Читать книгу Lauren Weisberger 3-Book Collection: Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont - Лорен Вайсбергер, Lauren Weisberger, Lauren Weisberger - Страница 15

It was seven-thirty in the evening on day four of my working at Kelly & Company as a party planner. The newsstand near my apartment had only a single copy of the New York Daily News with Will’s column by the time I headed home after work. I’d been reading ‘Will of the People’ nearly every week since the time I’d learned the alphabet, but for some reason I’d never managed to subscribe to any of the papers that ran it. Of course, I had never broached the subject of the column’s gradual shift to a soapbox for Will’s crotchety rants about every social ‘tragedy’ that had befallen his beloved city, but it was becoming increasingly more difficult to keep my mouth shut.

‘Bette! Great column today, if I do say so myself!’ my doorman, Seamus, howled boozily as he pulled open the door to my building and waved a copy of the paper. ‘That uncle of yours hits the nail on the head every time!’

‘Is it good? I haven’t read it yet,’ I said absently, walking and talking quickly, the way people do when they’re trying desperately to avoid a conversation.

‘Good? It’s fantastic! Now there’s a man who gets it! Anyone who can poke a little fun at Hillary Clinton is a friend of mine! I thought I was the only person in this whole city who voted for George W., but your uncle assures me I’m not.’

‘Mmm. I suppose that’s true.’ I headed toward the elevator, but he was still going.

‘Any chance he’ll be coming ’round to visit you anytime soon? Would just love to tell him in person how much—’

‘I’ll definitely let you know,’ I called as the elevator doors finally shut him out. I shook my head, remembering my uncle’s one visit to my building and the way Seamus had fallen all over himself when he recognized Will’s name. It was upsetting, to say the least, that Seamus personified my uncle’s target demographic.

Millington nearly collapsed in paroxysms of joy when I opened the door, even more excited than usual now that I’d returned to working all day. Poor Millington. No walk for you tonight, I thought as I gave her a perfunctory scratch on the head and settled down to read Will’s latest rants. She scampered off to use her Wee-Wee Pad, realizing immediately that she wasn’t leaving the apartment today, either, and then jumped onto my chest to read with me.

Just as I was settling in with my folder of takeout menus, my cell phone vibrated across my coffee table like a wind-up toy. I debated whether or not to answer it. The cell phone was company-issued and, much like my new colleagues, didn’t ever seem to rest. I’d been out the last three nights, attending events the company had put on, following Kelly as she did everything from consulting with clients to firing slow bartenders, hosting VIPs, and arranging for press passes. The hours were even more grueling than at the bank – a whole day of office work followed by a full night out – but the office buzzed with young, pretty people, and if one has to spend fifteen hours a day at work, I thought I might prefer DJs or champagne cocktails to diversified portfolios.

TXT MESSAGE! appeared on my color screen. Text message? I’d never before received a message or sent one. After a moment’s hesitation, I looked at the screen and hit Read.

din 2nite @ 9? cip dwntn on w.broad. c u there.

What was that? Some sort of cryptic dinner invitation, for sure, but where and with whom? The only clue to its origin was a 917 number I didn’t recognize. I dialed it and a breathless girl answered immediately.

‘Hey, Bette! What’s up? You in for tonight?’ the voice said, crushing my hope that the person had simply dialed the wrong number.

‘Uh, hi. Um, who is this?’

‘Bette! It’s Elisa. We’ve only worked together twenty-four/­seven for the past week! We’re all going out tonight to celebrate being done with the Candace party. It’ll be the usual crew. See you at nine?’

I’d planned to meet Penelope at the Black Door since I’d barely seen her during my unemployment hibernation, but I didn’t see how I could turn down my first social invitation from my new colleagues.

‘Uh, yeah, sure, that sounds great. What was the name of that restaurant again?’

‘Cipriani Downtown?’ she asked, sounding a bit incredulous that I wasn’t able to deduce as much from her earlier shorthand. ‘You’ve been, right?’

‘Of course. I love it there. Do you mind if I bring a friend? I had plans already and—’

‘Fab! See you both in a couple hours!’ she screeched and hung up.

I snapped my phone shut and did what every New Yorker does instinctively upon hearing the name of a restaurant: I checked Zagat. Twenty-one for food, twenty for decor, and a still respectable eighteen for service. And it wasn’t a one-word name like Koi or Butter or Lotus, which might seem innocuous but almost always guaranteed an exceptionally horrid time. So far, everything looked promising.

