the
reporters. The party pictures would be splashed across all the
weekly tabloids and papers when we got home, and the captions
would all describe how everyone who was anyone partied in Istanbul,
and no one would even realize that we'd been paid to bring
the party there, complete with handpicked photogs to shoot it and
writers to describe it. It was brilliant, and personified our industry's
motto—STAGE IT, THEN PAGE IT—to perfection.
But then an image of Penelope flashed in my mind and I almost
choked: How could I do this to her again?
"Bette, I took the liberty of asking the association to book you
and Philip into the honeymoon suite. It's the least I could do for
my favorite darling couple!" Kelly announced with obvious pride.
"Philip's going?" I croaked. Ever since Sammy's kiss, my faux
relationship with Philip had felt even weirder.
"Well, of course he's going! Most of this was his idea! I was
telling him about our new client at the BlackBerry event and he offered
his services, said he'd be happy to take a group of his friends
over to party if it would be helpful. He even volunteered his
father's jet, but the association had already planned to use their
own. Bette, you must be so happy!"
I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but Kelly had
already moved to the conference-room door. "Okay, kids, we've
got a lot of work to do over the next couple weeks. Elisa, I'm
putting you in charge of liaising with the client and the guests to
confirm and reconfirm all the travel details—make sure everyone
knows where and when they'll be going and what they need. Leo,
you're to focus on keeping in touch with writers and photogs and
their editors; put together a quickie press release and a tip sheet
and get them whatever stock photos of our guests you can
scrounge up. Davide, start putting together folders on the group
you'll be hosting. They're all in the database, of course, so pull
their profiles and get the team their social histories, likes, and dis-

likes as quickly as possible, and then follow up with the Four Seasons
so we can ensure they have the right waters and wines and
snacks personalized in each room. I don't think there are any
major romantic conflicts, but make sure. Aside from the fact that
Camilla used to fuck Oliver, and Oliver is supposedly sleeping with
Monica now, I think it's a fairly nonincestuous group of people,
which should make it easier."
Everyone was furiously taking notes, and the List Girls, who'd
been permitted to sit in the back of the room to watch the meeting,
were staring at us in wonderment.
"Kelly, what should I do?" I called as she turned to leave.
"You? Why, Bette, the only thing you need to worry about is
Philip. He's the key to all of this, so you just concentrate on keeping
him as happy as possible. Anything he wants, get it for him.
Anything he needs, provide it. If Philip's happy, his friends are,
too, and this whole project will be a walk in the park." She winked
just in case any of us weren't exactly certain what she meant and
then skipped back to her desk.
Leo and Skye and Elisa chattered happily and decided to lunch
at Pastis to continue their planning, but I begged off. I couldn't get
a waking-nightmare image out of my head: Philip outstretched on
the balcony of a lavish honeymoon suite wearing only silk boxers
and performing all sorts of yogic contortions while a photographer
snapped pictures from our shared bed and Penelope looked on
from afar.

22
I finally got through to Penelope on Tuesday night. She
seemed far away, both in the physical sense of the distance and in
the time difference, but it went beyond that. She swore that she'd
forgiven me for leaving the night of her going-away party, but it
didn't feel like she'd gotten over it. I still hadn't told her about the
Sammy kiss or the situation with my parents at the Harvest Festival,
or even how Abby was behind the horrible New York Scoop articles.
Three months ago, that would have all been incomprehensible,
and now here I was, about to make it much, much worse.
Possibly irreconcilable.
I'd been working up the nerve to call Penelope for the past
three hours while simultaneously thinking about Sammy, wondering
if he was home, preparing to break up with his girlfriend so he
and I could be together. He always seemed so happy to see me at
Bungalow that I knew he'd do the right thing—which was, of
course, to end things with Isabelle and embark on what would
surely be a long and happy love affair with me.
Finally my fingers followed my brain's command to dial, and before
I could hang up for the thousandth time, Penelope answered.
"Hi! How are you?" I asked, much too enthusiastically. I still
didn't have my exact wording down and was trying to buy as
much time as possible.
"Bette! Hi. What's up?" She sounded equally enthusiastic.
"Not much. The usual, you know." I decided then to pull the
Band-Aid off quickly: one rip instead of long, slow torture. "I've
got something to tell you, Pen—"
She cut me off just as I was formulating my first words. "Bette, be-

fore you say anything, I have something awful to tell you." She took
a deep breath and then said, "I can't spend New Year's Eve with you."
What? How was this happening? Did she somehow already
know about the Turkey situation? Was she so upset that she'd decided
to cancel on me first? She must have interpreted my confused
silence as anger because she rushed on.
"Are you there? Bette, I'm so sorry, I can't even begin to explain
to you how sorry I am. My parents just called to tell us that
they've rented a villa at Las Ventanas for the week between Christmas
and New Year's. I told them I already had plans for New
Year's, but then they said that they'd invited Avery's parents and
brother, too, so we all have to go, and I have no choice. As usual."
This was too good to be true.
"Really? You're going to Mexico instead?" I was asking just to
make sure I had the story straight, but to Penelope I must have
sounded very, very angry.
"Oh, Bette, I'm so, so, so sorry. Of course I'll reimburse you for
the ticket you can't use, and I'll buy you another to come back as
soon as you can. Just please forgive me. If it's any comfort, my
New Year's is going to be an absolute nightmare. . . . " She sounded
so distraught that I wanted to hug her.
"Pen, don't worry about it—"
"Really? You're not mad?"
"If we're all being honest here, I was calling to tell you that I
couldn't come out there over New Year's. Kelly wants to send us
all to Turkey."
"Turkey?" She sounded confused. "Why Turkey?"
"Work, if you can believe it. We got a new client—some nightclub
owners' association—and they want us to promote the
nightlife in Istanbul. We're basically exporting the party to them
and making sure it gets covered here. They figured New Year's was
the perfect time to start."
She started laughing and said, "So you just made me go
through that whole sob story when you were calling to cancel on
me, anyway? You're such a bitch!"
"Urn, excuse me, you just straight-up told me not to come visit

you, so I don't see where you get off calling me a bitch." We were
both laughing, and I felt like a huge weight had been lifted.
"In all seriousness, though, that sounds so cool," she said. "Are
you going to have time to sightsee while you're there? I've heard
people describe the Hagia Sofia as a transcendent experience. And
the Blue Mosque. The Grand Bazaar. A sightseeing boat ride down
the Bosporus! My God, Bette, it sounds incredible. . . ."
I didn't want to tell her that the only daytime activities I'd seen
on the itinerary so far were hot-stone massages, or that the only
boat ride scheduled was a booze cruise, so I just murmured along
with her and tried to change the subject. "I know, it should be
great. What's going on with you?"
"Oh, not much," she said. "This and that, you know?"
"Penelope! You recently moved across the country, if I recall.
How is it out there? What's going on? Tell me everything!" I lit a
cigarette and pulled Millington onto my lap, all set to hear how
fabulous sun-drenched LA was, but Penelope's tone was clearly
not thrilled.
"Well, so far it's okay," she said carefully.
"You sound miserable. What's going on?"
"I don't know." She sighed. "California's fine. Nice, actually.
Really nice. When you get past the whole wheatgrass smoothie
garbage, it's really not a bad place to live. We've got a great apartment
in Santa Monica, a couple blocks from the beach, and it's fantastic
being so far away from our parents. I don't know, it's
just
"It's just what?"
"Well, I thought Avery would calm down a little when we got
out here, but he immediately hooked up with a whole crew of Horace
Mann kids who moved out here after college. I hardly see him
anymore. Since he doesn't start classes until mid-January, he's got
another whole month of nothing but time to go out all night, every
night."
I didn't say what I was thinking: typical. "Oh, honey, I'm sure
he's just getting used to a new place. Things will slow down once
he starts school."

"I guess. You're right, I'm sure. It's just that, well, he . . ." She
paused. "Never mind."
"Penelope! What were you about to say?"
"You're going to think I'm the most evil person ever."
"Let me remind you, my friend, that you're talking to someone
who's quote-unquote dating a guy for strictly professional
reasons. I don't think I'm exactly in a position to judge anyone
right now."
She sighed. "Well, I checked Avery's Yahoo account the other
night when he was at the Viceroy, and I found a few emails that
are rather unsettling."
"You guys have access to each other's email accounts?" I asked,
horrified.
"Of course not. But his password was hardly difficult to figure
out. I typed in the name of his bong, and voila! Instant access."
"His bong? What did you find?" I certainly didn't think she was
evil for hacking into his account. I tried for months to watch as
Cameron typed in his password, but he was always too fast.
"I know I'm probably overreacting, but there are some very
cute emails to a girl he used to work with in New York."
"Define cute."
"He went on and on about how she could hold her liquor better
than any other girl he's ever met."
"Wow, he's a real Don Juan, P. The guy could write a book on
seduction."
"Right? I know it sounds ridiculous, but they actually sounded
flirty. He signed them 'xoxo.'"
"Oh, God. Is he gay? He's definitely not gay, is he? What
straight guy on earth does that?"
"Well, he sure hasn't ever done that with me. It just creeped me
out. I casually asked him last night when he got home at three in
the morning if he still keeps in touch with anyone from work, and
he said no just before he passed out. Am I overreacting? This
morning he was so sweet and offered to take me shopping, spend
the day together. . . ."
I didn't quite know what to say. The wedding was still more than

eight months away, and it sounded like Penelope might—just
might—realize before it was too late that Avery was a supreme jackass
and not worth her entire married future. I'd happily fan the fire
whenever possible, but she'd have to come to that conclusion herself.
"Well," I said slowly, picking my words with the utmost care.
"It's normal for every relationship to have its ups and downs, right?
That's why people get engaged first. It's just that. An engagement.
If you discover something about him that you don't think you can
live with forever, well, you're not married, and—"
"Bette, that's not what I'm saying," she said sharply. Oops. "I
love Avery, and of course I'm marrying him. I was just talking to
my best friend about what I'm sure is a ridiculous, unfounded,
paranoid suspicion. It's clearly my own issue, not Avery's. I just
need to be more confident in his feelings for me, that's all."
"Sure, sure, Pen. I totally understand. I didn't mean to imply
otherwise. And of course I'm always here for you, just to listen. I'm
sorry I said that."
"Whatever, I'm just emotional right now. A little homesick.
Look, thanks for listening. I'm sorry about all this stuff. How's
everything with you? Philip? Is he good?"
How had things gotten so out of control that my best friend not
only asked about Philip but also had no idea that Sammy even existed?
It was unfathomable to think I could kiss someone like
Sammy and not have Penelope know about it within thirty seconds
when we were working together all day and hanging out at the
Black Door at night, but it'd been forever since we'd done that. Or
at least it felt like forever.
"It's complicated. Everyone thinks we're dating—even him,
probably—but we're really not," I said, knowing full well that I
was making no sense but not having the energy to explain everything.
"Well, it's probably not my place, but I'm not sure he's right for
you, Bette."
I wondered what she'd say if she knew what my mom had told
me about the Westons.

