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Three weeks later – three weeks of list-making, wardrobe-building, party-going, and general immersion in the culture of Kelly & Company – I stood waiting for Penelope to arrive. The line outside Sanctuary looked absolutely unbearable. Whole hordes of girls smoothed their Japanese-reconditioned hair with manicured hands while the boys – revitalized from various steak dinners – gripped their forearms to keep them from tottering over sideways on their heels. The early November night was chilly, but no one seemed to notice that it wasn’t July anymore. Skin – scrubbed, buffed, waxed, moisturized, tanned, and glowing – was everywhere, from huge expanses of bronzed cleavage to slightly sparkling stretches of stomach to those inches of upper thigh that are rarely spotted away from the beach or the gynecologist’s office. A few people swayed in time to loungy music emanating from behind the imposing steel door, and most seemed to twitter at the mere idea of what the night held: the sensation of that first martini hitting your bloodstream, the feeling of music pulsating through your hips, the cigarette smoke burning but delicious, the chance to press some of that perfect skin against someone else’s. There was nothing quite as heady as a Saturday night in New York when you were standing outside the newest, chicest place in the city, surrounded by all sorts of glittering, pretty things, the kind of vibe where every fantasy was just waiting to unfold … if you could only get inside.

To my surprise, Will had been less than thrilled with the coverage of my non-one-night-stand three weeks earlier. I’d called after work to say hi, figuring he didn’t even read New York Scoop and there was a good chance he hadn’t seen it, but I was very, very wrong. Everybody, it seemed, had begun reading New York Scoop – and worse, they were reading it solely for Ellie Insider’s column.

‘Oh, Bette, your uncle has been champing at the bit, just waiting for your call. Hold on a second, I’ll get him,’ Simon said rather formally, not even bothering to ask how I was or when I’d next be over for dinner, as he always did.

‘Bette? Is that really you? The celebrity herself deigns to call her old uncle, huh?’

‘Celebrity? What on earth are you talking about?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe just that little piece about my “mystery niece.” Apparently your new boyfriend is rather fashionable, and so his, um, conquests are often recorded for posterity within the Scoop’s highly journalistic pages. Did you not see it?’

‘My boyfriend? You’re referring to the illustrious Philip Weston, I’m guessing?’

‘Indeed I am, darling, indeed I am. Not exactly what I had in mind when I encouraged you to get out there and meet someone, but what do I know? I’m just an old man, living vicariously through his beautiful young niece. If you find that whole British trustafarian thing appealing, well, then, far be it from me to say otherwise. …’

‘Will! I should think you of all people would understand that you can’t necessarily believe everything you read in the papers, you know? It didn’t exactly happen like that.’

‘Well, darling, since you seem to be a bit late to the game, everyone’s been reading Ellie Insider lately. She’s surely a conniving little wench, but she does always seem to have the scoop. Are you telling me you didn’t go home with him? Or that it was a different new Kelly hire? Because if that’s true, then I’d recommend having that corrected as soon as possible. I’m not sure that’s the reputation you’d be looking to create for yourself.’

‘It’s complicated’ was all I could manage.

‘I see,’ he replied quietly. ‘Well, look, it’s certainly none of my business. As long as you’re enjoying yourself, that’s really all that matters. See you at brunch on Sunday. We’re in prime pre-holiday wedding season, so I imagine there’ll be some real winners in Sunday’s announcements. Wear your snarky shoes, darling.’

I’d agreed, but I felt unsettled. Something had changed – or shifted, at least – and I couldn’t quite pinpoint it.

‘Hey, Bette, over here,’ Penelope called a bit too loudly as she settled up with the cabdriver and waved to me from the backseat.

I waved. ‘Hi! Right on time. Elisa and crew are already here, but I didn’t want you to have to come in alone.’

‘Wow, you look great,’ she said, putting a hand on my hip and examining my outfit from head to toe. ‘Where’d you find clothes like that?’

I laughed, pleased that she had noticed. I’d only been working at Kelly & Company for a month, but it was long enough for me to get sick of looking like I was always dressed for a funeral. I’d thrown my drab suits in the back of my closet, ripped a couple pages out of Lucky and Glamour, and made a beeline for Barney’s. Standing at the register, I’d mentally added up the years it was going to take to pay for all this stuff and then bravely handed over my credit card. When the salesperson gave it back, I could have sworn it was warm to the touch. In one afternoon I’d managed to kiss both dorkiness and credit health good-bye.