‘To see or be seen is never the question’ at this SoHo Northern Italian where watching Eurobabes ‘air kissing’ and ‘pretending to eat their salads’ is more to the point than the surprisingly good ‘creative’ fare; natives may ‘feel like foreigners in their own country,’ but the high ratings speak for themselves.

Ah, so it was going to be another Eurobabe night. Whatever that meant. And more to the point, what was I supposed to wear? Elisa and crew seemed to rotate between black pants, black skirts, and black dresses at work, so it was probably safe to stick with the formula. I dialed Penelope at the bank.

‘Hey, it’s me. What’s up?’

‘Ugh. You are so unbelievably lucky that you left this wretched sweatshop. Is Kelly looking to hire anyone else?’

‘Yeah, I wish. But listen – what do you think about meeting everyone tonight?’

‘Everyone?’

‘Well, not everyone, just my immediate work group. I know we had plans, but since we always go to the Black Door, I thought it might be fun to go to dinner with them. Are you up for it?’

‘Sure,’ she said, sounding too tired to move. ‘Avery’s going out with a bunch of friends from high school tonight and I was just so not interested. Dinner sounds fun. Where is it?’

‘Cipriani Downtown. Have you been?’

‘No, but my mother talks about it obsessively. She’s been dying for me to become a regular.’

‘Should I be upset that your mother and my uncle seem to know every cool place in the city, and we’re completely clueless?’

‘Welcome to my life.’ She sighed. ‘Avery’s the same way – he knows everyone and everything. I just can’t be bothered. The effort required for mere maintenance is too exhausting. But tonight will be fun. I’d like to meet people who plan parties for a living. And the food’s supposed to be great.’

‘Well, I’m not sure that’s a huge selling point with this crowd. I’ve spent forty hours with Elisa this week and haven’t seen her eat a thing. She seems to subsist solely on cigarettes and Diet Coke.’

‘Hot-girl diet, huh? Good for her. You’ve got to admire that level of commitment.’ Penelope sighed again. ‘I’m headed home in a few. Want to share a cab downtown?’

‘Perfect. I’ll pick you up at the corner of Fourteenth and Fifth a little before nine. I’ll call when I get in the cab,’ I said.

‘Sounds good. I’ll wait outside. Bye.’

I headed for my closet. After some discards and retries, I settled on a pair of tight black pants and a plain black tank top. I extracted some decently high heels, bought during a shopping trip in SoHo, and took the time to blow out the exceedingly thick black hair I inherited from my mother – the kind that everyone thinks they want until they realize it barely fits in a ponytail and instantly adds thirty minutes to any preparation time. I even attempted some makeup, which got put to use so infrequently that the mascara wand was all clumpy and a few of the lipsticks were stuck inside their tubes. No matter! I thought, singing along to Mike & the Mechanics’ ‘The Living Years’ as I worked on my face … this was even kind of fun. I had to admit, the end results were worth the extra effort: my love handles no longer bulged over the waistline of my pants, my boobs had retained their chubby-girl fullness even though the rest of me had shrunk, and the mascara I’d haphazardly brushed across my lashes had accidentally smeared to perfection, giving my somewhat bland gray eyes a sexy, smoldering look.

Penelope was waiting outside at exactly ten to nine, and we were deposited at our requested address right on time. There were a ton of restaurants on West Broadway, and everyone seemed to be clustered at outdoor tables looking exceedingly well-scrubbed and unnervingly happy. We had a little trouble finding the place because the restaurant management had neglected to post a sign. Perhaps it’s an issue of practicality; since the shelf life of most New York hot spots is under six months, it actually leaves one less thing to remove when they close. Luckily, I remembered the street number from Zagat and we scoped it out from the far corner. Groups of scantily but expensively clad women congregated around the bar as older men kept their drinks filled, but I didn’t see Elisa or anyone else from the office.

‘Bette! Over here!’ Elisa called, a champagne glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She was planted in the middle of Cipriani’s outdoor tables, leaning seductively against one of the Italians’ chairs, her branch-like limbs looking as though they might snap at any moment. ‘Everyone else is inside. So glad you could come!’

‘Jesus Christ, she’s skinny,’ Penelope muttered under her breath as we walked toward the tables.

‘Hi,’ I said and leaned in to kiss Elisa hello. I turned to introduce her to Penelope but noticed that Elisa was still waiting there, her face thrust forward and filled, eyes closed. She had expected the traditional Euro double kiss, and I’d given up halfway through. I’d recently read a convincing piece in Cosmo decrying the double kiss as a stupid affectation and decided to make a stand: there would be no more double kisses for me. I left her hanging but said, ‘Thanks for inviting me. I absolutely love it here!’

