Everyone Worth Knowing (35 page)

"Hey, love, let's do this," Philip said, flipping up the screen on

his helmet and plucking the cigarette from my fingers for a drag.

He kissed me roughly on the mouth, which, incidentally, hung

open from shock, and dismounted to get the second helmet from

underneath his seat.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, inhaling sharply on my

cigarette when he handed it back.

"What does it look like I'm doing here? It seems we are obliged

to attend. So let us hurry this along, okay? Nice suit." He looked

me up and down and snickered.

His cell phone rang to the tune of "Like a Virgin"—it was my

turn to snicker—and I heard him tell someone we'd be there in ten

minutes.

"I'm actually waiting for a car that Elisa's sending," I said.

"Afraid not, love. Elisa sent me. We're going to pay a visit to

my dear friend Caleb, and Elisa's going to bring the business

blokes to us."

This was not making any sense, but he did seem to be working

on direct orders from Elisa. "Why are we going to your friend's

apartment?" I asked.

"He's having a little birthday gathering at his place. Costume

party, actually. Let's go." It was only then that I noticed he was in

full seventies disco gear, from brown polyester bell-bottoms to a

skintight white collared shirt and some sort of bandanna tied

around his head.

"Philip, you just said we had to meet Kelly and the BlackBerry

people. We can't be going to a costume party right now. I don't

understand!"

"Hop on, love, and stop stressing. I'm handling it." He revved

the Vespa, if such a thing is possible, and tapped the seat behind

him. I hopped on as gracefully as my pantsuit would allow and

wrapped my arms around his waist. His rock-hard abs pushed

back.

I still don't know why I turned around. I don't remember thinking

anything was out of the ordinary—if you discount the fact that

I was being kidnapped by a raging metrosexual celebrity on a

Vespa—and yet I looked over my shoulder before we flew off,

only to see Penelope standing on the curb. She was holding out

her hand, my scarf draped limply over it, her mouth open, staring

at my back. My eyes met hers for just the briefest moment before

Philip revved the scooter and it shot forward, away from Penelope,

leaving no time to explain anything at all.

15

"Will you just relax, love? I told you, I'm handling it." Philip

parked the Vespa on the sidewalk carpet outside a beautiful West

Village apartment building and slipped the doorman some cash,

which was met with a discreet nod. I was struck by the sudden realization

that this was the first time Philip and I had been alone together

since the morning I woke up in his apartment.

"Relax? You're asking me to relax?" I shrieked. "Excuse me, sir,

could you please hail me a cab?" I asked in the direction of the

doorman, who immediately looked to Philip for permission.

"Bette, just chill the fuck out. You don't need a cab. The party's

here. Now come inside, and let's get you a little drinky, okay?"

Drinky? Did I just hear that? This guy has shagged every attractive

female in Manhattan betiveen the ages of sixteen and forty-five

and he says "drinky"?
I couldn't dwell on this disturbing development,

though, as I had less than ten minutes to get to Soho House.

He continued. "Elisa called and I told her I couldn't possibly

go; I'm expected at Caleb's party. She asked if she could bring the

BlackBerry people here, said that they'd think it was cool to see a

'real downtown party' or some bullshit like that. So they'll be here

any minute. This is where we're
supposed
to be, okay?"

I looked at him dubiously, wondering how this had all unfolded.

Was Elisa diverting me deliberately? I considered that for

a moment but then realized there was no way she could sabotage

this party without Kelly knowing, and besides, why would she

want to? Granted, she might have wanted Philip at one point, and

maybe she'd seemed less friendly lately, but I figured it was just

because we were all really busy at work, planning individual

events in addition to laying all the groundwork for the
Playboy

party. All I wanted to do was call Penelope, explain that I hadn't

lied to get out of her dinner so I could run off into the night with

this sad excuse for a boyfriend. Philip had already strolled past

the doorman and was waiting impatiently for me to join him, and

as soon as we stepped into the elevator, true to form, he attacked

me.

"Bette, I simply cannot wait to take you home later and shag

you all night," he crooned into my hair, his hands running all over

my body and sliding under my shirt. "Even in that silly getup

you're hot."

I pushed his grabby hands away and sighed. "Let's just get

through this, okay?"

"Why do you get your knickers in such a twist, love? Oh, I see

now, you'd like it if I tried a touch harder. I am most willing to accommodate.

. . ." And with that, he thrusted his entire lower half

into mine with minimal skill and his characteristic tongue lashing.

