Everyone Worth Knowing (23 page)

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."

1 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-Iooking-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,
out?"
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, lie 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 fiance embracing my coworker as though they'd