I sighed. "I know that, Pen. I'm just overwhelmed right now,
you know?"
"Not really," she said. "You haven't exactly explained it."
"It's just that this job has sort of infiltrated the rest of my life.
My boss isn't so great at making distinctions between what happens
in the office and what goes on everywhere else, so there's a
lot of overlap. Does that make sense?"
"No. What does your boss have to do with your personal life?"
"It's not just that. Will got me this job and expects me to do
well. He called in a huge favor for it. And I am doing well, I think,
whatever that means. But the whole Philip thing is sort of tied in."
I knew I was being positively nonsensical, that I could be speaking
an African clicking language for all the clarity I was providing
Penelope or myself, but I just didn't have the energy.
"All right," she said hesitantly. "I have no idea what you're saying,
but I'm always around, you know? I'm only a phone call
away."
"I know, honey, and I appreciate that."
"Again, I'm so sorry about New Year's, but I'm glad you'll be
doing something so much more fabulous. I'll read about it in all
the papers. . . ."
"That reminds me! I haven't told you. . . . How could I have
forgotten this? You know how New York Scoop has been writing
all those nasty things about me?"
"Yeah, they've been hard to miss lately."
"Well, any idea who's writing them?"
"Of course. It's some stupid pseudonym, right? Ellie something?"
"Yeah, and you know who that is?"
"No, should I?"
"That, my dear Pen, is Abby. Vortex. That whore has been following
me around and printing all that stuff under a fake name."
I heard a sharp intake of breath. "Abby is behind all that? Are you
sure? What are you going to do about it? You need to shut her down."
I snorted. "You're telling me! Kelly told me weeks ago, but I
was sworn to secrecy! I've been obsessing over it, but we're always

so rushed and I forgot to tell you. Isn't it crazy? I never thought she
hated me that much."
"It is weird. I know she's not your biggest fan—or mine, for
that matter—but this seems excessively mean, even for her."
"All I want to do is confront her, and I can't. It's incredibly aggravating."
I glanced at the clock on the cable box and jumped off
the couch. "Ohmigod, Pen, it's already eight. I hate to run—I'm
hosting the holiday book club tonight and I have to get everything
set up."
"I don't know why, but I love that you still read that stuff. You
are such a romantic, Bette."
I thought of Sammy and almost said something but decided to
skip it at the last second.
"Yeah, you know me, always hopeful," I said lightly.
I felt slightly better when we hung up. I should've spent the
evening Googling and reading about the people we'd be taking
with us to Turkey, but I couldn't bear to cancel book club if it
wasn't absolutely necessary. It took me a full hour to arrange the
apartment for the girls, but when the intercom buzzer first rang, I
knew it would be worth it.
"I've decided to honor tonight's Latin theme," I announced after
everyone had settled in. We were reading Bought by Her Latin
Lover, and the cover featured a tall man in black tie (presumably
the Latin lover) embracing an elegant woman in an evening dress
on the deck of what looked like a yacht. "We have here one
pitcher of sangria, and another of margaritas."
They clapped and cheered and poured.
"In addition, I have chicken quesadillas, mini burritos, and
some killer chips and guac dip. And for dessert, Magnolia cupcakes."
"What do pink-frosted cupcakes have to do with our Latin
theme?" Courtney asked, plucking one off the serving tray.
"That was, admittedly, random—I can't think of a Spanish
dessert I'd prefer to a Magnolia cupcake," I said. Just then Millington
gave a little bark from her hiding spot in the corner. "Baby,
come here. Come here, good girl," I called. She obliged and

strolled over, giving everyone a view of the tiny sombrero she
wore for the occasion.
"You didn't." Jill laughed, scooping Millington up and admiring
her hat.
"Oh, I did. Got it at that baby-costume store in midtown. See, it
comes with a chinstrap so it stays on. How great is that?"
Janie helped herself to another quesadilla and absently
scratched Millington. "Bette, to think you went from a hesitant
early member who refused to host to the Martha Stewart of the
club. . . . Well, I just have to say, it's very impressive."
I laughed. "I guess my job is seeping into other areas of my
life, huh? I can pull together an event in my sleep at this point."
We ate and drank first, working up a decent sangria buzz so we'd
be able to discuss with complete frankness how much we'd loved
the night's selection. By the time Vika pulled her well-worn copy
from her messenger bag, we were fairly far gone.
"I'll read the summary from the website," she announced, unfolding
a printout. "Everyone ready?"
We all nodded.
"Okay, here goes. 'Spanish millionaire Cesar Montarez wants
Rosalind the moment he sees her; this electrifying attraction is like
nothing he's ever felt before. But Cesar has little respect for
money-hungry women—mistresses or trophy wives. Rosalind is determined
she'll never be either, until Cesar discovers that she has
secret debts. Now he can buy her as his mistress . . . and Rosalind
has little choice but to pay his price. . . .' Wow. Certainly sounds
hot. Thoughts?"
"It's just so romantic when he spots her at that seaside restaurant.
He just knows she's the one. Why aren't normal guys like
that?" Courtney asked.
I'm sure Sammy is like that, I thought, my mind drifting.
We all weighed in on our favorite characters, plot twists, and
sex scenes, which inevitably led to conversation about our own
lives—work stories and a few family complaints, but mostly men.
It was almost midnight when the buzzer rang from the lobby.
"Yes?" I asked, pressing the button on the intercom.

"I have a Philip Weston here to see you, Bette. Should I send
him up?"
"Philip? He's here? Right now?" I didn't realize I'd said that out
loud until Seamus sang back, "Sure is, Bette."
"I have company," I said, panicked. "Can you ask Philip to call
when he gets home?"
"Bette, love, ring me up. My mate here—what's your name?
Seamus? Good bloke! We're sharin' a pint and talking about what a
good girl you are. Now be a good girl and ring me up."
I glanced down at my ripped jeans and tattered T-shirt and
wondered what on earth Philip could want at midnight. It would
be obvious with a normal guy, but Philip had never drunk-dialed—
never mind drunk-visited—and I actually felt queasy.
"What the hell." I sighed. "Come on up."
"Ohmigod, Philip Weston is here? Right now?" Janie asked,
sounding breathless. "But we all look like hell. You look like hell."
She was right, of course, but there wasn't time to do anything
about it.
"Bette, don't think you're getting off this easy. We'll leave, but
you better be prepared to explain yourself at the next meeting,"
Vika warned.
Courtney nodded. "You've been denying that the New York
Scoop columns are true, but now Philip Weston shows up at your
apartment in the middle of the night? We deserve every juicy detail!"
There was a knock, followed by a dull thud in the hallway. I
opened the door, and Philip reeled inside.
"Bette, love, I'm a tad pissed," he slurred, slumping against the
wall.
"Yes, I can see that. Come on in," I said, half dragging, half
supporting him as he shuffled in, and the girls parted down the
middle to clear a path.
"Philip Weston," Janie breathed.
"The one and only." He grinned and scanned the room before
flopping backward onto the couch. "Dollface, where did all these
smashing girls come from?"

Courtney stared at him for a full ten seconds before turning to
me and saying, quite pointedly, "Bette, we're going to clear out for
now. Everyone, let's go and leave Bette and Philip to, uh, to themselves.
I'm sure she'll tell us all about it at the next meeting. Speaking
of which, what's on deck?"
Alex held up a copy of We Taming of the Dark Lord, tilted so
only we could see it, and said, "I nominate this."
"Done," I said. "We'll read that for next time. Thanks for coming,
guys."
"Oh, no, thank you," Janie said as I hugged everyone goodbye.
"Can't wait to hear about this one," Jill whispered.
When they'd all gone, I turned my attention back to the drunk
Englishman on my couch. "Coffee or tea?"
"Gin and tonic sounds ab fab, love. I'd fancy a little nightcap
right about now."
I put the teakettle on and sat down on the chair opposite him,
unable to get any closer because the stench of alcohol was overwhelming.
It was emanating from his pores in that special way
guys have when they've been drinking all night, enveloping everything
within a five-foot radius in that distinctive frat-boy-freshmanyear-
floor stench. He still managed to look adorable, though. His
tan was so solid it wouldn't allow him to look as green as he
probably should, and his spiky hair was mussed in the most perfect
way.
"So where were you tonight?" I asked.
"Oh, here and there, love, here and there. Bloody reporter following
me around all night with her bloody cameraman. 1 told
them to bugger off, but I think they followed me here," he mumbled,
reaching out for Millington, who glanced at him, growled,
and bolted. "Come over, pup. Come on and say hello to Philip.
What's wrong with your dog, love?"
"Oh, she's always been particularly wary of tall, drunk Brits wearing
Gucci loafers without socks. Honestly, it's nothing personal."
For some reason, he thought this was hysterically funny and
nearly rolled off the couch in fits of laughter. "Well, then, if not her,

then why don't you come over here and give me a proper greeting?"
The kettle howled as I walked to the stove to pour our tea. I
caught a glimpse of Millington cowering on the floor of the dark
bathroom, shaking slightly.
"Love, you really shouldn't have gone to so much trouble," he
called, sounding slightly more coherent.
"It's tea, Philip. It's just boiling water."
"No, love, I meant your clothing choice. Seriously, I'd shag you
no matter what you were wearing." He collapsed into another
laughing fit and I wondered how it was possible for someone to
be so clever.
I placed a mug in front of him, and he pinched my ass in return.
"Philip." I sighed.
He placed his hands around my hips with surprising strength
and pulled me onto his lap.
"Everyone thinks you're my girlfriend, love." He was slurring
again.
"Yeah, weird, isn't it? Especially since we've never actually
been, ah, intimate."
"You don't go banging on about that, do you?" he asked
quickly, looking alert for the first time since he'd walked in.
"Banging on about what?"
"Come closer, doll. Kiss me."
"I'm right here, Philip," I said, breathing through my mouth.
He slid his hand under my T-shirt and started stroking my
back. It felt so nice that I managed to forget for a split second that
it was a drunk Philip doing it and not Sammy. Without thinking, I
wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my mouth to his. I
didn't immediately realize that he'd opened his own mouth to
protest, not to kiss me back.
"Whoa, love, try to keep your knickers on." He pulled back in
shock and looked at me like I'd just torn off all my clothes and
jumped on him.
"What's the problem? What?" I asked. I refused to let him off

the hook this time—I had to know once and for all that it wasn't
my imagination or some half-assed excuse. I wanted confirmation
that, for whatever reason, he would rather die than touch me.
"Of course I fancy you, love. Where's that G and T? Why don't
I tuck into that for a moment, and then we can talk?"
I climbed off him and retrieved a bottle of Stella Artois from
the fridge. I'd bought it a year ago because I'd read in Glamour
that you should always keep a cool beer in the fridge in case an
actual guy ever materializes in your apartment, and I silently applauded
the good folks on their editorial staff. By the time I'd returned,
however, Philip appeared to be unconscious.
"Philip. Hey, look, I have a beer for you."
"Argh." He groaned, his eyes fluttering, a telltale sign that he
was faking it.
"Come on, get up already. You may be drunk, but you're not
asleep. Why don't I put you in a cab?"
"Mmm. I'm just going to have a little sleep, love. Argh." He
swung his loafered feet onto my couch with surprising agility and
hugged an accent pillow to his chest.
It was just after two when I threw a blanket on the snoring
Philip, retrieved Millington from the space between the bathtub
and the sink, and tucked us both under the covers without bothering
to undress or turn off the lights.