Had Gwyneth really endured such treatment? Was it actually possible

he'd slept with so many girls only once that none had bothered

to tell him that he had no idea what he was doing? It was sickening,

as was the sudden realization that Philip only pursued me with

this passion when he knew we couldn't go through with it. Tonight

was no different; there was no risk of me tearing off my clothes

and pleading for sex when the elevator doors would swing open at

any moment. Which they did, directly into Caleb's penthouse

apartment. A quick and subtle backhanded wipe across my face

and neck removed most of the saliva, and I was as ready as I'd

ever be.

"Philip, baby, come on over!" a lanky guy with long hair called

from the couch, where he was hunched over a mirror, rolled-up

bill in hand. What appeared to be a naked girl was draped across

his lap. She stared up at him with a look that surpassed admiration

and approached worship. He snorted quickly, effortlessly,

handed the girl the bill, and then pulled his mask back over his

face.

"Cally, Cal-man, this is Bette. Bette, Caleb, the thrower of this

most fabulous party, and as of today, a gentleman no longer in his

twenties."

"Hi, Caleb, nice to meet you," I said to the mask. "Thanks for

inviting me."

All three of them looked at each other and then at me and

started laughing. "Bette, why don't you come join us here for a little

taste, and then we'll head upstairs? Everyone's on the roof."

"Uh, I'm good, thanks," I said, unable to take my eyes off the

girl. She finished the two small lines Caleb had left for her and

rolled onto her back. Technically, she wasn't completely naked, if

you counted the swatch of fuchsia silk that hung low on her hips

and covered only the front of her pelvis, leaving her entire backside

bare. The thong I thought she'd been wearing when I first saw

her turned out to be nothing more than a tan line, and her breasts

had long since broken free from their own silk constraints, a contraption

shaped something like a bra but with no actual hooks,

straps, or shape. She curled up in a ball with a happy smile and

sipped her champagne, announcing that she was just going to

party downstairs a little longer before joining everyone else.

"Suit yourself, babe," Caleb said, motioning for us to follow

him. We stepped back in the elevator, where he used a special key

that allowed us to select the Terrace button. I almost passed out

when the doors opened again. I don't know what exactly I'd been

expecting, but this sure wasn't it. Perhaps I'd thought it was going

to be like Michael's Halloween party, when a bunch of his friends

from UBS and college had gathered in his fourth-floor walk-up.

The kitchen table had held bottles of cheap booze and mixers and

a few cereal bowls of candy corn, pretzels, and salsa. Some guy in

drag announced that pizza was on the way to the assorted costumed

revelers, who sat around talking about college, who had

gotten engaged or promoted, and how badly President Bush was

fucking up in Iraq.

This scene was very, very different. The rooftop itself looked

like an exact replica of Skybar in LA, all sleek and chic and streamlined,

with low-rider lounging beds and heat lamps and geometrical

candelabras casting a soft glow over everything. A frosted-glass

bar peeked out from behind some sort of intimidating vegetation,

and a DJ booth had been installed in another corner, mostly out of

sight so as not to block one inch of the incredible city views that

spanned below us. Nobody seemed much interested in the Hudson

right then, though, and I immediately understood why: the flesh on

display was far more compelling than some river, and far more expansive.

There are parties and there are costume parties, and then

there's what was unfolding on Caleb's rooftop, something that by

definition would technically qualify as a costume party but what in

reality looked more like a revival of
Hair
—plus La Perla lingerie,

minus tacky sixties updos. I felt an immediate desire to strip off my

shoes and suit and roam around in nothing but my bra and underwear,

if for no other reason than an intense desire to remain as inconspicuous

as possible. Kven then I'd surely be wearing more

clothing than any other woman here, but at least I wouldn't stand

out quite so much.

Caleb had disappeared briefly and returned with a glass of

champagne for me and a tumbler of something amber-colored for

Philip. I downed it in one long gulp and gaped openly at the girl

he'd brought over to meet us. The introduction was preceded by a

long and very visual kiss during which both Caleb and the girl

opened their mouths so wide and with such tongue enthusiasm

that I almost felt like an equal participant.

"Mmm," he murmured, playfully biting her neck after reclaiming

his tongue from the depths of her face. "Guys, this is . . . the

most gorgeous girl at the parry. How hot is she? Seriously, have

you seen anything so stunning in your lives?"

"Gorgeous," I concurred, as though she weren't there. "You're

absolutely right." The girl apparently wasn't bothered that Caleb

appeared to have forgotten—or never discovered—her name. Not

so weird, I figured; it seemed like lots of people hung out together

but didn't really know one another's names. The music was always

too loud and everyone was usually wasted, but mostly it was because

no one cared. "I'll remember her name when I read it on

Page Six," I'd heard Elisa announce on the subject. This girl didn't

seem to mind much, perhaps because she didn't appear to comprehend

a single word we were exchanging. She just giggled and