While it wasn’t exactly couture, I was pretty happy with my new look: Paige Jeans that cost more than all my monthly bills combined; a silky, lace-lined lingerie top in kelly green; a tweedy, fitted blazer that didn’t match anything but which the salesman, Jean-Luc, had declared ‘ravishing’; and the classic Chanel clutch Will had bought me for my twenty-first birthday because apparently ‘it’s criminal to pass into womanhood without a single designer paving your passage. Welcome to what I hope will be a long life of shallow consumerism and brand worship.’

I had worked at CWK for five years, slaving away for eighty hours a week. Since I’d never had any time to spend money, I’d managed to build a little nest egg without really trying. After eight weeks of unemployment and one afternoon at Barney’s, that nest egg had been seriously compromised, but my ass had never looked better in denim. Standing outside Sanctuary among the thin and beautiful people, I felt like I belonged. It had been worth it.

‘Hi there,’ I said, hugging Penelope’s tiny frame. ‘Do you like it? It’s my “I’ve never been remotely cool but I’m trying real hard to be so now” look. What do you think?’

‘I think you look hot,’ she said, forever the good friend. ‘Is someone planning on seeing a certain English deity this evening?’

‘Hardly. I don’t think Philip Weston calls girls who don’t immediately fall into his bed with their legs spread. Actually, I don’t think he calls girls who do, either. Whatever. He’s beautiful, but he was unbelievably arrogant and full of himself.’

‘And no one likes that, of course,’ Penelope said with mock seriousness.

‘Of course not,’ I replied. ‘Come on, everyone else is inside and it’s freezing. Let’s go in.’

‘Have you seen this line? What’s going on here tonight? You’d think they were handing out free lap dances or something.’

‘I don’t know too much except that it opened last night and is supposed to be the ultimate exclusive place, sort of a VIP room on steroids. Kelly wanted us to check it out in case it actually does live up to the hype. If it becomes the new place, we’ll already have it booked for the Playboy party.’

Kelly & Company had been commissioned by Playboy over a year ago to put on the Manhattan portion of their never-ending Fiftieth Anniversary celebration, which would start in Chicago in January and eventually end in a blowout at the mansion in Los Angeles in March, making stops in Vegas, Miami, and New York along the way. It was going to be a massive undertaking – definitely our biggest project to date, and it pretty much dominated every workday. Kelly had gathered us around the day before to change the number on the countdown board to 164 and then asked for updates. The List Girls were already running simultaneous searches on all A- and B-list celebs, preparing to construct a final winning group. Meanwhile, the rest of us spent half of each day fielding calls from every imaginable person in every sector of the city looking to wrangle invitations and request invites for themselves, or clients, or both. Combine all the anticipation with Hef’s paranoid insistence that all details (including – but not limited to – location, date, time, and attendees) be kept lockbox-quiet, and we had the recipe for total chaos.

‘I looked it up on Citysearch today. They quoted the manager as saying they expected the clientele to be “upscale creative,” which I sort of thought applied more to menus than people, but what do I know?’ Penelope sighed.

I’d recently begun to understand that the concept of exclusivity was an organizing principle of life in Manhattan. Part of this was undoubtedly due to the sheer concentration of people on such a tiny island. New Yorkers instinctively compete for everything from taxis at rush hour to seats on the subway to Hermès Birkin bags to Knicks season tickets. Impenetrable co-op boards take years to navigate. Icy hostesses at the city’s most desirable restaurants haughtily demand reservations six months in advance. ‘If they let you in without a hassle,’ people say, ‘it’s probably not worth going.’ Since the days of Studio 54, and probably long before (if there even were nightclubs before then), club-goers have made getting into trendy nightclubs a competitive sport. And at the chicest places, like tonight, there are levels of access. Getting in the front door is just the beginning – any NYU sophomore in a tube top can manage that. ‘The main bar?’ I’d heard someone say in reference to Sanctuary. ‘I’d rather be at TGI Friday’s in Hoboken.’ Elisa had provided explicit instructions to make our way directly to the VIP lounge, apparently the only place to find some ‘real action.’ Jagger and Bowie partied in Studio 54’s legendary private rooms. Today Leo, Colin, and Lindsay hold court, unmolested by prying eyes. And everyone else clamors to get in.