23
The day had finally arrived: we were set to leave that evening
for Turkey. I'd arrived at the office to collect a few last-minute
things, only to find a fax from Will. The cover sheet simply read
"Ugh," and attached was a clipping from New York Scoop. The
headline read: is MANHATTAN'S FAVORITE PARTY BOY GAY OR JUST CONFUSED?
Byline: Ellie Insider, obviously. Knowing who she was made
it even worse. The text laid it out in no uncertain terms:
Philip Weston, heir to the Weston fortune and member of the
British Brat Pack in New York, raised eyebrows last week when he
was spotted at the Roxy, the notoriously flamboyant Chelsea nightclub.
Weston, who has been linked in the press to various Vogue
fashion editors, Brazilian models, and Hollywood starlets, was
spotted snuggling with an unidentified male in the club's MP
room, sources say. WJjen Weston apparently realized that he'd
been sighted, he hastily Vespaed to the home of his current fling,
Bettina Robinson, an associate at Kelly & Company (see sidebar).
Weston's publicist refused to comment.
See sidebar. See sidebar. See sidebar. I read those two words
nearly a dozen times before I could bring myself to glance to the
right. Sure enough, there was a picture of me, snapped at Bungalow
8 the very first night I'd met Philip, pressed against him suggestively,
my head thrown back in obvious ecstasy while I
appeared to be literally pouring champagne down my throat,
seemingly unaware of either the camera or Philip's hands cupping
my ass. If I'd needed any proof of how trashed I'd been that night

aside from the blackout, well, this was it. Headline: WHO IS BETTINA
ROBINSON? Byline: Ellie Insider. Inside the one-column, page-length
box was a bulleted list of my biographical details, including the
date and place of my birth (thankfully, it merely read "New Mexico"),
schools, degrees, position at UBS, and relationship to Will,
who was described as "the controversial national columnist whose
readership catered exclusively to the white, rich, and over-50
crowd." It was a nightmare, naturally, but so far it was accurate. It
wasn't until my eyes forced their way to the bottom paragraph that
I thought I might vomit. Abby had found someone to go on record
as saying that I'd "certainly been well-acquainted with many guys'
beds as an undergrad at Emory" and that there had been "accusations
of academic integrity issues, but no one knew for sure."
Someone else was quoted as describing how 1 had "been plotting
to take over Kelly & Company" even though I had no previous PR
experience. When asked by Abby to elaborate, the "source" merely
intimated that "everyone knew she never actually wrote her own
papers and was known for 'cozying up' to her male TAs in the
classes she found particularly challenging, which, if I must say,
were probably most of them." The final sentence of the short paragraph
implied that I'd aggressively pursued Philip from the moment
I'd met him in order to become a boldfaced name myself and
further my new career.
My first reaction, of course, was to hunt Abby down and subject
her to a creatively torturous death, but it was difficult to consider
any particulars because I was having trouble breathing. I
gasped quite dramatically for a few moments. In some weird way I
appreciated Abby's self-awareness: if she had just attributed all
those things to herself instead of to me, I would have applauded
her honesty. But this insight was brief, vanishing the moment Kelly
appeared at the doorway of her office, clutching a copy of the
paper and grinning so maniacally that I instinctively backed away
in my rolling chair.
"Bette! You saw it, right? You read it, didn't you?" she asked
frantically, rushing toward me with all the grace and enthusiasm of
a linebacker.

She interpreted my dulled reaction time as a denial and literally
threw the paper on my desk. "Didn't you at least read the Dirt
Alert?" she shrieked. "The girls called me at home this morning to
tell me about this one."
"Kelly, I, uh, I'm just sick about this—"
"You minx! Here I was this whole time thinking you were this
good little worker bee, slaving away at a bank, living a decidedly
unfabulous life, and now I find out that you're a secret party girl?
Bette, seriously, I can't tell you what a shock this is. We'd all had
you pegged as, well, as a little reserved, shall we say—no offense,
of course. I just didn't think you had it in you. God only knows
where you've been hiding the last couple years. Do you realize
you're a full sidebar'? Here, read it."
"I've read it," I said numbly, no longer shocked that Kelly was
delighted instead of horrified at such coverage. "You know none of
that stuff is true, don't you? You see, the girl who wrote that actually
went to school with me and she—"
"Bette, you're a sidebar. Say it after me. Sidebar. In New York
Scoop! There's a huge picture of you, and you look like a rock star.
You are a star, Bette. Congratulations! This so calls for a celebration!"
Kelly scampered off, presumably to plan an early-morning
champagne toast, while I was left to consider the possibility of
simply flying to Istanbul and staying there forever. Within minutes
my phone was ringing off the hook with all sorts of unsavory calls,
each hideous in its own special way. My father called immediately
to announce that even though they were home on winter break,
one of his students had emailed the article to him; this was followed
by my mother saying she'd overheard some volunteers at
her crisis hotline wondering when I would ever own up to the fact
that I was dating a Jew-hating slave driver, and did I want to talk to
someone about what appeared to be my "promiscuity/self-worth"
issues? A woman left a message offering her services as my publicist,
kindly mentioning that this would never have happened had I
been on her watch, and a couple gossip columnists from small,
local papers across the country wanted to know if I would submit
to phone interviews to discuss such crucial issues as my opinions

on Brad and Jen's breakup, my favorite party spot in New York,
and my evaluation of Philip's sexual orientation. Megu called on
Michael's behalf to say that if I wanted to talk about anything, they
wanted me to know that they were both there for me. Elisa called
from a cab on her way to the office to congratulate me on my sidebar
status. So did Philip's assistant, Marta. Simon called while I was
riding in a Town Car to the airport. He declared, rather endearingly
in light of our earlier conversations, that not one respectable person
read New York Scoop, and not to worry because he was sure
no one would ever even see it.
I decided to ignore everyone, but then I remembered that I
was leaving the country and couldn't really avoid calling my parents
one last time to say good-bye. I opted for my father's cell
phone, figuring that it wouldn't be on and I could leave a message
for both of them, wishing them a happy new year and telling them
I'd call upon my return. No such luck.
"Well, look who it is. Anne, come here, our famous daughter's
on the phone. Bettina, your mother wants to talk to you."
I heard some shuffling and a couple of beeps as they accidentally
bumped numbers on the keypad before my mother's voice
rang out loud and clear.
"Bettina? Why are they writing all those things about you? Is it
true? Tell me what's what because 1 don't even know what to tell
people when they ask. I certainly never would've thought a single
word of it was valid, but ever since I heard about that Weston
boy . . ."
"Mom, I can't really get into it now. I'm on my way to the airport.
Of course it was all lies—how could you think otherwise?"
She sighed, and I couldn't tell if it was out of relief or frustration.
"Bettina, honey, you can understand how a mother might
wonder, especially when she finds out her daughter suddenly lives
a strange and mysterious life."
"It might be strange, Mom, but it's not mysterious. 1 promise.
I'll explain it all when I get back, but right now I have to get a
move on or I'll be late for the flight. Say good-bye to Dad for me.
I'll call you guys when I'm back on Sunday, okay? I love you."

There was a moment of hesitation while she decided whether
or not to push the issue, and then another sigh. "All right, we'll
speak to you then. See as much as possible, dear, and be safe. And
try to keep your private life out of the public eye, okay?"
All in all, it had been one solidly shitty morning, but thankfully
I had a new problem to take my mind off the sidebar: Louis Vuitton.
Lots of it. Carts full of it, actually, more trunks and rolling suitcases
and valet cases and garment bags and carry-on duffels and
clutch purses sporting the interlocking LVs than could surely reside
in the flagship store in Milan or the behemoth boutique on Fifth
Avenue. Apparently, everyone on board had gotten the memo that
Louis Vuitton was the luggage of choice. Three porters in burgundy
uniforms were struggling to move it from the subtly named Million
Air terminal to the belly of the Gulfstream, but their progress was
slow. Elisa, Davide, Leo, and I had taken a limo from the city to
Teterboro a few hours early to make sure everything was ready for
the arrival of the helicopter that was bringing Philip and his group
from the Wall Street helipad to the airport.
Meanwhile, since I was blessed with stimulating and challenging
tasks like overseeing the loading of the Louis Vuittons and ensuring
that there was a sufficient supply of Evian facial misters
onboard, I didn't have much time to stress about being portrayed
as a lying, cheating prostitute in what was now the hippest, most
coveted gossip sheet available, one that had found its way into the
hands of every single one of my friends, coworkers, and family
members. We were nearing our scheduled five o'clock departure
time—with everyone onboard except one of our last-minute invites,
a socialite and her "guest" who'd called to say they were
stuck in traffic at the Lincoln Tunnel—when the first crisis arose.
There were so many suitcases that the porters couldn't fit all
the luggage on the plane. "We're at full capacity on the flight
today," one of them told me. "You can figure that Gulfstream Fives
can usually handle six average-sized or four oversized pieces per
person, but this group has gone way over."
"Mow far over?"
"Well," he said, crinkling his forehead. "Y'all average four over-

sized bags apiece. One gal has seven, including a trunk so big we
needed to bring a crane from the hangar to haul 'er onboard."
"What do you propose we do?" I asked.
"Well, ma'am, the best-case scenario would be to eliminate
some bags."
Knowing full well that we'd be resorting to the worst-case scenario,
I thought I'd try to be cooperative and see if anyone was
willing to part with some possessions. I climbed aboard the jet,
borrowed the intercom handset from the copilot, and explained
our situation over the loudspeaker. Not surprisingly, it was met
with jeers and catcalls.
"You've, like, got to be kidding," Oliver said, laughing hysterically.
"It's a fucking private plane, for chrissake. Tell them to figure
it out." Oliver was accustomed to making such decrees: he
was the founder of a hedge fund so hugely successful that Gotham
Magazine had named him Manhattan's Most Desirable Bachelor of
2004.
"If you think for one single second I'm going without my
shoes, you're very mistaken," Camilla, a cosmetics heiress, called
out between sips of Cristal. "Four days, twelve outfit combinations,
and two possible shoe changes per outfit. No way I'm leaving anything
behind."
"1 want every last one of those trunks put on this plane," announced
Alessandra. "If I remembered to bring empty trunks for all
the stuff I buy, then the least they can do is figure out how to get
them there." Her mother was a notorious shopper, a woman infamous
for spending millions a year on clothes and shoes and bags,
Imelda Marcos-style. Clearly, that apple didn't fall far from the tree.
"Stop worrying so much, love. Come over here and have yourself
a little drinky. Let the crew handle that—it's what we pay them
for." This was from Philip, of course, who was sprawled on one of
the cream-colored leather couches, his checkered Armani shirt
opened one button too far. Elisa appeared equally unconcerned as
she perched on Davide's lap, concentrating intently on hooking
her iPod to the speakers in the cabin's stereo system.
Fair enough. If no one else cared, neither did I. Besides, as

long as they didn't leave behind my single silver Samsonite, it
really wasn't my problem. I accepted a glass of bubbly from a
flight attendant whose perfect figure was only accentuated by her
navy uniform and listened to one of the pilots—who also looked
like a movie star, complete with chiseled Brad-esque jaw and subtle
highlights—give us the rundown on the flight. It was only
slightly unnerving to survey both passengers and crew and realize
that all involved looked like they had stepped directly out of an
episode of the Fabulous Life Of, except for yours truly.
"Flying time should be ten hours with minimal turbulence as
we cross the Atlantic," the pilot said with a heart-stopping grin and
some sort of indeterminate European accent. No one that goodlooking
should be responsible for oar lives, I thought. Someone
slightly uglier and not as cool was likely to drink less and get more
sleep.
"Hey, Helmut, why don't we divert this baby to Mykonos and
call it a day?" Philip called out to the pilot.
Cheers went up all around.
"Mykonos?" asked Camilla. "That's, like, so much more appealing
than Beirut. It's at least civilized. There's a Nobu there."
Helmut laughed again. "Just say the word, kids, and I'll take 'er
wherever you want to go."
A woman's voice rose above the others. It was coming up the
stairs from the tarmac. "We're going to Mykonos?" we heard her
ask someone, though we couldn't yet see who it was. "I thought
we were going to Istanbul. Jesus Christ, my fucking publicist can't
get anything right. I was all set to buy a Turkish carpet!" she
wailed.
It occurred to me that this must be Isabelle, our missing socialite
with no job and certainly no apparent need for a publicist.
Just as I was mentally congratulating her for knowing that Istanbul
was in Turkey, a couple strolled aboard and looked around—
a couple that just so happened to consist, as couples often do, of
two people. It took my brain a second to register that the male
half of this particular couple was none other than Sammy. My
Sammy.