She recovered quickly. ‘Ohmigod, me, too. They have the best salads of anywhere. Hi, I’m Elisa,’ she said, offering a hand to Penelope.

‘I’m so sorry, that was so rude of me.’ I flushed, realizing I must have sounded ridiculous to Penelope. ‘Penelope, this is Elisa. She’s been showing me around all week long. And, Elisa, this is Penelope, my best friend.’

‘Wow, fab ring,’ Elisa said, grabbing Penelope’s left hand instead of her right and softly fingering the massive stone. ‘That carat-glare is, like, blinding!’ Penelope was, in fact, sporting her ‘wearable’ three-carat rock, and I wondered what Elisa would think of her second ring.

‘Thanks,’ Penelope said, clearly pleased. ‘I just got engaged last—’ But before she could finish, Davide grabbed Elisa from behind and wrapped his arms around her tiny waist, careful not to hug too hard and break her. He leaned in and whispered something in her ear and she threw her head back with laughter.

‘Davide, honey, behave! You know Bette. Davide, this is Bette’s friend, Penelope.’

We all air-kissed on both cheeks (my no double-kiss rule hadn’t lasted twenty seconds), but Davide didn’t manage to remove his eyes from Elisa for a single second. ‘Our table. It is ready,’ he announced gruffly in Italian-accented English, patting Elisa’s bony ass and leaning his pretty face toward her neck again. ‘Come in when you are finito.’ Something about Davide’s accent still didn’t sound quite right. It seemed to meander from French to Italian and back to French again.

‘I’m finished,’ she sang merrily, tossing her cigarette underneath a table. ‘Let’s go in, okay?’

We had a table for six tucked in the back corner. Elisa immediately informed me that marginally cool people obsess about getting a table in the front of the restaurant, but the truly cool request tables in the back. Skye, Davide, and Leo comprised the rest of the group that had worked on the Candace Bushnell book party the night before, and I was relieved to see that Elisa and Davide were the only couple. They were all sipping drinks and arguing about something, looking relaxed in the way that only the truly confident ever can. And naturally, no one was wearing black. Skye and Elisa were wearing almost identical short dresses, one in a bright coral color with gorgeous silver heels and the other in a perfect aquamarine with matching metallic sandals that tied halfway up her calves. No matter that it was mid-October and relatively cold at night. Even the guys looked like they’d been prepped at Armani before dinner. Davide was still wearing his charcoal gray suit from work. Although it was significantly snugger than most American men would wear, it looked fabulous on his tall, built frame. Leo was the perfect combination of hip and casual in a pair of distressed Paper Denim jeans, a tight vintage T-shirt that said VIETNAM: WE WERE WINNING WHEN I LEFT, and the new orange Pumas for guys. I went to claim the last remaining seat next to Leo, but he hoisted himself effortlessly to his feet without so much as a break in his sentence, kissed both my cheeks, and pulled the chair out for me, and then one for Penelope, who was obviously trying as hard as I was to act like this was a usual night out for us. When we’d settled in, Leo handed us menus and motioned for the waiter to take our drink orders, although he still hadn’t so much as paused in the conversation.

I racked my brain trying to think of some remotely cool drink, but after years of only drinking with my uncle, it was impossible. Absolut was popular these days, wasn’t it?

‘Um, I’ll have an Absolut and grapefruit juice, please,’ I mumbled when the waiter looked to me first.

‘Really?’ Elisa asked, looking at me, wide-eyed. ‘I don’t even think they serve Absolut here. Why don’t we get a few bottles of wine for the table to start?’

‘Oh, sure. That would be great.’ Strike one.

‘Don’t feel too bad – I was going to order a beer,’ Penelope leaned over and whispered. I laughed like it was the most amusing thing I’d ever heard.

Davide spoke to the waiter in fourth-grade Italian, supplementing with hand gestures and at one point kissing his fingertips as though the mere thought of his order was too delicious to resist. Elisa and Skye just gazed at him in adoration. He switched to his faux-accented English for the rest of us monolingual idiots. ‘I have ordered three bottles of this Chianti to start, if this is acceptable. In the meantime, everyone prefer sparkling or flat?’

Elisa turned to me and announced, ‘Davide is from Sicily.’

‘Oh, really? How interesting,’ I said. ‘Are his parents still there?’

‘No, no, he’s been here since he was four, but he still has such affection for his birthplace.’

Votes were tallied for the bottled water preference – I wisely resisted saying that I’d be fine with plain old tap water – and Davide ordered three of each. By my calculations, we’d already spent just under $300 and hadn’t so much as ordered an appetizer yet.