I’d grown accustomed to being a non-VIP quite some time ago – it hadn’t occurred to me that VIP was even a possibility for me. It had taken the opening of a VIP room outside of the confines of the nightclub arena to really stir my righteous indignation. In what I could only interpret as the first sign of the apocalypse, my dentist, Dr Quinn, had opened a VIP waiting room in his office. ‘So the doctor’s high-profile, important clients will have a place where they feel comfortable,’ the assistant had explained. ‘You can have a seat in our regular lounge.’ I sat in Dr Powell’s very uncool and very public waiting room, thumbing through a two-year-old issue of Redbook and silently willing the overweight gentleman next to me to cease cracking his gum. I gazed longingly at the door marked VIP and fantasized about the plush dental wonderland that surely lay beyond. I resigned myself to the fact that I would always be one of those people on the outside looking in. But there I was, a mere few months later, standing outside Sanctuary in my cool new clothes with a gaggle of fabulous friends waiting inside. It felt like my luck was changing.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a girl who looked exactly like Abby kiss the bouncer and make her way into the lounge, but I couldn’t positively identify her from where I stood. ‘Hey, you’ll never guess who I saw the other night. I can’t believe I forgot to tell you! Abby was at Bungalow that night you left after dinner.’

Penelope’s head snapped toward mine. She hated Abby more than I did, if that was possible. She’d refused to acknowledge her presence since Abby had cornered her in an empty classroom sophomore year and told her not to take it personally that Penelope’s father was sleeping with his secretary, that it was certainly no reflection on his love for her. Penelope had been so shocked she’d merely asked, ‘How do you know?’ and Abby had smirked in return. ‘Are you serious?’ she’d asked. ‘Who doesn’t know?’

‘You saw that midget and didn’t tell me? What’d she have to say for herself?’

‘Her usual. She’s now at the vortex of the media world, you’ll be happy to know. Goes by Abigail now, not Abby, so of course I said “Abby” as many times as I possibly could. Had her boobs done and half her face rearranged, but she’s still exactly the same.’

‘Girl would walk over her own mother in spike heels if it helped her get ahead,’ Penelope mumbled.

‘Sure would,’ I confirmed cheerfully. ‘And you just might have the pleasure of seeing her here tonight. I think she just walked in.’

‘Great. That’s just great. Lucky us.’

I linked arms with Penelope and boldly walked to the front of the line, hopefully projecting some level of confidence. A highly manorexic black guy sporting a giant, fake Afro wig and a long-sleeved mesh T-shirt over hot pink Lycra tights peered at us through sparkle-encrusted eyelashes.

‘Are you on the list?’ he asked in a voice that was surprisingly gruff for someone who cross-dressed so expertly.

‘Yep, sure are,’ I said casually. Silence. ‘Um, yes, we are on the list. We’re here with Kelly & Company.’

No response. He held the clipboard but didn’t consult it, and I decided he hadn’t heard me.

‘I spoke with the manager earlier today to arrange a visit? We’re actually here to check out the venue for a potential—’

‘Name!’ he barked, wholly disinterested in my explanation. But as I spelled out my last name, four guys in seventies leisure suits and a girl in something that looked an awful lot like a flapper outfit walked directly in front of me.

‘Romero, darling, move that silly rope aside so we can get out of the cold,’ the girl ordered, placing a hand gingerly on the bouncer’s cheek.

‘Of course, Sofia, come right in,’ he cooed deferentially, and I realized that the flapper was Sofia Coppola. The entourage followed her lead and nodded their respects to the bouncer, who was glowing with pride and happiness. It took him a full three minutes to regain his composure and another two to remember that we were still there.

‘Robinson,’ I said, sounding definitely more irritated. ‘R-O-B-I –’

‘I can spell it,’ he snapped, apparently now in a full-fledged snit. ‘Yes, fortunately for you, I have you on the list. Absolutely no one is getting in tonight otherwise.’