"Isabelle, honey, of course we're going to Istanbul, just like
you were told. The boys are only joking—you know how they get
when you mention the Greek Islands! Leave your stuff right there
and come have a drink." Elisa rushed to comfort the woman I immediately
recognized from the park. "And introduce us to your
gorgeous friend."
At this Sammy appeared to freeze, looking so rigid and uncomfortable
I thought he might collapse. He hadn't seen me yet, hadn't
taken in the entire group, but he did manage to mutter something.
"I'm Sammy. From Bungalow 8?" he said, his voice strangely highpitched.
Elisa stared at him blankly while Isabelle struggled to haul
aboard a massive Louis Vuitton duffel. She smacked him on the
shoulder and nodded toward the bag, which he effortlessly lifted
and placed under one of the leather banquettes.
"Bungalow? Did we meet there one night?" Elisa asked with a
confused expression. I flashed back to the half-dozen times I'd
gone there with her and watched as she had flirted with Sammy,
hugged him, thanked him, and generally acted as though they
were the best of friends. As far as I could tell, though, this wasn't
an act; she really had no clue who he was.
By that point everyone's attention had been diverted to the unfolding
awkwardness and all must have been wondering why, exactly,
this very attractive guy looked so damn familiar when they
just couldn't place him.
"I work there," he said quietly, looking her directly in her face.
"At Bungalow 8?" Elisa asked, appearing more baffled than
ever. "Oh, I get it! You mean you spend so much time there that
it's become like an office to you! Yeah, I totally know what you
mean. It's like that for us, too, isn't it, Bette?" She giggled and
sipped and appeared relieved to have solved the puzzle.
A jolt went through Sammy at the sound of my name, but he
kept his gaze on Elisa's face, as though he were physically unable
to divert his eyes. A full ten seconds passed before he turned his
head slowly and looked at me. The smile that followed was sad
but not surprised.

"Hey," he said, but it came out sounding more like a whisper.
Isabelle had settled in next to Elisa and everyone else had resumed
chatting, which only served to make the moment feel intensely intimate.
"Hi," I said, trying to stay casual while my mind frantically tried
to process this new development. When Kelly had given us the
final list for the group, she'd mentioned that Isabelle Vandemark
had agreed to come only if she could bring her assistant. Naturally,
Kelly had agreed. Did that mean that Isabelle wasn't Sammy's girlfriend?
I had to know.
"There's a seat right here," I said, waving in the general direction
to my left. "If you need one."
He glanced at Isabelle, who was talking to Elisa, and tentatively
began stepping over legs and carry-ons to make his way toward
me. He stood in stark contrast to the flamboyant Leo and the
meticulously dressed Philip, somehow more masculine and vulnerable
at the same time. When he fell into the leather armchair next
to mine, it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the plush
cabin.
"Bette," he started, talking so quietly I had to lean forward to
hear him. "I had no idea you were going to be here. I'm sorry
about this. I really didn't know this was your trip."
"What? She just told you that you guys were going to Istanbul
for a few days?" I asked, holding back tears.
"Yes, if you can believe it, that's exactly what happened. She
mentioned something last week about wanting me to go with her
on some sort of press junket, but she didn't tell me we were definitely
going until yesterday. I didn't really ask any questions. I just
kind of packed my bag."
"You just go wherever she tells you to go? What about work?
What about school? I don't understand how you can just leave
everything because she wants you to. No one else here has a job,
it's not so weird that they just jet off to Istanbul when they feel like
it. Does that mean you quit?"
He looked sheepish at first, and then his face hardened. "No,
they understand at work. Sometimes these things come up."

"Oh, well, that makes sense," I said nastily. "Now you're being
perfectly clear."
"Bette, I'm sorry, it's complicated. She's complicated."
I softened a bit when I saw how miserable he was. "Look,
Sammy, I'm sorry. It's none of my business. I'm just surprised,
that's all." It occurred to me that, unfortunately, he owed me no
explanation whatsoever. Since The Kiss, I'd only seen him out at
night. One of those times he was being hassled by a group of
khaki-clad bankers who weren't pleased to be neglected on the
sidewalk line. He'd merely glanced at me, smiled thinly, and lifted
the rope so I could pass by.
"Let's forget it for now, okay? I've had a hell of a day trying to
get her here," he said and closed his eyes.
I thought about the horrifying Dirt Alert, but refrained from
one-upping him on bad days.
The crew worked out the luggage situation and after a few
frighteningly abridged safety instructions from the flight attendant,
we lifted off into a moonless sky. Within minutes, Elisa began
divvying up a small mountain of pills on the coffee table in front of
her and auctioning them off, Sotheby's-style.
"Uppers, downers, what can I get everyone? Do we want to
party or sleep?" she asked the already-bored group. "This is off the
record, right?" She turned to one of the reporters, who just nodded
listlessly.
"Sleep," Isabelle whined. "I had the most hellish week ever,
and I'm exhausted."
"Definitely sleep," Leo agreed, kicking off his Prada sneakers
and cracking his powdered toes in the air.
Davide nodded, and even Philip concurred that it might be
wise to sleep on the flight since their sole task for the next four
days was to party.
"You guys are no fun!" Flisa baby-talked, shaking her head in a
show of mock disappointment. "But if that's what everyone
wants . . . how can I help?"
"What do you have?" Emanuel, the Argentinean billionaire,
asked with little interest. He appeared barely able to lift his

face from the bowl-sized martini glass he was holding with both
hands.
"You name it, I got it. Just tell me what you need. We have to
get rid of all this before we land, anyway. I saw Midnight Express
and I want no part of that," she announced.
"Yeah, you don't muck around with the Turks and drugs,"
Philip said agreeably. "The concierge'll take care of us when we
get there, but I wouldn't advise bringing in anything yourself."
"I'll take a couple Valium," Leo announced.
"Xanax for me."
"Do you have any Ambien? If I take two and a drink, I should
be good."
"How about Percocet? Can you hook that up?"
Everyone patiently waited their turn as Elisa went around the
cabin, providing each person with a custom order, managing to
produce every brand and dosage that had been requested. Only
Sammy and I passed, but no one seemed to notice. I lit a cigarette
in an effort not to appear too angelic, but that didn't exactly pass
for imbibing with this crowd. Sammy excused himself, saying he
had a headache, and asked Philip if it was okay for him to lie
down in the bedroom.
"Not my plane, man, so help yourself. Just don't mind if I ask
you to leave in a little," Philip said affably while managing to leer
lecherously in my direction.
I cringed but made myself raise my footrest and focus for a few
minutes on Pulp Fiction, which had begun playing on a wall-sized
plasma screen. Just as I was getting into it, managing to put Sammy
out of my mind for solid thirty-second increments, Elisa scampered
over.
"Okay, so I'm, like, still pretty unclear," she said, ripping the
foil off a new pack of Marlboro Lights. "Who is that guy?"
"What guy? Sammy?"
"Isabelle's guy. What does he mean, he works at Bungalow?"
"He's the bouncer there, Elisa. You've seen him probably a
thousand times."
"The bouncer? What's the bouncer doing on our trip?" she
hissed. Almost immediately, her expression changed from disgust
to understanding. "Oh, I get it. He's one of the Downtown Boys.
Yes, that makes perfect sense."
"I don't think he lives downtown," I said, trying to remember if
I even knew where Sammy lived.
She stared at me disdainfully. "Bette, you know Downtown
Boys. They're the company that hires out gorgeous guys as bartenders
or security or waitstaff at private parties and events. You
ordered all those pretty boys to work the BlackBerry party, right?
Well, Downtown is way more exclusive. And it's an open secret
that they're available to their clientele for whatever needs they may
have."
I looked at her. "What are you saying?"
"Just that I wouldn't be surprised if Isabelle keeps Sammy on
some sort of retainer to escort her to events, work her parties, keep
her company. Things like that. Her husband isn't exactly interested
in her social obligations."
"She's married?" This was the best news I'd heard all day.
"Are you serious?" Elisa asked, stunned. "Do you think she's
the most seen socialite in Manhattan because she's charming? Her
husband is some sort of Austrian viscount—not that Austrian royal
titles are so hard to come by—one of the Forbes Top 100 Richest
People eveiy year since the early eighties. Hell, probably forever.
What, did you think that bouncer was her boyfriend?"
My silence said everything.
"Ohmigod, you did. That's so cute, Bette! You honestly think
someone like Isabelle Vandemark dates bouncers?" She was laughing
so hard she almost choked. "That is such a great visual! She
may be fucking him, but she sure isn't dating him!"
I briefly considered burning her with my cigarette, but I was
too elated by what I'd just learned to hate Elisa that much. She
grew bored after a few minutes and went back to drape herself
across Davide, who couldn't seem to divert his eyes from Isabelle's
chest, and she tried to flirt with Philip, who was deep in conversation
with Leo about the merits and pitfalls of having the pedicurist
razor your dead foot-skin instead of merely scrubbing it with a
pumice stone. The photographers and reporters were mostly keeping
to themselves, playing Texas Hold 'Em at the large dinner table
and throwing back tumblers of bourbon. Everyone else was unconscious,
or close, and before I'd even gotten to the scene where Travolta
plunges the needle into Uma Thurman's chest, I was fast
asleep as well.