‘Great call on the wine, Davide,’ Skye announced while punching her manicured nails into her cell phone’s keypad. Texting, I guessed. ‘I can vouch for it personally. We’ve summered in Tuscany for years and it’s the only one I’ll touch.’ She turned her full attention to her phone, which was ringing, and tucked it back into her bag after looking with distaste at the caller ID display.

I busied myself examining the menu, wondering if every employee of Kelly & Company was in possession of an enormous trust fund. I couldn’t very well contribute much about the subtleties of Chianti. My parents’ idea of ‘summering’ was driving from Poughkeepsie to Cayuga Lake in Ithaca, where they’d hold a vegan barbecue on the porch with locals and drink their licorice tea. Nothing like blowing your first week’s pay on a single meal you didn’t want to have in the first place.

‘So how tough was last night?’ Davide asked. ‘I mean, what are the chances that not a single A-list celebrity showed up?’

‘Some of the Sex and the City cast were there,’ Leo pointed out thoughtfully.

‘Um, excuse me, I don’t think Chris Noth and John Corbett count as A-list!’ Skye said. ‘Did you see Sarah Jessica Parker? No! Besides, SATC’ – she used the abbreviation here – ‘is so over. The whole thing was a nightmare.’

The group had been commissioned by Warner Books to throw the book party for Candace Bushnell’s newest novel, and apparently it had been a zoo. Since I hadn’t worked on it from the beginning, I’d attended another event that night, a dinner welcoming the CEO of one of Kelly & Company’s new accounts.

Leo sighed. ‘I know, you’re right, of course. It was just so, so … B and T!’

‘Yes, it was, wasn’t it? I mean, who were all those girls on the outside patio? They were positively attacking the champagne – you’d think they’d never seen it before. And those two guys with the Staten Island accents who actually got in a fight? Hideous,’ Skye added.

‘Yeah, Penelope, you didn’t miss anything,’ Elisa reassured her, even though Penelope clearly had no idea what anyone was discussing. ‘That’s the beauty of book parties, though. The publishers are usually so out of the loop, they have no clue whether it actually drew a good crowd or not.’

Davide delicately sipped his wine and nodded. ‘At least we won’t have to endure another “Why the List Makes the Party” speech from Kelly. I honestly don’t think I could listen to it again.’

I’d been hearing about ‘The List’ since Monday, but Kelly hadn’t yet taken any time to introduce me to the ‘most comprehensive database of everyone worth knowing.’ She’d set aside the next day, a Friday, to demonstrate for me the glory that is The List. I was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, not quite able to accept that Kelly really was the insanely upbeat woman she appeared to be, but so far she’d maintained her relentless optimism on full throttle. And even though I don’t think Will had given her much of a choice in hiring me, she seemed genuinely happy to have me there. I’d invested four full days in studying her intently, desperate to discover some hideous flaw or irritation, and I still hadn’t managed to uncover a single negative aspect of her personality. Could it be possible that she really was all-around adorable, sweet, and successful? The most serious offense I’d found so far was her tendency toward chipper emails with numerous emoticons. But she hadn’t once used the word powwow or placed any sweaty hands anywhere inside my workspace, so I was more than content to let it slide.

My phone rang just as everyone began arguing about whether or not Kelly had already had her eyes done at the ripe old age of thirty-four, and although I scrambled to silence it, I realized that this crowd not only didn’t mind if I answered it, they expected as much.

‘Bette, hey, how are you?’

It was Michael, and he sounded slightly confused.

‘Michael, honey, how are you?’ Honey? I’d let it slip without even realizing it. The table looked on curiously, none more so than Penelope. ‘Honey?’ I saw her mouth at me questioningly.

‘Honey?’ Michael laughed on the other end. ‘What, are you drunk? I got released early! Tell me where you are and I’ll come meet you.’

I laughed ingratiatingly, totally unable to picture Michael, who was a dead ringer for Jon Cryer, punning in his sweetly dorky way as Davide waxed on about the villa they’d just rented in Sardinia for next August. ‘I’m at dinner with a few colleagues, but we’ll be finished here in an hour or so. Can I call you when I get home?’

‘Sure,’ he said, sounding even more confused. ‘Call me on my land line, though, because my cell’s out of battery.’

‘Talk to you then.’ I clicked the phone shut.

‘Was that our Michael?’ Penelope asked, clearly curious.

