Everyone Worth Knowing (33 page)

bit passe, but what must he think of his niece's very public antics?

We're willing to guess he's less than pleased.' That's all she wrote,"

Will said softly, calmly tossing the paper aside.

I instantly had a queasy feeling, as though I'd just awakened

from a nude-in-the-high-school-cafeteria dream. "Oh, my god,

Will, I'm so sorry. The last thing I ever wanted was to drag you

into this. And what she said about your column is patently untrue,"

I lied.

"Oh, Bette, darling, do shut up. We both know she's exactly

right. But you can't control what these people write, so let's not

worry about it for another moment. Come, let's dine." He said all

the right words, but the tension in his face said something else,

and I was left with an odd feeling of sadness and nostalgia for the

way things had been before my new and improved life.

14

"Tell me again why your mother is throwing you a going-away

dinner when she's so pissed you're moving?" I asked Penelope.

After a full day of list-checking and sponsor-calling for the Black-

Berry party—which was now only four days away—it seemed like

everything was shaping up nicely, and I'd retreated to Penelope's

in the hope of discussing something, anything, that wasn't related

to publicity. I was flopped on the floor of the bedroom that Avery

and Penelope now shared, although it didn't appear that Avery had

compromised much on combining their stuff: the king-sized waterbed

rested on an imposing black platform, a frat boy-style black

leather couch ate up what little room remained, and the only item

that could qualify as "decor" was an oversized and slightly discolored

lava lamp. The apartment's piece de resistance, however, was

a fifty-five-inch plasma screen that hung from the living room wall.

According to Penelope, Avery didn't know how to wash a dish or

launder a pair of socks, but he carefully detailed his flat-screen

with special nonabrasive cleaning solution every weekend. The last

time I'd been over I'd heard Avery instruct Penelope to "tell the

maid to keep that surface cleaner away from my flatty. That shit

fucks up the screen. I swear to God, if I see her go near my TV

with that can of Lysol, she's gonna be looking for a new job."

Penelope had smiled indulgently, as if to say "Boys will be boys."

She was currently packing Avery's clothes in the Louis Vuitton suitcases

his parents had bought them for their engagement-party trip

to Paris while simultaneously bitching about the dinner that was to

be held in their honor that night. I didn't inquire why Avery

couldn't pack his own clothes.

"You're asking me? She said something asinine about 'keeping

up appearances' or something like that. Honestly, I think she didn't

have anything else scheduled for tonight and couldn't bear the

thought of staying home."

"That's a really positive way of looking at it." The empty bag in

my hand reminded me that I'd just plowed through sixteen ounces

of Red Hots in twelve minutes flat. My mouth alternated between

numb and tingly, but that never slowed me down.

"It's going to suck and you know it. The best I'm hoping for

right now is tolerable. What the hell is this?" she mumbled, holding

up a bright blue T-shirt with yellow lettering that read i DO MY OWN

NUDE SCENES.
"Eww! Do you think he's ever worn this?"

"Probably. Toss it."

She threw it in the garbage. "Are you sure you don't hate me

for making you come tonight?"

"Pen! I hate you for moving, not for inviting me to your goingaway

dinner. I mean, I'm not exactly complaining about your parents

picking up the tab for dinner at the Grill Room. What time

should I get there?"

"Whenever. It starts at eight-thirty or so. Come a few minutes

early, maybe, so we can do shots in the bathroom?" She smiled

wickedly. "I'm seriously considering bringing a flask. Is that bad?

Ick. Not as bad as these . . . " This time she held up a pair of faded,

well-worn boxers with a none-too-subtle arrow in fluorescent pink

pointing directly to the crotch.

"A flask is definitely in order. What am I going to do without

you?" I moaned pathetically. I had not yet come to terms with the

idea that Penelope, who'd been my best—and only—girlfriend for

the past ten years, was moving across the country.

"You'll be fine," she said, sounding more certain than 1

would've liked. "You've got Michael and Megu and your whole

new crew at work, and you've got a boyfriend now."

It sounded weird for her to mention Michael, considering we

almost never saw him anymore.

"Puh-lease. Michael has Megu. The 'crew' at work is precisely

that—a bunch of people with mysterious access to huge piles of

cash and a penchant for spending it on lots and lots of alcohol. As

for the boyfriend remark, well, I'm not even going to dignify that."

"Where's my favorite girl?" Avery called right after the front

door slammed. "I've been waitin' all day to get home and get that

cute ass of yours into bed!"

"Avery, shut up!" she called, appearing only slightly embarrassed.

"Bette's here!"

But it was too late. He'd already shown up in the doorway,

shirtless, with his jeans unbuttoned and unzipped to reveal lime

green seersucker boxers.