24
It wasn't until almost two o'clock the next afternoon that I had
my first second alone. We flew through the night, landed at eleven
o'clock Thursday morning, and immediately climbed from the cool
leather plushness of the Gulfstream to the cool leather plushness of
a fleet of limousines, sent courtesy of the Association of Nightclub
Owners—or ANO, as Mr. Kamal Avigdor neatly abbreviated it. Mr.
Avigdor had obviously received the memo regarding the appearance
qualifications of our little group and was beautiful in the most
classic way. He waited with two strikingly pretty girls—his assistants,
he claimed, but each had probably done a round or two in
the role of girlfriend—on the red carpet that had been laid on the
tarmac, a warm smile lighting up his welcoming face. His black
suit was tight and fitted in the way only European guys can get
away with, and his monochromatic green shirt-and-tie combo only
illuminated his dark skin, dark hair, and green eyes. Naturally, he'd
accessorized everything perfectly, with Ferragamo loafers, a Patek
Philippe watch, and some sort of buttery soft man-purse that
would have made any normal man sob with humiliation but somehow
managed to make him look even more masculine. I estimated
him to be somewhere in the thirty to thirty-five range, but I
wouldn't have been the least bit surprised to learn he was ten
years older or younger. Most impressive of all, he'd greeted each
person by name as we'd disembarked.
Elisa, Leo, Davide, and I rode into town with Mr. Avigdor—
who insisted quite adamantly that we call him Kamal—while the
others ducked into the limos behind us. He gave us the whole rundown
on the weekend, assuring us that our only collective respon-

sibility was to show our guests a fantastic time. He would take care
of everything else. We were to let him know if they wanted anything,
anything at all ("And by anything, I most certainly mean anything—
boys, girls, leather goods, hard-to-find food or drink items,
'recreational substances'—anything") and he would ensure that it
found its way to the appropriate person. The itineraries he handed
us looked more like lists of restaurants and clubs than any sort of
schedule; the days were completely blank, leaving time for the
"beauty rest, spa treatments, shopping, and sunning that everyone
will surely require," but the nights were jam-packed. For three
nights, starting at eight o'clock each evening, we'd be fed dinner at
a fabulous restaurant, work our way through two fabulous lounges,
and end up at a superfabulous, ultra-exclusive nightclub, where
we'd remain until close to dawn, just like the young Turks and visiting
Europeans. New Year's Eve differed from the other nights
only in that we were to conduct a champagne toast—on national
TV—at the stroke of midnight. Photographers would document
every minute of the fabulous fun, and Kamal expected that the resulting
publicity would help just as much in Turkey as in America;
after all, who doesn't want to party at the very same place Philip
Weston did?
Check-in went smoothly with only a half-dozen complaints
about the rooms ("too close to where the maids keep their cleaning
shit"; "not nearly enough towels to dry this much hair"; "so not
interested in having a view of a mosqueV), and everyone was in
good spirits when we reconvened at the impressively elegant
champagne brunch held in our honor on the hotel's rooftop overlooking
the majestic Topkapi Palace. I managed to sneak away
after an hour and walked the few blocks to the Grand Bazaar,
where I planned to roam and gape at everyone and everything. I
entered through the Nuruosmaniye Gate to cries of "Miss, I have
what you look for," and wandered aimlessly through the cavernous
building, weaving in and out of the overflowing stalls, taking in the
limitless amounts of beads and silver and rugs and spices and
hookahs and merchants who sipped and smoked, sipped and
smoked. I was in the process of haggling with a little man who

couldn't have been a day younger than ninety for a powder blue
pashmina when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"You realize you're fighting over approximately forty cents,
don't you?" Sammy asked, grinning like he'd just discovered a very
big secret.
"1 know that!" I said indignantly. Of course I didn't.
"So why are you doing it?"
"You're obviously not very familiar with the culture around
here. You're expected to haggle. They actually find it insulting if
you don't."
"Oh, really? Mister, what price are you asking for this scarf?" he
asked, addressing the hunchback seller in the softest voice imaginable.
"Six dollars, U.S., sir. It is of the finest quality. From the south.
Made by my own granddaughter just a week ago. It is beautiful."
The man smiled to reveal a fine spread of toothless gums that
somehow made him look even friendlier.
"We'll take it," Sammy announced, pulling some Turkish lira
from his wallet and placing them gently in the man's paper-thin
hand. "Thank you, sir."
"Thank you, sir. A beautiful pashmina for a beautiful girl. Have
a nice day," he said merrily, clapping Sammy on the back before
returning to his water pipe.
"Yeah, you're right." Sammy grinned at me again. "He looked
really insulted to me." He wrapped the scarf around my neck and
gathered my hair into a bundle to lift it up, letting it fall on top of
the silky soft material.
"You didn't have to do that!" But I'm so glad you did, I thought.
"I know. I wanted to, to apologize for crashing your trip. I
really didn't know you'd be here, Bette. I'm sorry about that."
"Sorry for what?" I said lightly. "Don't be ridiculous, you have
nothing to apologize for."
"Have coffee with me? I've been in the country for hours and I
still haven't had Turkish coffee. I'm excited at the idea that it won't be
skim or extra-hot or no-whip or sugar-free or blended. What do
you say?"

"Sure. My book here says the best place is a few hallways
over."
"Your book?"
"Lonely Planet. How can you go anywhere without a Lonely
Planet?"
"You're such a dork," he said, pulling on the end of my pashmina.
"We're staying at the Four Seasons, getting shuttled around
by private drivers, and have unlimited spending accounts, and
you're following your Lonely Planet? Amazing."
"Why, exactly, is that so amazing? Maybe I want to see a few
things that aren't on the spa-oceanfront-dinner-members-only club
circuit."
He shook his head, unzipped his backpack, and rooted around
inside. "This is why it's amazing," he said, pulling out his own
copy of the exact same book. "C'mon, let's go find that stall."
We claimed a couple of miniature stools around a tiny table
and hand-motioned for two cups of coffee, which came accompanied
by a small plate of sugar cookies.
"Can I ask you something?" I said, slurping the thick liquid
from the small cup.
"Sure. Ask away."
"What is your relationship with Isabelle?" I asked, tiying to
sound casual.
His face tightened. He said nothing, just stared at the tabletop
and ground his teeth.
"Forget it, it's none of my business," I added quickly, desperate
not to ruin the moment.
"It's complicated," he said.
"So you've said." I watched a tiny kitten leap from the ground
to the top of a huge rug pile, where the teenage girl tending the
stall fed it a dish of milk. "Well," I finally said, "it's your deal. Let's
just enjoy our coffee, okay?"
"She pays me to spend time with her," he said softly, moving
his eyes to meet mine as he took a sip.
Well, I wasn't exactly sure what to do with that information.
It wasn't a total shock, considering what Elisa had said, but the

way he stated it, so calmly, with that matter-of-fact way that I was
discovering was very, very Sammy—well, it just sounded so
strange.
"I'm not sure I understand. Does this have something to do
with working for one of those agencies that hire all the hot guys to
bartend and stuff?"
He laughed out loud. "No, I never went that route, but I do appreciate
your thinking that I could meet their attractiveness quotient."
"Then I really don't understand."
"A lot of times people meet us at Bungalow and then hire us to
work their private parties, stuff like that. I was bartending there last
summer, and Isabelle was around a lot. I guess she took a liking to
me. It started out that she'd pay me a few grand a night to tend bar
at her dinner parties or meet and greet guests at her charity benefits.
When she was named co-chair of the New York Botanical
Garden's annual benefit, she decided to take on a full-time assistant.
I guess I was the natural choice because I could, uh, do other
stuff as well."
"Other stuff? She pays you to sleep with her?" I blurted before I
could even consider what I was saying.
"No!" he said sharply, glaring at me with a steely look. "Sorry.
It's hardly weird that you would wonder that. I'm a little sensitive
about it. The short answer is no, I'm not sleeping with her, but the
more truthful one is that I'm not sure how long I can get away
with that. I certainly didn't think that was an aspect of this in the
beginning, but it's becoming pretty clear that it's expected."
"What about her husband?" I asked.
"What about him?"
"Doesn't he care that his wife has hired a gorgeous young guy
to hang out at her home, help her with her assorted fund-raising
activities, accompany her on romantic weekend getaways to Istanbul?
You'd think he wouldn't be thrilled." I got a little tingle from
indirectly calling him "gorgeous."
"Why wouldn't he be thrilled? As long as she's discreet and
doesn't embarrass him and is available when he needs her for his

work functions, I imagine he's psyched not to have to go to all her
social shit and tell her how hot she is and discuss at length
whether he prefers her in Stella McCartney or Alexander McQueen.
He's the one who signs my checks, actually. He's a decent guy."
I didn't quite know how to respond to any of this, so I sat, trying
to think of something inoffensive to say.
"It's just a job that happens to pay really, really well. If I ever
want to open my own place, I can't turn down a six-figure salary
for hanging out with a pretty woman a few hours a week."
"Six figures? Are you kidding?"
"Not in the least. Why else do you think I would do this? It's
beyond humiliating, but I've got my eyes on the prize. Which, incidentally,
might be closer than I thought." He popped a cookie in
his mouth and chewed.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, nothing's definite, but a few guys from CIA approached me
last week about going in with them and opening a place together."
"Really?" I moved closer. "Tell me about it."
"Well, it'd be more of a franchise situation, I guess you'd say,
rather than a whole new place. It's by the people who own
Houston's, and there are a few of them already on the West Coast.
They say they do really well. It's a pretty basic American menu—
not really any chance to do anything creative, since the concept
and the menu are nonnegotiable, but it would be all mine. Or at
least, mine and theirs." He sounded about as excited as someone
who'd just been told they had a sexually transmitted disease.
"Well, it sounds great," I said, trying to inject my voice with
some level of enthusiasm. "Are you excited about it?"
He appeared to think about this for a few seconds and then
sighed. "I'm not sure excited is the right word, but I think it's a
good opportunity. It's not quite what I had in mind, but it's a step
in the right direction. It's crazy to think I'd be able to incorporate
my own personal vision for a place at this point in my career—it's
just not realistic. So to answer your question, do I have some burning
desire to own one-third of an Upper Hast Side Houston's
restaurant? Not really. But if it'll allow me to stop working at Bun-


galow 8 and act as a decent stepping-stone, then yes, I think it's
worth it."
"Fair enough," I said. "It sounds like a great opportunity."
"For now." He stood up, bought two more coffees, and placed
one in front of me. "Okay, your turn."
"My turn for what?" I asked, although I obviously knew where
this was going.
"What's your deal with Mr. Weston?"
"It's complicated."
He laughed again and rolled his eyes dramatically. "Uh-huh,
that's cute. Come on, I just gave you the whole sordid story. How
on earth did you end up dating him?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing, other than the two of you seem really—well, really
different."
"Different how?" I knew exactly what he was saying, but it was
fun to watch him squirm.
"Oh, come on, Bette, cut the bullshit. I know what it's like to
come from Poughkeepsie and join the cool crowd in New York,
okay? I get it. What I don't get is how you could actually like him.
You might be able to hang with this crew, but that doesn't make
you one of them. Which, by the way, is a very good thing."
I considered this for a moment before I said, "I'm not really
dating him."
"Every gossip column in Manhattan spots you together everywhere.
Hell, I see you with him at Bungalow constantly. You might
not call it dating, but I don't think he's quite figured that out yet."
"I honestly don't know how to explain it because I'm not sure I
understand it myself. It's almost like Philip and I have this mutual,
unspoken understanding to pretend we're together even though
we've never even really hooked up."
His head jerked up. "You what? That's impossible."
"It's not impossible. I'd be lying if I said I didn't wonder why
he doesn't seem interested, but I assure you, we haven't gone
down that road. . . ."
Sammy finished off his second little cup of coffee and ap-

peared to contemplate this. "So what you're saying is that you've
never had sex with him?"
I looked at him and was pleased to see that he cared.
"Not even close. And in the interest of full disclosure, I've actually
tried to seduce him a few times. There's always an excuse—
too much to drink, a late night with another girl. It's beyond
insulting when you think about it, but what can you do? The
amount of time I spend with him has a direct effect on my responsibilities
at work. Kelly's thrilled with the publicity he brings the
company, and all I have to do is smile for a few pictures. I never
thought I'd be doing this, but we have this fairly bizarre unspoken
agreement: I act like his girlfriend and he gives me a huge bump at
work. It's creepy, but in a weird way, it's totally equal. We're both
getting something we want from it." It was a relief to say aloud
what I hadn't yet described to anyone.
"I didn't hear a word you just said."
"Great. Thanks for listening. You're the one who asked, you
know."
"I sort of tuned out after you said you've never slept with him.
You're really not dating him?" he asked, spinning his empty cup in
little circles with his thumb.
"Sammy, you've seen the way Philip is. He's not capable of dating
anyone. I have absolutely no idea why he's picked me, and
frankly, it's okay for my ego. But I could never be with someone
like that. Even if he does have dynamite abs."
"Dynamite abs, huh? Better than these?" And before I knew
what was happening, he pulled up his shirt to reveal one tight
stomach.
"Damn," I breathed, reaching out a hand to pat the ripples. "I
might have to concede this one to you."
"Might?" he asked, letting his shirt drop but taking my hand
and pulling me closer. "Come here."
We kissed for real this time, getting as close to each other as
the mini-stools would allow, touching faces and hair and necks
while we tried to move even closer.
"It is not done here," a small man said, knocking twice on the
tabletop. "It is not right."

