Everyone Worth Knowing (17 page)

to cough so she wouldn't see me laughing uncontrollably. Since

our days at Emory, Abby had loved declaring how she was "at the

vortex" of something or other—sorority rush or the men's basketball

team or the college newspaper. No one really knew what it

meant—it was the wrong usage, actually—but for some reason

she'd latched onto the phrase and refused to let go. We'd lived on

the same floor our freshman year. I'd noticed right away that she

seemed to have an uncanny knack for sensing people's insecurities.

She was always grilling me on what boy I liked, only to "coincidentally"

be seen throwing herself on whoever I named within

twelve hours of my admission. I'd overheard her once in the dorm

bathroom grilling an Asian girl for tips on how to get that "sexy,

slant-eyed look" using an eye pencil. She'd once "borrowed" one

of her classmates' history papers and turned it in as her own, only

admitting to the "mix-up" once the professor threatened to fail

both of them. Penelope and I met Abby around the same time, in

freshman writing seminar, and we immediately agreed that Abby

was to be avoided. She'd been creepy from the beginning, the kind

of girl who would make subtle but mean comments about your

hair or boyfriend or outfit and then feign horror and regret when

you inevitably took offense. We ditched her often and regularly,

and she never seemed to get it. Instead, she'd purposefully make

contact in order to put us down. Not surprisingly, she'd never had

any real girlfriends, but she kept herself quite busy working her

way through nearly every fraternity house and athletic team at

Emory.

" 'Vortex of the media world,' huh? No, I didn't know that.

Where are you these days?" I asked in the most bored tone I could

muster. I vowed not to let her get under my skin.

"Well, let's see. I started at
Elle
and then made the jump to

Slate
—so much smarter, you know? Had a brief stint at
Vanity Fair,

but the office politics were so intense. Now I'm freelancing—my

byline's everywhere!"

I thought about that for a moment and couldn't remember seeing

her name . . . anywhere.

"And you, missy, how's the new job?" she screeched.

"Urn, yeah, it's been about a week, I guess, and it's pretty cool

so far. I'm not sure if it's at the
vortex
of the public-relations world,

but I like it."

She sensed no sarcasm whatsoever, or she ignored it. "It's such

a hot firm; they're repping all the best clients these days. Ohmigod,

I absolutely love your shirt—it's the absolute best call ever if you're

looking to hide a little tummy, you know? I wear mine all the

time!"

I involuntarily sucked in my gut.

Before I could point out something nasty, like how five pounds

on her frame would look like twenty, she said, "Hey, so tell me,

have you spoken to Cameron recently? That was your boyfriend's

name, right? I heard something about him leaving you for a model,

but of course I didn't believe it."

So much for not sinking to her level.

"Cameron? I didn't think you knew him. Then again, he is a

guy who's breathing and living in New York City, so . . ."

"Oh, Bette, it's really so great to see you," she said, ignoring

my comment. "Let me take you to lunch, okay? We have so much

to catch up on. I've been meaning to call you forever, but you just

vanished since college! Who do you hang out with? Still that quiet

girl? She was so sweet. What was her name?"

"Oh, you mean Penelope? She's gorgeous and engaged and,

yes, I still see her. I'll be sure to tell her you said hello."

"Yes, yes, definitely do that. So, I'll call you at work next week

and we'll go somewhere fab for lunch, 'kay? Congratulations on finally

leaving that dreadful bank and joining the real world. . . . I

can't wait to introduce you to everyone. There are just, like, so

many people you need to meet!"

I was preparing what would surely be an even wittier response

when Elisa materialized beside us. I never thought I'd be so happy

to see her.

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

"It's Abigail, actually," Abby interjected.

"Right, uh-huh. And, Abby"—I looked at her pointedly and

continued—"this is my coworker Elisa."

"Hey, we've met before, haven't we?" Elisa mumbled, her front

teeth clamped around a cigarette as she dug in her bag for a

lighter.

"Totally," Abby said. She plucked a matchbook off the nearest

table and gallantly lit Elisa's cigarette. "Do you have another ciggie

for me?"

They made the exchange and began chattering about some

new gossip roundup called New York Scoop. I'd heard it discussed

in the office. Apparently, even though it had been published for

years, nobody had cared about it until the arrival of a saucy new

column written by someone using the unclever pseudonym Ellie

Insider. It was published twice a week in both the online and print

versions, although Ellie's column—unlike similar Page Six columns

by Cindy Adams or Liz Smith—did not have an accompanying

photo of the writer. Now Abby was insisting that it was the hottest

thing to hit media circles in years, but Elisa was saying that, according

to her sources, only select groups from the fashion and entertainment

world were reading it obsessively—although she

predicted others would soon catch on. This conversation topic remained

interesting for a solid minute and a half, before I had the

blessed realization that I could simply excuse myself and leave.