"Oh, hey, Bette." He nodded in my direction, looking not the

least bit distraught that I'd been witness to his seduction scene.

"Hey, Avery," I said, diverting my eyes to my sneakers and

wondering for the umpteenth time what, besides his admittedly flat

stomach, Penelope saw in him. "I was just heading out. Gotta get

home and get ready for the big dinner tonight. Speaking of which,

what does one wear to the Four Seasons?"

"Whatever you'd normally wear to dinner with your parents,"

Penelope said as a very ADHD Avery starting shooting hoops with

his balled-up pairs of socks.

"You might want to reconsider that. Unless, of course, you

want me showing up in palazzo pants with a matching
GIVE PEACE A

CHANCE
T-shirt. I'll see you both there tonight."

"Right on," Avery said, holding up two fingers in a sort of combination

peace/gangster sign. "Later, B."

I hugged Penelope and let myself out, trying not to envision

what would inevitably take place the moment I left. If I hurried

home, there'd be time to drag Millington out for a quick walk and

maybe even take a bath before dinner. I cabbed it home and

chased Millington around the apartment for a few minutes as she

made a concerted effort to duck me. She instinctively knew when

I was planning to take her outside, and unlike any dog I'd ever

met, she hated it. All that dust and pollen and ragweed—she'd be

incapacitated for hours afterward, but I thought it was important

for her to get out every now and then. Otherwise it was around

the block and back. I marveled at her metabolism. We'd just made

it to Madison Square Park and managed to dodge the crazy guy

who usually chased Millington with his grocery cart when I heard

my name.

"Bette! Hey, Bette, over here!"

I turned to see Sammy sitting on a bench, drinking coffee, his

breath visible in the icy air. With what appeared to be an absolute

knockout of a woman sitting right next to him. Dammit. There was

no escape. He'd obviously seen me and then watched as I looked

right at him, so there was no conceivable way to pretend the

whole thing had never happened. Plus, Millington decided to be

social for the first time in her entire short life and took off toward

them, yanking her Extend-a-Leash to its maximum capacity and

hurling herself into his lap.

"Hey there, puppy, how are you? Bette, who is this cutie?"

"Charming," said the brunette, eyeing Millington coolly. "Of

course, I prefer the Cavalier King Charles, but Yorkies can be appealing

as well."

Meow.

"Hi, I'm Bette," I managed to say, extending my hand to the

girl. I'd tried to smile warmly at Sammy, but I imagine that it

looked like a grimace.

"Oh, formal, are we?" she said with a little laugh. She gave me

her hand after making me wait three seconds longer than was

comfortable. "Isabelle."

Isabelle was no less attractive up close, but she was older than

I'd originally figured. She was tall and thin in the way that only the

truly hungry can be, but she lacked that certain freshness of youth,

that dewy-faced contentment that said "I haven't gotten too beat up

by the Manhattan dating scene—I still even hold out hope that I'll

meet a good guy one day." Isabelle had clearly given up the dream

long ago, although I imagined that her size 2 Joseph pants combined

with her gorgeous chocolate brown Chloe bag and obscenely

pert breasts provided some sort of comfort.

"Uh, so what brings you here?" Sammy asked, clearing his

throat with such awkwardness that it was obvious these two were

not friends or siblings or coworkers. And more to the point, he

wasn't volunteering any explanations.

"Walking the dog. Getting some fresh air. You know, the

usual," I said, realizing that I sounded more than a little defensive.

For some reason my polite conversation skills had just evaporated.

"Yeah, same here," he said, sounding sheepish and slightly embarrassed.

When it was clear that neither of us could think of anything else

to say, I scooped Millington from Sammy's lap, where she was obviously

enjoying being stroked—how I could understand!—mumbled a

good-bye, and tore off in the direction of my apartment with a speed

that bordered on humiliating. I could hear Isabelle laughing and asking

Sammy who his little friend was, and it took every ounce of

willpower not to whip around and suggest that next time she have

her doctor adjust her Botox injection so she wouldn't have that telltale

deer-caught-in-headlights expression.

So it was official, I thought, as I stood under the shower's

scalding hot water: Sammy had a girlfriend. Or, rather, I suppose it

was more appropriate to call her a woman friend, since the female

in question couldn't conceivably be a day under forty. Of course

he hadn't been jealous that day in Starbucks when he'd made fun

of Philip. Feeling more ridiculous with every passing moment, I

quickly dressed in one of the old, navy bank pantsuits that had

been relegated to the back of my closet and spent not one second

longer than necessary drying my hair and applying the faintest

traces of concealer.

By the time I'd arrived at the Four Seasons, I'd almost managed

to convince myself that I didn't care. After all, if Sammy really

wanted to date someone with better clothes, more money, and a

chest three times the size of mine, well, that was certainly his prerogative.