‘Mmm’ was about all I could manage in reply to this fascinating piece of information.

He placed his hand on the velvet rope but didn’t lift it. He leaned over and addressed Penelope directly, and none too quietly: ‘Just FYI for next time, girls: you’re really a bit more casual than we like to see here.’

Penelope giggled, obviously unaware that our new transvestite friend was not kidding.

‘Hey, I’m just giving it to you straight,’ he continued, his voice getting louder every second. A sort of silence had overtaken the previously fidgety and excited crowd, and I could feel fifty pairs of eyes staring at us from behind. ‘We prefer to see a little more style, a little more effort.’

My mind began to race, in search of a snappy retort, but of course I managed to say nothing. Before I knew what was happening, a girl so young, so tall, and with breasts so enormous they’d only ever work in LA, came over and volunteered a brief but highly informative lecture on the current fashion situation.

‘We especially like to see forties looks lately.’ She smiled warmly.

‘Huh?’ Penelope said, verbalizing exactly what I was thinking.

‘Well, it’s just one option, of course, but it’s quite effective. Black and white with bright red lipstick, you know? Perhaps some vintage Prada heels or something even chunkier. It’s all about distinguishing yourself.’ I heard a few people laughing appreciatively in the background.

It was at this point that I noticed that she looked like something out of I Want a Famous Face gone horribly awry.

What did I say? What did I do? Absolutely nothing. Instead of maintaining one iota, one tiny shred of self-respect, we proffered our left hands for the obligatory stamp and sort of shuffled shamefully past the velvet rope that had finally been lifted. The final indignity came just as the door was shutting behind us, when the cosmetically enhanced giraffe announced to the circus freak, ‘It wouldn’t be quite so bad if they just minded their labels.’

‘Did that just happen?’ Penelope asked, looking as dumbfounded as I felt.

‘I think so. Just how pathetic were we? I’m almost afraid to ask.’

‘There are actually no words for that level of pathetic-ness. It was like watching Jeopardy! – I knew all the answers, just ten seconds too late.’

I was about to suggest that we medicate ourselves with as much undiluted vodka as we could locate, but Elisa found us first.

‘This place is so hot,’ she breathed into my ear while waving hello to Penelope. ‘Check it out. Far right, back corner, Kristin Davis. Far right, just in front of her, Suzanne Somers. Random, I acknowledge, but celeb nonetheless. Far left, not quite in the corner, more like twelve o’clock, Sting and Trudie Styler, making out. At the round leather couch in the middle, Heidi Klum and Seal, and Davide heard them say that Zac Posen is on his way.’

‘Wow,’ Penelope said, making an admirable effort to sound impressed, ‘there are a lot of people here tonight. Bette? What do you say about getting a drink?’

‘I’m not finished,’ Elisa hissed, pulling my arm tighter toward hers and continuing to scan the room. ‘Flirting with the waitress, by the side door, Ethan Hawke. Made significantly more awkward by the presence of Andre Balazs, Uma’s new man, sitting with business associates at first banquette on the right. And look! That ugly little lesbian troll blogger who can’t stop writing about how much blow she does every night is sort of lurking in the back there, watching them all. Tomorrow she’ll have everything plastered all over her blog, making it sound like she was partying with everyone rather than spying all night long. Oh, and look! Right behind her, an assistant from Rush & Molloy. They rotate them constantly so no one ever knows who they are, but we have a source there who faxes over pictures and bios of the new ones right away. … Hmm, it doesn’t look like Philip is here tonight. Shame. I bet you were wanting to see him, no?’

‘Philip? Uh, no, actually, not really,’ I mumbled somewhat truthfully.

‘Oh, really? Does that mean he still hasn’t called? How sad. I know what it’s like, Bette. Don’t take it personally – he obviously just has very strange tastes.’

I had spent three weeks dodging Elisa’s questions, trying to appear nonchalant about Philip Weston. I was about to repeat that I couldn’t care less that he hadn’t called, that I hadn’t even left my number as instructed, but I figured it wasn’t worth it. This was clearly a sensitive point and best left alone. Besides, I didn’t exactly adore the fact that I hadn’t heard from him, number or not.