We pulled away, embarrassed by the reprimand, and straightened
ourselves. Sammy apologized to the man, who merely nodded
and moved on, and then turned to look at me.
"Did we just have our first public make-out?" he asked.
"Sure did." I laughed, delighted. "And I think that was more
than a make-out. It might have even qualified for all-out necking.
In the Grand Bazaar of Istanbul, no less."
"What better place is there?" he said, stepping aside to let me
stand. I started walking ahead of him out of the cafe, but he pulled
on my hand. "I'm not kidding around here, Bette. I'm not playing
with you." He looked at me.
"I'm not either, Sammy." I thought I might choke on the words,
but his smile allowed me to breathe again.
"I'd like to hug you right now, but I don't want to get flogged
for public indecency." Instead, he draped his arm over my shoulders.
"Let's just get through the rest of this trip, okay? We'll sneak
away when we can, but we shouldn't get caught."
I nodded, although all I really wanted to do was slip a week's
worth of Valium into Isabelle's and Philip's respective beverages
and watch them flail for a bit before settling into a nice, peaceful,
permanent rest. But no! That wasn't quite fair. Neither was deserving
of actual death. I silently conceded to spare both their lives if
they boarded one-way flights for the sub-Saharan African village of
their choosing. That would be acceptable.
It took us over an hour to traverse the five-block stretch of
road back to the hotel. We made out, grabbed, touched, and
groped in every hidden doorway we could find, utilizing every private
or deserted alleyway, foyer, tree, or bench that would shield
us from disapproving eyes for a few minutes. By the time the
golden yellow exterior of the Four Seasons was visible from the
street, I'd managed to establish beyond a reasonable doubt that
Sammy wore Calvin Klein boxer briefs.
"You go in first. Do what you have to do to get through the
next few days—except touch Philip Weston in any way, shape, or
form. I loathe the idea of you sharing a room with him." He curled
his mouth down in a show of disgust and shivered a bit.
"Oh, yeah, and I'm thrilled with the thought of you crawling

into bed next to Isabelle, all the while telling her how gorgeous
she looks in her new La Perla." The mere thought made me nauseated.
"Go," he said, pressing his mouth to mine. "I'll see you at dinner
tonight, okay?"
"Okay," I said, giving him a quick kiss back. And then, despite
myself, I stammered, "I'll miss you." I grinned at the hotel doorman
and literally skipped through the lobby to the elevator, and then
from the elevator to my room. I barely even noticed Philip
sprawled on the bed, wearing only a towel and a silk eye mask.
"Where were you, love? I'm completely knackered. This hangover's
killing me, and you left me here all alone," he whined.
"Why don't you put together a cold compress for me? That'd be
brilliant."
"Why don't you get your own cold compress, Philip?" I asked
merrily. "I'm just dropping off this stuff on my way to the spa.
Take an Advil or two and be dressed and ready in the lobby by
seven forty-five, okay?" I slammed the door hard to make the loudest
possible noise and skipped all the way to the slick marble of
the hotel's Turkish bath. I told the spa receptionist to add a massage,
pedicure, and tall glass of mint tea to my scrub-down and
slowly undressed in the eucalyptus-scented steam room, thinking
of Sammy.

25
Since we were a dozen people with nothing to do but drink
and hang out, we sat at dinner that first night and played popculture
trivia. It wasn't called that, of course, nor was there any
mention of actually playing a game—never mind a trivia game—
because that would be very uncool, but the way we shot questions
back and forth indicated that it was, undeniably, just that. It reminded
me of the way Michael and Penelope would fire off Beverly
Hills, 90210 questions to each other. "Who was the original
owner of the Peach Pit After Dark?" Michael would ask, leaning
forward as though he couldn't be more serious. "Um, like everyone
doesn't know that? Rush Sanders, Steve's dad. Given!" Penelope
would say with an exasperated eye roll. They'd continue for hours
("What hotel did Dylan live in with his father, Jack?" "What is the
name of the character in the inaugural season who accidentally
shot himself at his own birthday party?" "True or false: Donna slept
with Ray Pruit?"), each intent on proving they knew every scene,
every character.
I could hardly claim intellectual superiority over Elisa and Marlena
just because they could name all the members of Madonna's
Kabbalah group, especially when my own best friends could state
when, exactly, Mel Silver cheated on Jackie (Kelly's mom), and I
could recall the names of Trista and Ryan's wedding planner and
Angelina Jolie's adopted Cambodian son on command. That said,
I'd never seen a group who appeared so comprehensively bored,
indifferent, and uninterested play something with such fervor.
"Oh, like everyone on earth doesn't know that Marc Anthony
had two kids before he married J.Lo. That is, like, the most ele-

mentary information possible, but can you tell me the location of
the court where he filed for divorce?" Alessandra practically
shouted at Monica.
She huffed. "Puh-lease. You're joking. If you ever read anything
in your life you'd know that he filed in the Dominican Republic to
speed things up. What you probably don't know—because it's
hardly out there for the masses to read in those rags they publish
every other day—is the name of the boat George keeps at his Lake
Como house."
"George?" Oliver asked, as everyone leaned closer.
"Clooney," Marlena said. "Who else?"
"Ohmigod, I can't even listen to this anymore," Leo whined.
"You're all so pathetic."
I silently cheered Leo for his good sense, but I was premature.
"You all think any of this is relevant? Name three people Jade
Jagger used to date, and tell me which jewelry company she currently
works for."
Philip sighed and then listlessly clapped Leo on the back. "Leo,
chap, challenge us. That was singularly the worst question I could
ever think of—especially since every single person here was at the
grand opening of the Garrard store."
It went on like this through the entire meal, and it wasn't until
dessert that we'd begun wondering what a Turkish nightclub
would look like.
"Well, I'm sure not covering up any more than this. I know it's
a Muslim country and all that, but I'm dressed as conservatively as
my wardrobe will permit," Isabelle announced, casting her eyes
down to her outfit. Her halter dress looked as though it were made
of metal; it left her entire back bare, and part of her ass, although
anything truly obscene was covered, and it did actually reach to
her knees. In front it dipped down to her belly button, but the material
still clung to her perfect breasts just next to the nipples. Upon
closer inspection, I decided she must've taped it there. Silver,
open-toed stiletto sandals and an alligator clutch completed her
look.

"Do you think they even have Cristal there?" Davide asked with
urgency. "They do have bottle service, don't they, Bette?"
I was about to tell him that he would probably survive the
night regardless of the presence or lack of magnums of Cristal, but
Kamal, who'd been listening quietly with no expression whatsoever,
leaned in conspiratorially. "Friends, I assure you that you will
find everything to your satisfaction. Tonight's venue will surely
please you, as we have arranged it all."
"So, Kamal, let's talk girls. What's the deal with Turkish girls?"
Philip asked. Davide laughed appreciatively and Elisa made a big
show of rolling her eyes in my direction. I caught on quickly that
this is how girlfriends were supposed to act and rolled mine right
back.
"Hypothetically speaking?" Kamal asked. He thought for a moment
and then said, "Mr. Weston, I think you will find Turkish girls
the very same as American or British or anywhere else—some are,
shall we say, more willing, while others come from good families
and want no part of that."
"And which ones are we most likely to make the acquaintance
of tonight, Kamal? The willing ones or the ice queens?"
Philip had clearly won Kamal over because he began to grin
and play along. He took a giant swig from his tumbler before arranging
his features in something approximating a serious expression
and saying, "The former, Mr. Weston. I predict you will
encounter more of the former category this evening."
Philip grinned right back and held up his hand for a high-five,
which Kamal instantly accommodated. "That will be acceptable,
Mr. Avigdor. Thank you."
Not surprisingly, no bill ever appeared on the table, and by the
time we piled onto the boat—a yacht, maybe, or perhaps a sailboat—
that would transport us down the Bosporus to Bella, I was
slightly buzzed and somewhat enjoying the night. In an effort to
distract myself from watching Isabelle paw Sammy, I'd gone from
person to person, persuading them to pose for the photographers
for a half-hour upon arrival at the club, followed by another halfhour
of on-the-record partying where anything they said or did

could be reported by the writers we'd brought along. However,
after that, the work would be officially over and everyone could
party to any level of debauchery they desired without worrying too
much about those pesky COKE AND HOOKERS! headlines. There was
still the Turkish media to be wary of, but I didn't predict they'd
pose much of a problem, and Kamal promised to keep them out of
the VIP areas. All in all, most everyone seemed satisfied with the
arrangement, and the crew appeared almost excited as the boat
docked at a red-carpeted pier.
"Are all the men going to stare at us?" Elisa asked Kamal, her
eyes wide with worry.
"Stare at you? Why? Of course, they will notice your beauty, but
I don't think they will make you uncomfortable," he said.
"Well, if they're only used to seeing women wearing burkas, I
imagine we'll stand out," she said thoughtfully.
Sammy shot me a look—one of many that evening, since we'd
sat across from each other at dinner—and I managed to stifle a
laugh, although not without a snort. She whipped around and
glared at me. "What? Do you feel like having a bunch of peasants
staring at you all night? I didn't have to fly all this way for that—we
could've just gone to New Jersey!"
Kamal kindly ignored her as he helped us off the boat and introduced
us to another group of men, all of whom appeared to be
good-looking and really, really successful. They were the rest of
our clients, and each had between two and four knockout girls
hanging on their every word. Much to Elisa's and Isabelle's surprise,
these girls were not wearing burkas. They weren't even
really wearing bras, if we were going to be technical. The amount
of naked female flesh on display was almost blinding, and we
hadn't even made it inside yet.
One of the new men introduced himself as Nedim and announced,
quite grandly, that he owned Bella, the sprawling complex
of entertainment that stretched before us. It had its own
marina to allow celebrities and visiting VIPs to bypass the whole
door situation; guests could merely step off their boats and fall directly
onto a banquette, where anything they could even think to