‘Who was thaaaaaaaat?’ Elisa asked, leaning hungrily across the table. ‘Love interest? Hot manager from the bank? Unresolved feelings that can finally be acknowledged because you no longer work together? Do tell!’

And even though the thought of having sex with Michael was less appealing than sleeping with my own uncle and Michael was madly in love with his sweet and adorable girlfriend and Penelope knew full well that Michael and I had absolutely nothing between us, I went with it. ‘Um, something like that,’ I said, deliberately looking down while the table’s attention focused on me for the first time all evening. ‘We’re, uh, just figuring things out now.’

‘Ooh,’ Elisa squealed. ‘I just knew it! Make sure Kelly adds him to The List so he can bring all his gorgeous banker friends to the events! What fun. Let’s have a toast! To Bette and her new boyfriend!’

‘Well, he’s not exactly my—’

‘To Bette!’ everyone chorused, raising wineglasses and clinking. Penelope raised her glass but stared straight ahead. They all sipped. I gulped and nudged Penelope. Blessedly, everything started to get a little fuzzy around dessert.

‘So I spoke to Amy and she said we’re good for Bungalow tonight,’ Leo announced, brushing his flawlessly highlighted hair away from his eyes. So far I’d heard them discuss the best places in the city to get a facial, the really stylish new men’s flip-flops at John Varvatos, and how annoying it was when their favorite Pilates instructor started class ten minutes late. And only Leo was gay.

‘Bungalow? Is that Bungalow 8?’ I asked, my usual filter having been relaxed by the free-flowing wine.

Conversation slammed to a halt and four perfectly groomed and/or made-up faces swiveled toward me. It was finally Skye who summoned the strength to withstand the burden of my question.

‘Yes,’ she said quietly, refusing to make eye contact, clearly humiliated for me. ‘Amy Sacco owns Bungalow 8 and Lot 61 and is a very good friend of Kelly’s. We’re all on the list for tonight, which is the best party of the week.’

Everyone nodded.

‘I’m game for whatever,’ Davide said, playing with Elisa’s hair. ‘As long as it’s guaranteed we’ll have a table. Can’t deal otherwise – not tonight.’

‘Obviously,’ Elisa agreed.

When the check came it was already well after midnight, and even though Penelope was chatting amicably with Leo, I could tell she was dying to get home. But Bungalow sounded like fun, so I shot her a few significant looks and left for the bathroom, where I waited for her to meet me.

‘What a nice night,’ she said neutrally.

‘Yeah, they’re cool, aren’t they? Something different.’

‘Definitely. Hey, I hope you don’t mind if I cut out early,’ she said, sounding more than a little distant.

‘Is everything okay? What’s wrong?’

‘No, nothing at all. It’s just kind of late and I’m not sure I’m up for, uh, for a club. Avery and I agreed to meet at home tonight, so I’d better get going. Whatever, dinner was great. I think I’m just tired, but you go and have a good time, okay?’

‘Are you sure? I could just as easily share a cab home and go to sleep. I’m not sure I’m up for it, either,’ I offered, but she saved me the trouble.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Go and have fun for both of us.’

We walked back to the group and took our seats again, where what I hoped would be a final bottle of wine was making its way around the table. When the waiter presented the check with a flourish to no one in particular, I inhaled sharply. A quick mental calculation told me that I would owe somewhere in the neighborhood of $250. But apparently splitting the bill wasn’t an option because Davide reached for the little leather folder and nonchalantly announced, ‘I’ve got this one.’

No one blinked or even attempted to argue with him.

He slipped a jet-black credit card into the folder and handed it to the waiter. There it was, the mythical American Express Black Card, available by invitation only to those who charged a minimum of $150,000 a year. I had only just learned about it myself. It was mentioned in a blind item, as in, ‘Who needs a Black Card when she has a daddy with bottomless bank accounts?’ in reference to an anonymous socialite’s daughter. No one else appeared the least bit interested.

‘We ready?’ Elisa asked, smoothing her dress over her adorable little hips. ‘We’ll need two cabs. Leo and Skye, why don’t you grab the first one? Davide, Bette, Penelope, and I will meet you there. If you get there first, I’d prefer the table closest to the bar on the left, okay?’

‘Oh, listen, I think I’m going to head home,’ Penelope said. ‘Dinner was great, but I’ve got to be at work early tomorrow. It was so nice meeting all of you.’

‘Penelope! You absolutely cannot go home. The night is just beginning! Come on, it’s going to be a great party,’ Elisa shrieked.