Penelope and I followed Elisa over to a small circle of white suede couches – a phenomenally stupid idea for a place where people do nothing but eat, drink, and hook up – and said hello to Leo, Skye, Davide, and someone Elisa introduced as ‘the brains behind this entire production.’

‘Hi, I’m Bette, and this is my friend Penelope,’ I said, extending my hand to the Semitic-looking-yet-mullet-sporting guy Elisa had referenced.

‘Yo. Danny.’

‘Without Danny, we wouldn’t be here tonight.’ Elisa sighed, and everyone at the table nodded knowingly. ‘He came up with the whole concept that is Sanctuary and put the whole project together. … Isn’t that right, Danny?’

‘Word.’

I was wondering why this short Jewish guy from either Great Neck or Dix Hills was attempting to sound as though he’d grown up on the playgrounds and basketball courts of Cabrini Green.

‘Oh, so you were the one who hired that charming bouncer, huh?’ I asked, and Elisa shot me a warning look.

Danny apparently sensed nothing amiss. ‘Fag freak, but whatever. Gets his shit done. Keeps out the losers – all that matters to me.’

Mmm. Penelope nodded seriously in agreement and simultaneously nudged me, and I gnawed the inside of my cheeks to keep from laughing. Compared to two minutes ago, Danny was being downright verbose.

‘So, Danny, what gave you the idea for Sanctuary?’ Penelope asked, staring at him with wide, fascinated eyes.

He took a swig from his Stella Artois and peered at her as though he were trying to determine which language she’d just used, his eyes scrunched up in confusion, hand on his crinkled forehead, head shaking slightly from side to side. ‘Dude. Everywhere else is so fucking stressful. The line at Bungalow’s a nightmare and I can’t stand all those fuckin’ media types at Soho House. Figured we all need a place that could be, like, a y’know, what’s the word? A place to chill.’

‘A sanctuary?’ I supplied helpfully.

‘Right on.’ He nodded, obviously relieved. The amount of product in his hair was nothing short of astounding.

Unfortunately, before this fascinating conversation could see itself to its logical end – most likely the one where Danny eventually remembered the name of his own club – I spotted an exceedingly familiar tan.

‘Ohmigod, it’s him,’ I stage-whispered to our motley crew, immediately leaning my head in for both cover and consultation.

Heads turned.

‘Philip. Philip Weston is here. Just walked in with that, that, that model,’ I spat out, not even remotely aware of how insanely jealous I sounded. And looked.

‘Bette, is that jealousy I hear?’ Elisa asked, leaning in to whisper in my ear. ‘And here I thought you were immune to the Weston charms. Good to see you’re a red-blooded American girl after all. Of course, just because you’re interested doesn’t mean he is. …’

‘Dude! Philip! Over here,’ Danny was calling, and before I’d even realized what was happening, Philip was kissing me hello on the mouth.

‘Hi, love, I was hoping you’d be here. You can run, but you can’t hide. …’

‘Pardon?’ was about all I could manage, since at this point I was fairly certain he’d meant to direct both the kiss and comment elsewhere. Like toward the knockout who was patiently waiting about three feet behind him, not looking the least bit distressed about anything.

‘You didn’t leave your number with my doorman. What do you call that here? Playing hard to get. Well, I always fancy a good game, so I decided to play along and find you myself.’

I saw Elisa collapse into the couch behind him, her mouth hanging open quite unattractively, shock flashing across her face.

‘Play along?’ I asked him.

‘Girls don’t exactly flee from me, love, if you know what I’m saying. Hey, mate, may I get a Tanq and tonic?’ he said, addressing Danny as though he were our waiter.

‘Right on, dude, coming right up,’ Danny said, moving as quickly as one might expect only when the offer of drugs or girls was promised.

He turned around when Philip called, ‘And hey, something for Sonja here, too.’ He turned not to me but to the girl with infinite legs. ‘Sonja, doll baby, what can I get for you? Ginger ale? Vegetable juice? Talk to me, honey.’

She stared back, uncomprehending, and I was almost – almost – amused by the idea that Philip had brought along one girl for accompaniment as he pursued another. He was pursuing me, wasn’t he?