desire would be immediately provided. Nedim managed to look
like every other club owner I'd ever met: he was the classic chainsmoking,
vintage T-shirt and retro sneaker wearing, spiky-haired
guy who no one would ever notice if he didn't drive the requisite
red Porsche and comp bottles of champagne.
"Ladies, gentlemen, welcome to Bella," he announced, sweeping
his arms grandly, "the premier nighttime destination in Istanbul.
Bella rests, as you can see, on the Bosporus River, right at the dividing
point between Europe and Asia, and our clientele certainly
reflects that international feel. Come with me, please, and prepare
yourself to enjoy all that Bella has to offer."
He escorted us to a massive round table perched right on the
water inside a roped-off section of the club that screamed "VIP."
Only the flimsiest teak gate separated us from the river, and even that
reached only two and a half feet high, a potential drunken disaster
if I've ever seen one. The view was incredible: both small and
large boats cruised slowly across the murky water, passing in front
of a beautifully lit mosque with minarets that appeared to reach the
sky. The floors were a shiny dark wood, almost black, and the
banquettes were satin brocade with strings of gold filigree woven
throughout. It was entirely open-air except for a few white canvas
sheets that billowed out in the wind and lent the whole place an
air of sexy exoticism; the only light came from Turkish-style glass
lanterns and hundreds of tea lights in beaded votive holders.
Roughly hewn bowls of mini apricots and pistachios rested on
every available surface. It was undoubtedly the sexiest place I'd
ever been, far more naturally chic than all the cool spots in New
York or Los Angeles, but without that signature self-awareness that
places seemed to develop when they knew they were hot.
A fleet of stylish waiters instantly surrounded the table and
took our drink orders. Within a half-hour, everyone was pleasantly
buzzed, and by the time midnight rolled around, Klisa and Philip
were dancing on the tables. They looked pretty comfortable with
the grinding groove they had going. It suggested something romantic—
and recent. The photographers clicked away, but Nedim and
crew kept them so plied with booze and girls and God knows

what else that they missed a shot of Marlena straddling a famous
Turkish soccer player who also belonged in the VIP area. I managed
to separate them before anyone noticed and convince them
that they'd be much happier in her room at the Four Seasons, and
they didn't even protest when I escorted them to a waiting Town
Car out front and instructed the driver to take them back to the
hotel. I'd just hung up with the hotel's concierge—who assured me
he'd whisk them to Marlena's room and keep out any photogs or
reporters—when Sammy appeared at my side.
"Hey, where've you been hiding?" he said, wrapping his arms
around me from behind and kissing my neck. "I managed to keep
track of you all night, and then you were just gone."
"Hi there," I said.
He glanced around to make sure he didn't see Isabelle or
Philip or anyone with a camera. "Let's get out of here," he said
gruffly. "They're all so drunk, they'll never notice." Again he kissed
my neck, this time more roughly, and for the first time I had an
inkling that Sammy wasn't just a nice guy. Thankfully.
"I can't, Sammy. I want to, but I can't. I've got to keep my eye
on everyone here—it's literally my only responsibility."
"It's almost two. How much longer can they really keep this
up?"
"You of all people know the answer to that. Until daybreak,
easily. Maybe we can figure something out later at the hotel, but
right now I've got to go back in there."
He let his arms drop by his sides and sighed loudly. "I know
this is how it has to be. It just sucks. You go in first, and I'll come
in a couple minutes." He started to run his fingers through my hair
but abruptly pulled them away at the sound of his name.
"Sammy? Are you out here? Have you seen my boy—my, uh,
my assistant?" Isabelle's shrill voice echoed over the water. I turned
to see her asking one of the uniformed security guards who'd been
watching us carefully to make sure no one harassed us.
"Jesus Christ," Sammy muttered, moving away from me. "What,
she can't find the bathroom herself? I've got to run."
"Just wait, I'll handle this," I said and squeezed his hand. "Isabelle,
over here! He's over here."

Isabelle's head swiveled, and when she saw us, she looked at
first relieved and then confused. She ignored me completely while
addressing Sammy. "I've been looking for you forever," she
whined, obviously forgetting I was standing there, and then dropping
the whine when she remembered.
"Sorry to steal him from you, Isabelle. Marlena and the guy she
was with were pretty trashed, and Sammy was kind enough to
help me put them in a car. We were just on our way back in."
This seemed to mollify her, although she still hadn't acknowledged
my presence. She was staring at Sammy, and he was intently
focused on his feet.
"Okay, well, I'm going to see how everyone's doing inside," I
said cheerily. I made my way to the door, but not before I overheard
Isabelle's voice change from whiny to viciously cold.
"I don't pay you good money to neglect and abandon me!" she
hissed.
"Oh, save it, Isabelle," Sammy said, sounding more exhausted
than annoyed. "I was helping her out for five minutes. I was hardly
abandoning you."
"Well, how do you think it feels to be sitting all alone in there
while my guy runs off to help someone else?"
Unfortunately, I had to walk through the door and couldn't
hear Sammy's response. The VIP area was completely empty by
the time I fought through the hordes of commoners. American rap
and hip-hop had given way to some sort of Turkish trance music,
and it seemed the entire space was pulsating with barely concealed
bodies. Camilla, Alessandra, and Monica had all found men—a soccer
player from Real Madrid, an anchorman for CNN International,
and an English playboy who claimed to know Philip from their
boarding-school days—and were tucked away with them in various
dark corners around Bella, under the watchful eye of Nedim
and the other owners. I spotted Elisa and Davide standing next to
the dance floor, gesturing wildly to each other. I figured they were
fighting, until I got close enough to hear. They weren't actually arguing
or having any kind of exchange at all: both were so obviously
high on coke that they were talking at the other one, each so
caught up in the importance of their own ideas that they shouted

enthusiastically over the other's voice. As usual, the photographers
and reporters had claimed a little table for themselves, away from
the rest of us, and seemed once again to be drowning themselves
in hard alcohol. Six empty packs of cigarettes were littered around
them, and they barely glanced up when I asked if they needed
anything. I didn't see Leo, but Philip wasn't hard to locate—I
merely looked for the blondest girl in the room, with the biggest
boobs, and then moved my eyes a few inches to the right. He had
his arm around her waist as they both stood in front of the DJ
stand. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place her from
behind. As I waited for them to turn around, I watched as Philip
removed a giant wad of cash from the back pocket of his AG jeans
and thrust it toward the skinny DJ, who maintained the requisite DJ
earphone-pressed-to-shoulder stance.
"Hey, mate, how much will it cost for you to play something with
some bloody words?" he asked as the girl giggled and swigged from
her drink. "I can't listen to this Turkish shit anymore."
The DJ palmed the cash and made it disappear under one of the
machines on his table. He beckoned to another kid sitting in the
booth and said a few words to him. The second guy turned to Philip
and said, "What you want to hear? He will play you anything."
"Tell him we want a little Bon Jovi or Guns n' Roses."
The helper translated and the DJ nodded, appearing puzzled.
Within ten seconds "Paradise City" was blaring from the speakers
and Philip was mock-smashing his head to the beat. When he spotted
me, he leaned in to whisper something to the girl and she nodded
and scampered off.
"Hey, love, how much better are these tunes?" he asked, checking
his reflection in the glass of the DJ booth.
"Was that Lizzie Grubman?" I asked, finally figuring out why
she looked so familiar.
He resumed hitting his head against an imaginary wall. "Apparently
she and Tara Reid heard about our posh party here this
weekend and wanted to have a look for themselves."
"She's, uh, she's pretty," I said lamely, knowing I should be
happy, professionally speaking, that Lizzie Grubman and Tara Reid
had followed our group to Istanbul.

"Face like a crocodile handbag," he said, grabbing me and
pulling me onto the dance floor. "Come on, love, loosen up a little.
Let's have a dance."
I sneaked away after a few minutes and went back to Elisa,
who seemed to have calmed a bit. She was sitting on Davide's lap,
chattering quietly as he massaged her shoulders and took long
drags off the joint that hung from his lips.
"Hey, do you think you can handle things here? I think a
bunch of people went back to the hotel, and I should probably
make sure everything's in order there."
"Sure, whatever. You worry too much, Bette. Everyone's having
a great time. Where's Leo? Just tell him you're going back and we'll
see you at the hotel, okay?" She giggled as Davide exhaled the pot
smoke in her face.
"Excellent. Will do. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yeah, whatever. I don't plan to see daylight tomorrow, but I'll
find you when we wake up. Oh, where's Philip?" she asked, trying
very hard to sound casual.
"Philip? Last I saw, he was dancing with Lizzie Grubman and
Tara Reid."
"What? They're here?" She leapt off Davide and plastered on a
huge smile. "I'm totally going to say hi. See you later, Bette."
I looked around for Leo, but when I couldn't find him anywhere,
I figured he'd met a guy and had retired to his room
for playtime. Nedim offered to escort me back to the hotel in
his Porsche, and I was tempted to accept until he let his hand
brush against my lower back while smiling suggestively and saying
he'd give me a tour of Istanbul's late-night hotspots. I declined
politely and took a Town Car. The woman at the front desk
greeted me by name and briefed me on who had returned so far
and when.
"Oh, wait, there is a message for you." She handed me a piece
of folded paper, which I immediately opened, expecting some disaster,
MEET ME IN ROOM 18 WHEN YOU GET BACK was written in bold
print, all caps. There was no signature, but a plastic room key was
enclosed.
I briefly considered my options. The note had to be from

Sammy. He'd somehow arranged for a room away from Isabelle so
that we could spend some private time together. It was, if I dared
to think about it, the most exciting romantic gesture of my lifetime.
I was buffed and polished from the spa that morning, and now my
secret boy had called. It didn't get better than this.
The elevator ride seemed to last forever, and by the time I
knocked on the door, I was shaking with excitement.
It took almost a minute for it to open, a minute that felt like a
month, and I had a fleeting, horrifying thought that it wasn't
Sammy at all, or that maybe the note was intended for someone
else. A dozen possible misunderstandings flashed through my mind
in the thirty seconds I stood there, rooted to the carpet, quietly
panicking and wondering how I could possibly be expected to
function if it wasn't him, if he wasn't waiting inside, preparing to
tear my clothes off and throw me on what would surely be a kingsized
bed tricked out in all its Four Seasons, down-filled, Frettecovered
glory. Oh, please, I prayed to some unknown entity, oh,
please let it be him and let him want me as badly as I want him
and also make it so that he has—
The door swung open, and Sammy pulled me inside immediately,
pressing his mouth to mine even before kicking the door
shut. "I want you so badly," he breathed, moving his mouth over
my face, my neck, my shoulders as he pushed aside the straps of
my dress before he got frustrated and pulled the entire thing over
my head.
Those were the last words either of us bothered with. We collapsed
on the bed, which delivered every inch of fabulousness I'd
imagined, and attacked each other with a ferocity that would have
scared me if it hadn't delighted me so much. It was impossible to
tell whose limbs belonged to whom, and I lost all awareness of
time or place or where, exactly, I was being touched. It was a total
sensation overload—the weight of his body, the smell of his deodorant,
the way the hair on my arms and the back of my neck
stood on end every time his fingers ran down my back. It was, I
had to admit, a sex scene straight out of a Harlequin—maybe better.
It wasn't until someone knocked at the door that I even no-

ticed the dozens of candles strewn about or the two glasses of red
wine that sat untouched or the great Buddha Bar soundtrack playing
from the bedside Bose CD player.
"Who knows you're here?" I whispered, climbing off him and
collapsing all in one motion.
"No one but the front desk. I put it on my personal credit card."
"Could Isabelle have heard you?"
"No way. She took a fistful of Ambien to get over the time difference.
She won't be awake for another two days."
We continued to debate this for another few minutes, until I realized
that night had eased its way into morning and I'd better be
getting back to my rightful room if I didn't want to deal with lots
and lots of questions.
He pulled me on top of him again and began kissing my earlobe,
earring and all. "Don't go. Not yet, at least."
"I've got to, I'm sorry. You don't want this to be public yet, do
you? Not like this."
"I know, I know, you're right. Not like this. We'll have all the
time in the world together once we're back in New York."
"You aren't going to be able to get rid of me once we're
home," I whispered. My short, beaded dress was bunched up in a
tiny ball on top of the desk, but I managed to get it on with some
semblance of dignity before falling back into the bed. The thought
of putting on any sort of undergarments was unbearable; after freeing
my strapless bra from its resting place on the headboard, I
tossed it and my underwear into my purse.
He yanked a sheet from the bed we'd destroyed and wrapped
it around his waist as we walked to the door. "Bette, thank you for
an amazing night," he said, holding my face in both his hands,
making it feel small and delicate and absolutely gorgeous.
I stood on tiptoe to wrap my arms around his neck one last
time. "It was perfect," I said.
And it was perfect, everything I'd hoped it would be, until the
very second I opened the door and was greeted by the brightest,
most aggressive flashbulb I'd ever experienced. It continued rapidfire
as I stood, frozen, too shocked to move.