Penelope smiled. ‘I’d love to, really I would, but I just can’t tonight.’ She grabbed her coat, gave me a quick hug good-bye, and waved to the rest of the table. ‘Davide, thank you for dinner. It was so nice meeting all of you,’ she said, and before I could tell her that I’d call her later, she was gone.

We all stumbled into our preassigned cabs while I managed to nod and make hmm sounds at the appropriate times. It wasn’t until we were actually standing outside the velvet rope at Bungalow 8 that I realized I was slightly drunk from dinner and, having almost no experience whatsoever with remotely cool nightspots, was in a perfect position to do or say something really, really humiliating.

‘Elisa, I think I better head out,’ I said feebly. ‘I’m not feeling great, and I need to be up early tomorrow for—’

She emitted a high-pitched shriek and her sunken face came alive. ‘Bette! You’ve got to be joking! You’re practically a Bungalow virgin and we’re already here. Going out is part of your job now, just remember that!’

I was semi-aware that the thirty or so people in line – mostly guys – were staring at us, but Elisa didn’t seem to care. Davide was doing some sort of clap-high-five-knuckle-bumping greeting with one of the bouncers, and I found that I was incapable of anything but the path of least resistance.

‘Sure,’ I muttered weakly. ‘Sounds great.’

‘Sammy, we’re on Amy’s list tonight,’ Elisa announced confidently to Davide’s bouncer. He was about six-three, two hundred twenty pounds, and happened to be the exact same guy who’d been working the door the night of Penelope’s party. He didn’t appear to be particularly amused by the chaos at the door, but as soon as Elisa unwrapped herself from him, he said, ‘Of course, Elisa. How many of you are there? Come on in. I’ll have the manager get you a good table.’

‘Great, honey, thanks so much.’ She pecked him on the cheek and grabbed my elbow, leaning in close to whisper in my ear: ‘These guys think they’re special, but no one would ever even talk to them if they weren’t working the door here.’

I nodded, hoping he didn’t hear us, even if he did deserve it. I glanced up and saw him peering back at me.

‘Hey,’ Sammy said, nodding at me in recognition.

‘Hey,’ I replied cleverly, managing to refrain from pointing out that he didn’t appear to have a problem letting me in tonight. ‘Thanks for that umbrella.’

But he didn’t hear me; he’d already turned away to rehook the red velvet rope and announce to the remaining hordes that their time had not yet arrived. He said something into his walkie-talkie and pulled open the door. We cruised past the coat check and were immediately enveloped in a cloud of smoke.

‘How do you know him?’ Elisa asked as Davide greeted everyone within a twenty-foot radius.

‘Who?’

‘The door loser.’

‘Who?’

‘The idiot working the door,’ she said, exhaling what appeared to be more than a lungful of smoke.

‘You seemed to like him enough,’ I said, remembering how warmly she’d embraced him.

‘What else am I supposed to do? It’s all part of the deal. Such a waste of a face. Do you know him?’

‘No. He was pretty hostile to me at Penelope’s engagement party a few weeks ago. Made me wait outside forever. I know I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t place him.’

‘Hmm,’ she murmured, sounding less interested with every passing second. ‘Let’s get a drink.’

For one of the hottest clubs in the country, it still didn’t look all that major. The whole place was one rectangular room, with a bar at the far end and about eight tables with banquette seats along each side. People were dancing down the middle of the room while others congregated at the bar, and only the high all-glass ceiling and rows of palm trees made me feel that we were somewhere a touch exotic.

‘Hey, guys, over here,’ called Leo, who was tucked into a couch in the far left corner, just as Elisa had requested. A hidden DJ was blasting 50 Cent, and I noticed that Skye had already settled onto some guy’s lap and was grinding rhythmically to the music. There was a sort of minibar set up on their table with scattered bottles of Veuve Clicquot, Ketel One, and Tanqueray. Carafes of orange, grapefruit, and cranberry juice were provided for mixers, as well as a couple bottles of tonic and sparkling water. Penelope had mentioned the prohibitive cost of her party, so I knew that we were paying many hundreds of dollars a bottle.

‘What can I make you to drink?’ Leo asked, coming up behind me.

I wasn’t risking another uncool drink order, so I just asked for a glass of champagne.

‘Coming right up,’ he said. ‘C’mon, let’s dance. Skye, you coming?’

Leo stood, but in the last six minutes Skye had progressed to a full-fledged make-out with the random guy she was straddling. We didn’t wait for an answer.