It wasn't until then that I realized I was standing alone in a

swarm of gorgeous people who all just happened to have amazing

rhythm, and I couldn't move. Dancing had never been my thing.

I'd somehow managed to shuffle my way through a few painful

slow songs at high-school dances (always trying desperately to

avoid the eight-minute rendition of "Stairway to Heaven") and hop

drunkenly along to the jukeboxes at our college dive bars, but this

was truly intimidating. Before I could even manage to sway, I was

overwhelmed with the same sixth-grade fears. It happened in a

fraction of a second, but the feeling that everyone was staring at

my baby fat and braces came rushing back. I needed to leave, or at

the very least get back to the table and avoid the hell of dancing,

but just as I made up my mind to escape, I felt a hand on the small

of my back.

"Hi there," said a tall guy with a British accent and a tan so

perfect it could have only come from the great indoors. "Dance?"

I had to consciously keep from turning around to see if he

might be talking to someone else, and before I could even worry

about my smoky breath or my shirt, which was damp with perspiration,

he had pulled me toward him and started moving. Dancing?

We were dancing! I hadn't been this close to someone since the

last time a pervert on the subway had pressed up against me on

the morning commute.
Re-lax, have fun, re-lax, have fun,
I

chanted silently, hoping to remain calm and cool. But I didn't need

to do much self-convincing at all; my brain checked out as my

body snuggled closer to the golden-skinned god who was offering

me another glass of champagne. I sipped that one and then

downed the next, and before I knew what was happening, I was

perched on his lap, laughing with the table about some scandal or

another while the gorgeous stranger played with my hair and lit

my cigarettes.

I'd entirely forgotten I was inappropriately dressed in black,

that I'd just been insulted by the pint-sized bitch who used to torment

me in school, and that I possessed nothing resembling

rhythm. I remember watching, slightly reaction-impaired, as one of

the Englishman's friends came over and asked who might be the

new, charming creature on his lap. I didn't even realize they were

talking about me until he hugged me from behind and said, "She's

my discovery—brill, isn't she?" And I, the charming creature, the

brill
discovery, giggled delightedly, grabbed his face between both

my hands, and kissed him squarely on the mouth. Which is, thankfully,

the very last thing I remember at all.

8

The sound of an angry male voice jolted me awake. I wondered

briefly if there was actually someone standing above the

bed, driving a shovel into my head. The throbbing was so steady it

was almost comforting, until I realized that I was not, in fact, in my

own bed. Nor was last night's all-black-all-wrong outfit in sight; instead,

I was wearing a pair of unnervingly tight gray Calvin Klein

boxer briefs and a giant white T-shirt that read
SPORTS CLUB LA.
Don't

panic,
I instructed myself, trying to make out the words of the faraway

male voice. Think. Where were you and what were you doing

last night? Considering that I was not in the general habit of blacking

out and waking up in strange places, I congratulated myself on a

good start.
Let's see. Elisa called, dinner at Cipriani's, cab to Bungalow

8, everyone at a table, dancing with . . . some tan British guy.

Shit. The last thing I remember is dancing with a nameless man in

a club and now I'm in a bed
—
albeit a huge, comfortable one with

extremely soft sheets
—/
don't recognize.

"How many times do I have to tell you? You simply cannot

wash Pratesi sheets in hot water!" The male voice was shouting

now. I jumped out of bed and checked for escape routes, but a

quick glance out the window told me we were at least twenty

floors off the ground.

"Yes, sir, I am sorry, sir," said a whimpering female voice with a

Spanish accent.

"I'm keen to believe that, Manuela, I really am. I'm a reasonable

bloke, but this just cannot continue. I'm afraid I have to dismiss

you."

"But, sir, if I can just—"

"I'm sorry, Manuela, but my decision is final. I'll pay you your

wages for the rest of the week, but that will be all." I heard some

rustling and muffled crying, and then there was nothing but silence

until a door slammed shut a few minutes later.

My stomach sent me the signal that it wasn't going to tolerate

its hangover much longer, and I glanced around frantically to locate

the bathroom. I was rooting around for my clothes, debating

whether it was better for him to see me half-clothed or throwing

up since there clearly wasn't time to remedy both issues, when he

walked in.

"Hello," he said, barely glancing in my direction. "Are you feeling

all right? You were fairly pissed last night."

His appearance distracted me to such an extent that I actually