"Oh, hey, sorry about that. Wrong room," said John, one of the
photographers we'd toted along.
"What the hell is going on?" Sammy asked.
"Let me handle it," I said. "Stay here."
I stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind me.
"What was that? What are you doing?" I practically shrieked.
"Hey, honey, I'm sorry about that. No worries, really, I didn't
see a thing," he said unconvincingly. He was the slickest of the
group and had made me nervous from the very beginning—most
of his work consisted of paparazzi-style pictures that he sold to the
tackiest tabloids for the highest bid. Kelly had insisted it would be
good to have him along because the photo editors loved everything
he submitted.
"Why were you staking out my room? Uh, his room, I mean.
I've spent all morning going around to everyone to discuss
tonight's schedule, so you see, there's nothing really interesting
there."
"Look, I don't care who you're screwing." He chuckled loudly
and with great gusto. "Of course, I imagine I could find someone
who'd be interested to know that Philip's girl didn't spend the
night with him, but you've been real good to us this trip, so we'll
just forget that ever happened."
Bastard. He was openly leering at my outfit and what I imagined
to be a face full of smeared makeup and that general, allnight-
sex look that simply could not be denied.
"Besides," he continued, unsnapping the flash from his camera
and tucking it into a black shoulder bag, "what I thought was
going on in there would've been far hotter than you banging Isabelle's
guy."
"Pardon me?" I wanted to strangle him for suggesting that anything
could be better than the night I'd just had, for the fact that he
didn't believe my ridiculous story about scheduling, and because he
had the nerve to state that Sammy belonged to Isabelle. Naturally, I
couldn't think of one remotely insulting or clever thing to say.
"Well, let's just say that sources indicated the possibility of a little
private party between your boyfriend and some of his closest

friends." He raised his bushy unibrow and pulled his lips taut
against his teeth in an effort to smile.
"By 'boyfriend' I mean Philip Weston," he added with a grin.
I swallowed my anger. "Mmm, while that all sounds really fascinating,
I have to get back upstairs now to continue my rounds,
so if you'll excuse me . . . " I pushed past him in my bare feet, with
my sandals in one hand and my purse in the other, and beelined
for the elevator.
The more I thought about it, the less nightmarish it seemed, especially
since he didn't seem particularly fascinated by the scandal—
or lack thereof—of Sammy and me. And why should he be? I
reasoned. The man spends his life following insanely famous celebrities
and documenting all the drama they manage to create, so why
should he be the least bit interested in some insignificant publicist
who appeared to be doing some extracurricular bed-hopping? And
not even with someone famous! Of course, there was the issue of
Philip. And if Kelly found out that I'd been caught keeping Isabelle's
friend-for-hire company, she wouldn't be happy. Isabelle might insist
I be fired. But I was getting ahead of myself; it seemed unlikely that
John would leak anything. Only Abby seemed interested in my
whereabouts, and there was no way even she had tentacles that
reached all the way to Istanbul. I realized that was part of why I'd
gotten so upset when I saw the photographer—for a blissful twentyfour
hours, I'd forgotten what it felt like to feel stalked and spied on
and vulnerable. Since Abby was a solid five thousand miles away, I
didn't have that constant, creepy feeling that someone was trying to
expose my private life to the general public. I took a deep breath
and reminded myself that it could be far worse, and gave thanks that
Abby was in an entirely different country.
As I approached, I saw that the door to Philip's and my suite
was slightly ajar—only noticeable if you actually stood right next to
it and looked—and I heard some muffled noises coming from inside.
It was just after eight in the morning—practically the middle
of the night, considering I hadn't returned to the hotel until three
and Philip was still at Bella when I left—and I immediately understood
that the supposed threesome most likely was going on, only

it was happening in my room. The idea of knocking briefly crossed
my mind, but instead 1 pushed the door open.
I rounded the corner from the sitting room and strolled through
the French doors to the bedroom, only to see Leo sprawled on his
back, naked, on the bed. It took another second or two for me to
realize that the mop of hair that was currently bobbing up and
down in the general area of Leo's exposed pelvic region—his bare
ass saluting me—belonged to Mr. Philip Weston. Before I could
even react, Leo spotted me.
"Hey, Bette, what's up?" Leo asked nonchalantly, making no attempt
to cover himself or Philip.
At the sound of my name, Philip's head snapped around, exposing
the few inches of Leo's naked body that I hadn't yet seen.
"Oh, hey, babe, how are you?" he asked, wiping his mouth delicately
with a pillowcase. "Where were you all night?"
"Where was I all night?" As usual, I could merely mimic.
"I waited forever, love," he whined, bounding off the bed like a
little boy on Christmas morning and shrugging on a robe. I realized
that this was the first time I'd seen him completely naked.
"Forever, huh?" I responded brilliantly.
"Well, if you'd come home when you should've, I don't think
Leo would've ended up in my bed. Do you, love?"
I laughed out loud. Now that was funny. "Oh, Philip. Please!
You haven't wanted to sleep with me in—"
"Relax, doll, just calm down a bit. Leo here showed up a few
minutes ago and just passed out. I must've had a sleep, too. We
were daft to drink so much, but at least we slept it off."
I was laughing uncontrollably now. "Are you serious? Are you
saying I didn't just see what I know I just saw?" Had either of them
had the courtesy to appear the least bit embarrassed by what had
just happened, I might—might—have been able to deal with it.
"Hey, guys, I'm going to order some coffee and orange juice,
maybe a few croissants. I feel a wicked hangover coming on," Leo
announced. He still made no attempt to cover himself, instead
grabbing the remote and scrolling through the hotel's movie offerings.

"Good call, mate. I fancy a double espresso, a few aspirin, and
an extra-tall Bloody Mary," Philip said.
"Is this happening?" I asked, wondering at what point my
night—my entire life—had veered into the twilight zone. It felt like
I was living in some sort of alternate reality, but apparently I was
living there alone.
"Hmm?" Philip asked, dropping his robe again in front of both
of us as he stepped into the shower, leaving the bathroom door
wide open. "Leo? Tell your coworker here that you and I are just
mates."
Leo managed to extract himself from the tangle of covers,
which looked as though they'd been put through the paces for
hours already, and pulled on his jeans sans underwear. "Of course,
Philip. Bette, we're just friends, honey. You want something to
eat?"
"Urn, no thanks. I, uh, I think I'm going to get some breakfast
downstairs, okay? I'll see you both later." I grabbed a clean pair of
jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of flip-flops, tossed them in a plastichotel
laundry bag, and sprinted out of the room, feeling slightly
queasy as I left Philip and Leo to their domestic tranquillity.
I went to kill some time in the lobby restaurant and get a snack
before I could safely go back to my room, but just as the waiter
brought a full coffee service and a basket of the most amazinglooking
pastries and muffins, Elisa stumbled in and collapsed into
the seat across from me.
"I can't fucking sleep, and I'm ready to kill myself," she announced.
I panicked the moment I saw her, convinced that she already
knew what had happened. I figured no one would be awake at
that hour, but her knotty hair and black-circled eyes and jumpy
hands indicated that she'd probably done way too many drugs to
even entertain the idea of sleep, so she'd come down to wait it
out.
"Hey, sure, have a seat," I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
The waiter brought her a cup and saucer. Her glassy eyes fixated
on them for a moment, as though she'd never before seen ei-

ther, but she recovered and poured herself some coffee. Then she
eyed me suspiciously.
"You're up early. Where's Philip?" she asked, finishing off the
entire cup in one gulp.
"Philip?" I tried to laugh casually, but it sounded more like a
choke. "Oh, he's sleeping, I think. I don't know why I'm up so
early. Must be the time difference."
"Time difference?" She snorted. "If that's your only problem,
just take a Xanax. I feel like shit."
"Here, have something to eat. You look like you could use
some food."
Another snort. "That muffin is equivalent in fat and carbs to at
least two Big Macs. No, thank you." She poured another cup of
black coffee and finished it off.
"Is Davide upstairs?" I asked, not out of any genuine interest
but because I felt I had to say something.
"I don't know where he is. Lost track of him around three in
the morning. Probably went home with some Turkish chick." She
sounded neither upset nor surprised by this.
I just stared at her.
She just sighed. "Philip would probably never do that to you,
right? He's such a great guy . . ."
I nearly spat out my orange juice but somehow remained composed.
"Mmm," I murmured. "Have you ever heard anything about
Philip being . . . well, uh, about him being interested in . . ."
She gave me a glazed stare. "Interested in what?"
"Oh, I don't know . . . guys?"
This elicited a gasp, and her mouth fell wide open. "Philip Weston?
Gay? Are you joking? Bette, how can you be so naive? Just
because he happens to have a fabulous sense of style and drive a
Vespa and do yoga does not, in any way, mean he likes guys."
No, I thought to myself, of course it doesn't. But what about the
fact that I walked in on him a half-hour ago while he was performing
oral sex on our ve/ygay and veiy out coworker?
"Right, no, I hear what you're saying. It's just that—"
"Bette, when are you going to appreciate that boy? Any girl in

her right mind would do anything and everything she could to
keep him, but you don't seem to understand that. So apparently
there was some scandal around here this morning." She switched
tacks so quickly I barely had time to process that what she was
saying might concern me.
"Scandal? With one of our group? Did anyone see it?"
She looked me in the eye and for a moment I was sure she knew
the entire story. But then she just said, "I'm not sure exactly. One of
the photographers—that fat one, what's his name?—mentioned that
he may have snapped a few 'interesting' shots of someone in a compromising
position. Any idea who it was or what happened?"
I chewed my croissant deliberately and fixed my gaze on the
front page of the International Herald Tribune. "Hmm, no, I
haven't heard a thing. Should we be worried? I mean, we wouldn't
want anything truly damaging to get out."
Elisa poured a third cup of coffee and allowed herself a single
packet of Equal this time. Her hands shook from the effort. "1
guess we'll just have to wait and see, won't we? I'm going to try to
sleep—I've got to be back down here in a couple hours for my
scrub in the Turkish bath. I hear it's even better for your skin than
a laser peel. See you later."
I watched her hobble out on stilt-skinny legs and tried to figure
out what, exactly, had made that interaction so weird. But the
mention of a scrub reminded me of my own appointment, so I finished
breakfast and hit the spa for my pre-sightseeing massage,
adding on a paraffin pedicure for good measure. This one I had
earned.