Elisa had returned to Davide’s lap, apparently recovered from Philip’s unexpected arrival. I saw her very discreetly remove a small packet of white powder from her seafoam green Balenciaga bag and slip it to Skye, who immediately bolted in the direction of the ladies’ room. Ever resourceful, Elisa then stuck a hand into the bag’s side pocket and distributed a few tablets among the table’s remaining people. Hands simultaneously found their way to mouths, and the mystery pills were quickly washed down with champagne and vodka and what Skye – our very own drink critic – had described as ‘the only decent cosmopolitan in this entire fucking city.’

‘Oh, Pheeeely, I think it will be nice to have the tom-ahto juices, oui?’ Sonja said, biting her lower lip seductively.

‘Hey, y’all, come and play. We’ve got more than enough to go around!’ Elisa called over the Hotel Costes CD that might’ve passed for relaxed lounge music had it not been pumped out at decibels capable of drowning out a 747.

Danny left to fetch drinks for Philip and Sonja, while Penelope tried gamely to make conversation with an ever more wasted Elisa. I just stood there, acutely aware that I looked awkward and dumb, but not really possessing the faculties to move.

‘So, Philip, introduce me to your, uh, your friend,’ I managed, wondering what the protocol was when the guy whose bed you’d recently shared made the effort to track you down with his girlfriend in tow.

‘Sure thing, love. Sonja, this is the smashing creature I was telling you about – the one who turned me down a few weeks ago, if you can believe it. She was completely blotto, of course; it’s the only feasible explanation.’ Sonja nodded, not necessarily comprehending anything. He rapidly switched to French and the only word I managed to catch was name, which I immediately assumed meant he was informing her he didn’t know what mine was.

‘Bette,’ I said, extending my hand to Sonja while ignoring Philip.

‘Son-yaaah.’ She giggled, revealing shiny teeth with absolutely no nicotine stains.

‘Sonja’s folks have entrusted her to me for the week while she interviews at all the agencies,’ he explained in his irritatingly adorable British accent. ‘Our parents have neighboring villas in St Tropez, so she’s always been like a little sister to me. Only fifteen. Can you believe it?’ In all fairness, he was neither leering nor lecherous, but it felt as though he should have been.

I once again found myself in the rather uncomfortable position of being unable to speak or respond with any sort of consistency, and so I was delighted when Penelope announced that she was ready to go.

‘I know we just got here,’ she said quietly in my ear, ‘but this just isn’t my scene. Are you okay here by yourself? Your whole office is here. It should be fine, right?’

‘Pen, don’t be crazy! I’m coming with you,’ I announced, mostly eager for an excuse to leave, with only a hint of desire to stay and talk to Philip.

Danny returned, leading a cocktail waitress over to us. Philip and Sonja received their requested drinks and I was thoughtfully provided with a mini bottle of Piper and a red-striped sipping straw. Penelope received nothing.

‘Here, have a drink before we go,’ I said, and thrust the bottle in her direction.

‘Bette, I’m just done, okay? I really think you should just stay and—’

‘AVERY!’ Elisa shrieked all of a sudden, propelling her emaciated figure off the couch and into the arms of a tall blond guy wearing an aggressively preppy pink shirt. Both Penelope and I turned simultaneously to see her fiancé embracing my coworker as though they’d known one another for years. ‘Come here. Y’all just have to meet my favorite party boy, Avery Wainwright. Avery, this is—’

Apparently the look on both our faces was enough to stop her mid-sentence, a feat I’d never before thought possible.

‘Hey, honey, I didn’t know you were coming here tonight,’ Avery said, extracting himself from Elisa’s signature arm-grip and enveloping Penelope in a rather awkward bear hug.

‘I didn’t know you were, either,’ she said quietly, not quite meeting his eyes. ‘You said you were going to dinner with the boys tonight.’

I wished I could scoop up Penelope and whisk her off to the Black Door, where we could drown that yucky feeling – he hadn’t done anything technically wrong, but I knew her stomach was sinking anyway. But there was nothing to do but try and divert attention away from their two-person show.

‘I did go to dinner with the boys. We all went to Sparks, and then most of them wanted to get home, but I decided to check this place out with Rick and Thomas. See, they’re right over there,’ he said quickly, the words tumbling out in the panicky tone of someone who’d just been caught.