The crowd was almost uniformly beautiful. Everyone fell into a ten-year age range, from mid-twenties to mid-thirties, and they’d all obviously been there before. The women were tall and thin and completely comfortable baring wide expanses of thighs and ample décolletage in a decidedly untacky way. The men danced at their sides, moving their hands over hips and backs and shoulders, never perspiring, never letting a girl’s drink run low. It was nothing like the one rebellious teenage night I’d spent awkwardly camped out in a corner, terrified of the writhing masses at Limelight.

By the time I’d finished scanning the scene, Leo had already selected a beautiful dark-haired guy. The two of them danced with a model-hot straight couple, all four of them moving perfectly in tune against each other’s bodies. Occasionally they’d reposition themselves so the ‘girls’ would be facing one another, grinding.

I went to the bathroom, and before I could see who owned them I felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around me. I caught a glimpse of waist-length wavy hair, a sort of mousy light brown color, and I smelled the scent of smoke and mouthwash in equal parts.

‘Bette, Bette, I can’t believe how long it’s been!’ the girl shrieked into my shoulder. Her chin was squished against my breasts in a way that was fairly uncomfortable considering her identity was still in question. She hugged me for a few more seconds, and when she pulled away, I could not have been more surprised.

Abby Abrams.

‘Abby? Is that you? Wow, it’s been a really long time,’ I said carefully, trying not to show just how unhappy I was to see her. I had nothing but terrible memories of her from college and had somehow managed to forget she existed once we’d all moved to the city. Until now, it had been a big enough place to spend a half-decade without a single run-in. My luck had clearly expired. The five years since college graduation had made her look harder, older than her age. She’d obviously had a nose job and an extra-heavy serving of collagen in the lip area, but most noticeable were her breasts. Her now super-sized chest seemed to occupy her entire four-eleven frame.

‘I go by Abigail now, actually,’ she immediately corrected. ‘So crazy, isn’t it? Of course, I’d heard you work at Kelly, so I knew I’d run into you here sooner or later.’

‘Huh? What do you mean? How long have you been living in the city?’

She stared at me, slightly horrified, and pulled me by the wrist onto a couch. I tried to shake loose, but she maintained her death grip and leaned in much too close. ‘Are you, like, serious? Have you not heard? I’m at the vortex of the media world!’

I had to use my left hand to cover my mouth while pretending to cough so she wouldn’t see me laughing uncontrollably. Since our days at Emory, Abby had loved declaring how she was ‘at the vortex’ of something or other – sorority rush or the men’s basketball team or the college newspaper. No one really knew what it meant – it was the wrong usage, actually – but for some reason she’d latched onto the phrase and refused to let go. We’d lived on the same floor our freshman year. I’d noticed right away that she seemed to have an uncanny knack for sensing people’s insecurities. She was always grilling me on what boy I liked, only to ‘coincidentally’ be seen throwing herself on whoever I named within twelve hours of my admission. I’d overheard her once in the dorm bathroom grilling an Asian girl for tips on how to get that ‘sexy, slant-eyed look’ using an eye pencil. She’d once ‘borrowed’ one of her classmates’ history papers and turned it in as her own, only admitting to the ‘mix-up’ once the professor threatened to fail both of them. Penelope and I met Abby around the same time, in freshman writing seminar, and we immediately agreed that Abby was to be avoided. She’d been creepy from the beginning, the kind of girl who would make subtle but mean comments about your hair or boyfriend or outfit and then feign horror and regret when you inevitably took offense. We ditched her often and regularly, and she never seemed to get it. Instead, she’d purposefully make contact in order to put us down. Not surprisingly, she’d never had any real girlfriends, but she kept herself quite busy working her way through nearly every fraternity house and athletic team at Emory.

‘“Vortex of the media world,” huh? No, I didn’t know that. Where are you these days?’ I asked in the most bored tone I could muster. I vowed not to let her get under my skin.

‘Well, let’s see. I started at Elle and then made the jump to Slate – so much smarter, you know? Had a brief stint at Vanity Fair, but the office politics were so intense. Now I’m freelancing – my byline’s everywhere!’

I thought about that for a moment and couldn’t remember seeing her name … anywhere.

‘And you, missy, how’s the new job?’ she screeched.

‘Um, yeah, it’s been about a week, I guess, and it’s pretty cool so far. I’m not sure if it’s at the vortex of the public-relations world, but I like it.’

She sensed no sarcasm whatsoever, or she ignored it. ‘It’s such a hot firm; they’re repping all the best clients these days. Ohmigod, I absolutely love your shirt – it’s the absolute best call ever if you’re looking to hide a little tummy, you know? I wear mine all the time!’

I involuntarily sucked in my gut.