Rick and Thomas were, in fact, located where he’d indicated. In the thirty seconds since they’d arrived, a group of very young girls had accepted their invitation to join them at their VIP table and were just beginning to shimmy and dance on the banquette. Penelope looked like she was ready to throw up. I could tell it was coming to her in waves, the realization that if she hadn’t been there, Avery would most likely be grinding against one of those girls right now.

‘Mmm,’ she murmured, watching as Rick and Thomas sandwiched a girl between them and gyrated. ‘I see.’

‘Pen, come here, baby, it’s not like that. They know those girls from work and they’re just being friendly.’

‘Work?’ Her voice was steely and her eyes had turned to ice. Everyone was waiting for a colossal fight, so I began chatting up Elisa, Philip, Danny, and Sonja simultaneously and nudged Penelope to move a few feet away to spare us a scene.

‘So, Sonja, what sort of agencies are you interviewing with?’ I asked, wondering if Philip had perhaps meant ‘schools’ instead. She was really, really young.

‘Oh, you know, the common ones. Elite, Ford, Wilhelmina. Phee-ly says I will make beautiful model.’

‘Sure do, doll. Ever since this one was a mere tyke, trolling around the villa in nappies, I thought she was splendid. Jailbait, but splendid.’ He was now officially leering.

‘Gel-bet? What is gel-bet?’ she asked us both, her eyes crinkling adorably.

‘Nothing, doll. Why don’t you sit right here and look ravishing and let me talk to Betty for a minute, okay?’

‘You know, Betty is really cute, but I prefer Bette,’ I said as nicely as I could manage.

‘You are a randy one, aren’t you?’ He put his hands on my hips and pulled me close, but didn’t make a move to kiss me. It was hard to concentrate on his flawlessly chiseled face when I could hear Avery pleading in the background.

‘Honey, I don’t know why she called me a “party boy.” You know I like to go out. Hell, I wish you’d come with me more. Elisa’s just a silly cokehead who happens to know where the good parties are, that’s all.’

That bastard. He had the nerve to stand there and call Elisa a cokehead through clenched teeth and a lower jaw so jittery it looked like it was hooked up to electrodes. Penelope knew a lot of things the rest of us didn’t – how to wrap presents, when to write thank-you notes, the best way to set a dinner table – but she was painfully clueless when it came to Avery, drugs, or Avery and drugs. Skye finally came back from the bathroom, her jaw all atwitter as well. The DJ switched from chill lounge music to OutKast, which apparently inspired Elisa to grab Davide and Skye and begin dancing on the banquettes. She rarely took her eyes off Philip, who had walked across the room, but he didn’t seem to notice. Her stilettos began piercing neat, clean holes in the white suede, and I felt better with each little ripping sound.

But not for long. The voice behind me was unmistakable, and I immediately felt my stomach sink.

‘Bette! So funny seeing you here!’ Abby tugged on my arm, causing my champagne to splash on the suede.

‘Hey, Abby,’ I said as flatly as possible, looking around for a possible escape before even making eye contact.

‘So, you and Philip are looking pretty hot and heavy, huh?’ She winked and I suppressed an urge to scratch the grin off her face.

‘Mmmm. What brings you here?’

She laughed and adjusted a five-inch heel, which did little to disguise her height. ‘Does anyone need a reason to have a little fun? Ohmigod, is that Avery Wainwright? We haven’t had a chance to catch up recently. That boy grew into a very handsome man, don’t you think?’

‘He’s engaged,’ I snapped. ‘To Penelope. You remember Penelope, don’t you?’

She feigned cluelessness. ‘Hmm. Well, you know what they say …’

‘No, what’s that?’

‘Nothing’s final until the vows are exchanged.’ She rubbed her hands together as though she was anticipating something very delicious or exciting.

At my reaction she said, ‘Oh, Bette, calm down. I was just kidding!’ A look of mock horror passed over her face. ‘You should really work on that sense of humor, you know. Speaking of which—’

‘Abby, it was really great bumping into you, but I’ve got to get back to my friends. Sort of a work night, you know?’ I ducked out from behind her and began sliding away.