Before I could point out something nasty, like how five pounds on her frame would look like twenty, she said, ‘Hey, so tell me, have you spoken to Cameron recently? That was your boyfriend’s name, right? I heard something about him leaving you for a model, but of course I didn’t believe it.’

So much for not sinking to her level.

‘Cameron? I didn’t think you knew him. Then again, he is a guy who’s breathing and living in New York City, so …’

‘Oh, Bette, it’s really so great to see you,’ she said, ignoring my comment. ‘Let me take you to lunch, okay? We have so much to catch up on. I’ve been meaning to call you forever, but you just vanished since college! Who do you hang out with? Still that quiet girl? She was so sweet. What was her name?’

‘Oh, you mean Penelope? She’s gorgeous and engaged and, yes, I still see her. I’ll be sure to tell her you said hello.’

‘Yes, yes, definitely do that. So, I’ll call you at work next week and we’ll go somewhere fab for lunch, ’kay? Congratulations on finally leaving that dreadful bank and joining the real world. … I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone. There are just, like, so many people you need to meet!’

I was preparing what would surely be an even wittier response when Elisa materialized beside us. I never thought I’d be so happy to see her.

‘Elisa, this is Abby,’ I said, waving my arm at her listlessly.

‘It’s Abigail, actually,’ Abby interjected.

‘Right, uh-huh. And, Abby’ – I looked at her pointedly and continued— ‘this is my coworker Elisa.’

‘Hey, we’ve met before, haven’t we?’ Elisa mumbled, her front teeth clamped around a cigarette as she dug in her bag for a lighter.

‘Totally,’ Abby said. She plucked a matchbook off the nearest table and gallantly lit Elisa’s cigarette. ‘Do you have another ciggie for me?’

They made the exchange and began chattering about some new gossip roundup called New York Scoop. I’d heard it discussed in the office. Apparently, even though it had been published for years, nobody had cared about it until the arrival of a saucy new column written by someone using the unclever pseudonym Ellie Insider. It was published twice a week in both the online and print versions, although Ellie’s column – unlike similar Page Six columns by Cindy Adams or Liz Smith – did not have an accompanying photo of the writer. Now Abby was insisting that it was the hottest thing to hit media circles in years, but Elisa was saying that, according to her sources, only select groups from the fashion and entertainment world were reading it obsessively – although she predicted others would soon catch on. This conversation topic remained interesting for a solid minute and a half, before I had the blessed realization that I could simply excuse myself and leave.

It wasn’t until then that I realized I was standing alone in a swarm of gorgeous people who all just happened to have amazing rhythm, and I couldn’t move. Dancing had never been my thing. I’d somehow managed to shuffle my way through a few painful slow songs at high-school dances (always trying desperately to avoid the eight-minute rendition of ‘Stairway to Heaven’) and hop drunkenly along to the jukeboxes at our college dive bars, but this was truly intimidating. Before I could even manage to sway, I was overwhelmed with the same sixth-grade fears. It happened in a fraction of a second, but the feeling that everyone was staring at my baby fat and braces came rushing back. I needed to leave, or at the very least get back to the table and avoid the hell of dancing, but just as I made up my mind to escape, I felt a hand on the small of my back.

‘Hi there,’ said a tall guy with a British accent and a tan so perfect it could have only come from the great indoors. ‘Dance?’

I had to consciously keep from turning around to see if he might be talking to someone else, and before I could even worry about my smoky breath or my shirt, which was damp with perspiration, he had pulled me toward him and started moving. Dancing? We were dancing! I hadn’t been this close to someone since the last time a pervert on the subway had pressed up against me on the morning commute. Re-lax, have fun, re-lax, have fun, I chanted silently, hoping to remain calm and cool. But I didn’t need to do much self-convincing at all; my brain checked out as my body snuggled closer to the golden-skinned god who was offering me another glass of champagne. I sipped that one and then downed the next, and before I knew what was happening, I was perched on his lap, laughing with the table about some scandal or another while the gorgeous stranger played with my hair and lit my cigarettes.

I’d entirely forgotten I was inappropriately dressed in black, that I’d just been insulted by the pint-sized bitch who used to torment me in school, and that I possessed nothing resembling rhythm. I remember watching, slightly reaction-impaired, as one of the Englishman’s friends came over and asked who might be the new, charming creature on his lap. I didn’t even realize they were talking about me until he hugged me from behind and said, ‘She’s my discovery – brill, isn’t she?’ And I, the charming creature, the brill discovery, giggled delightedly, grabbed his face between both my hands, and kissed him squarely on the mouth. Which is, thankfully, the very last thing I remember at all.