‘Sure, honey, but let’s get that lunch sometime soon, okay? I’d love to hear all about Philip and the new job and everything. Everyone’s still talking about that mention in New York Scoop,’ she called after me.

I wanted to make sure Penelope was holding up, but Avery had her cornered and neither looked thrilled, so I made my way back to our table, where Davide handed me a drink.

Penelope immediately walked over. ‘Bette, I think we’re going to head out,’ she said wearily, sounding as though she’d rather kill herself than either stay or leave.

‘You okay? Seriously, why doesn’t Avery just stay here and hang out and you and I can go get something to eat? I wouldn’t mind leaving before I do something I’ll seriously regret, like going home with Philip and making mad, passionate love to him, even though I think he’s the most obnoxious guy I’ve ever met.’

She sighed. ‘No, thanks. I think we really need to get home. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

I wondered if they’d sleep at all that night. Avery was so amped up on coke that it would take a horse tranquilizer to put him to sleep. Or maybe he’d start having flashbacks from all the acid he did in college and try to eat a parakeet or fly out a window. Poor, sweet Penelope.

‘Bette, love, are you ready to leave?’ Philip asked, draping his arms over my shoulders as though he were my long-term boyfriend instead of the guy I didn’t want to want to sleep with. ‘Let’s go back to my flat. Maybe you won’t be too drunk tonight to—’

‘Uh, yeah, why don’t you, me, and Sonja,’ I said a bit more snottily than I intended, ‘have a slumber party? Wouldn’t that be fun!’

He slid his hand up the back of my lingerie top. ‘What’s with all the attitude? Seriously, love, you’ve got to relax. Come on, I’ll put Sonja in a suite upstairs and then you and I can spend a little quiet time together, okay?’

Before I could respond, Philip was whispering to Sonja in French. She did little except nod enthusiastically, raise her perfect eyebrows, and giggle when he was finished. ‘Oui, oui, of course it is okay to spend the time alone together,’ she said, providing us with her blessing to engage in slightly drunk, somewhat random sex.

‘You know what, Philip?’ I said, not knowing how to explain that I wasn’t really up for tonight when I wasn’t even sure myself. ‘It’s not right to put her in a hotel when she’s just with you for a week. I mean, she’s only fifteen. Don’t you think you should keep an eye on her? She can’t walk three feet without guys hitting on her, you know.’

He looked thoughtful, as though he was actually buying my whole ‘concern for Sonja’ thing. He nodded. ‘Quite right, love. I’ll take her home and tuck her in, and then we’ll head to a hotel somewhere. Good call. Cheers,’ he announced in the direction of the others, who merely glanced once in our direction and nodded in acknowledgment. Elisa stopped gawking long enough to give me a none-too-subtle thumbs-up.

I figured it’d be easier to drop them both off at the Archives and then redirect the cab to Murray Hill than argue about it, so I waved to Elisa and followed Sonja and Philip to the front door, feeling like the chubby, uncoordinated child of two Olympic athletes.

‘Hey, guy, call us a cab, will you?’ Philip called to the doorman, snapping his fingers in that general direction. It was undeniably obnoxious, but considering what an asshole the guy had been to us, it seemed perfectly acceptable to me. That was, until a closer look revealed that it wasn’t the malnourished, wig-sporting Romero but the cute (and rude) bouncer from Bungalow 8. Sammy. He turned to look at Philip with a venomous expression and noticed me trying to hide off to the side. His eyes bore into mine with just a moment’s recognition before he turned his attention back to the street and silently hailed a cab from the dozens that were flying past.

Sonja scooted in first and Philip dove in next to her, leaving me standing four inches from Sammy as he held the cab door open. I don’t know why I got in with them, but I did. It was like my body was following some invisible script.

‘Thanks,’ I managed to say quietly, just as Philip said, ‘Mate, I’ve got two gorgeous girls coming home with me, if you know what I mean. You mind being quick about this?’ Sonja giggled and rested her delicate head on Philip’s shoulder; Sammy looked at me one last time, expressionless, and slammed the door. Just as the cab pulled away, I looked at the restless line outside the club, the camera-ready paparazzi waiting for celebrities to exit, the crush to be inside like its own form of addiction. And even though I couldn’t pinpoint why, I was quite sure I wanted to cry.