Everyone Worth Knowing (36 page)

occasionally adjusted her outfit and concentrated very hard on

touching Caleb as often and as suggestively as possible. Yet another

guy in drag (this one sporting a full-body mask with bare

breasts, shimmery eyeliner, and a black-and-white-checked headdress

a la Yasir Arafat) came over to announce that the cars would

arrive in just a few minutes to take us to Bungalow 8 for Caleb's

"real" party.

"It will hopefully be an improvement over my rubbish birthday

party last year," Philip replied.

"Why rubbish?" I asked, not caring but trying to appear involved

so my staring wouldn't be quite so obvious.

"The fuckwits at the door let everyone in, and within an hour it

was overrun with B&T. Bad times."

"Was," agreed the she-male Arafat. "Bad times all around.

Tonight will be better. That big one, what's his name, Sammy's at

the door. He's no genius, but he's not a complete fucking idiot, either."

Sammy! I wanted to sing out his name, hug the guy who'd just

uttered it, dance in little circles at the thought of seeing him. But

first I had to get through this.

"So, what are you?" the turbaned guy asked me.

"She's going as an uptight bi . . . businesswoman," Philip

kindly answered on my behalf. And as I looked around, I wondered

what it was about costume parties that always made guys

dress like girls and girls dress like sluts. Regardless of the coolness

of the party or the price of the alcohol served, it happened each

and every time, without fail. I looked around for the scantily clad

kittens, nurses, princesses, singers, French maids, cheerleaders,

Catholic schoolgirls, devils, angels, or dancers, but these girls didn't

bother with such repressive titles. None of their outfits were technically

costumes, just an amalgamation of shiny fabrics and sparkly

accessories designed to showcase some of the best bodies God

had ever created.

A brunette reclining on one of the beds was wearing a pair of

flowing magenta gypsy pants that billowed out from a low-slung

belt and were gathered together at her ankles, the transparent material

allowing us to view her diamond-studded thong, which was

tucked between perfectly firm butt cheeks. On top she wore a diamond-

studded bra that created cleavage in that flawless way that

said, "Look at me" but not "I'm an aspiring Pamela Anderson." Her

friend, looking all of sixteen and lying next to her, playing with her

hair, wore a pair of silver fishnets that stretched so far across her

infinite legs that they looked partially shredded. She had pulled on

a pair of red leather boy shorts over them, which dipped so low at

the hips and so high at the thigh that she'd definitely needed to

make a special request at the waxer's. The only accompaniment to

the "costume" were the silver fringe tassels hanging from the nipples

of her apple-sized breasts and a giant tiara of multicolored

feathers and fur that cascaded down her back. I've never had a single

sexual impulse toward another woman in all my twenty-seven

years, and yet I thought I would sleep with either one of them

right then.

"They look like lingerie models, for chrissake," I muttered

under my breath to no one in particular.

"They are," Philip responded, staring with what can only be described

as lust. "Don't you recognize Raquel and Maria Thereza

here? They're Victoria's biggest girls this year, the youngest Brazilian

crop ever."

I was devastated to see that they don't airbrush nearly as much as

I'd always convinced myself they did. We roamed around the glassenclosed

roof—only the ceiling was open to the sky—as Philip

handed out high fives to Jimmy Fallon and Derek Jeter in quick succession

and cheek kisses (always just missing the lips) to a long line

of fashion-magazine editors, sitcom actresses, and Hollywood starlets.

I was checking my cell to see if Elisa or Kelly had called when I

spotted Philip massaging the back of the titty-tasseled girl, who I

now recognized as the one who'd modeled the cotton bikini panties

I'd recently ordered from the VS catalog and who I'd mentally

blamed for misrepresentation when I'd put them on and looked in

the mirror. The Hotel Costes soundtrack thumped out of some flat-

tened, plasma-like unit that hung from one of the outdoor walls

while people alternately danced, smoked, did drugs, munched sushi,

and ogled each other. I kept checking the door for Elisa, worried

they wouldn't find us on the terrace, and eventually sent her a text

message with elevator instructions. At some point I accepted a drink

from a gorgeous, shirtless waiter wearing a loincloth and heels, but I

remained rooted near the door, making sure I could see everyone

who arrived and left. There was a brief break in the fun when Caleb

announced that a fleet of cars was waiting downstairs to transport

everyone to the club, but then the partying continued straight

through the elevators and into the two dozen Town Cars that lined

the block as far as I could see.

"Philip, we can't leave this party!" I hiss-whispered as he tried

to hustle me into the elevator. "We're waiting for the BlackBerry

people."

"Stop fretting, love. Elisa rang to tell me that your boss rang to

tell her that the meeting is canceled for tonight."

I couldn't have heard that correctly. It was
impossible!

"What? You can't be serious." I couldn't even consider the possibility

that I'd been forcefully removed from Penelope's dinner to

tend to clients who didn't need tending.

He shrugged. "That's what she said. Come on, love, you can call

from the car."

I wedged myself between Caleb and Philip and tried not to

touch any of the exposed body parts of the girl who was lying

across all our laps.

I dialed Hlisa and nearly screamed with frustration when it

went to voice mail. Kelly answered on the third ring, sounding

vaguely surprised to hear from me.

"Bette? I can barely hear you. Anyway, the meeting's off for the

night. We had a lovely dinner at Soho House and then had drinks

by the pool, but I don't think they're quite used to New York partying.

They went back to the hotel already, so you're off the hook.

But they're very excited about this week!" She was screaming

above music somewhere and didn't realize that even though she

couldn't hear herself, I could hear her perfectly.

"Oh, well, okay. Urn, that's fine. As long as you're sure—"

"Are you with Philip?" she shouted.

At the sound of his name coming through the phone, he

squeezed my knee and started moving his hand upward.

"I am. He's right here. Do you want to talk to him?"

"No, no, I want
you
to talk to him. 1 hope you guys are at Bungalow.

It's going to be a huge night—everyone will be there for

Caleb's birthday."

"Huh?"

"Lots of photogs, lots of opportunity . . ."

Despite the weirdness of Kelly's obvious pimping tactics, I

liked my job—and Kelly—at that point. I knew I didn't ever want

to go back to mutual funds. I wanted this BlackBerry party to be

the best event of the year and I supposed it wouldn't hurt to take a

few pictures with Philip before sneaking out and meeting Penelope

and Michael at the Black Door. Besides, we were already heading

there anyway, right? Despite my outrage at being yanked from

Penelope's dinner, I tried to tell myself it wasn't that bad. . . .

"Sure thing, I hear you," I said with faux cheeriness while removing

Philip's hand from where it currently resided—my inner

thigh—and tapping it the way a grandmother might. "Thanks, Kell.

See you Monday."

The cars pulled up single file along Twenty-seventh Street and

I saw that the line was almost a hundred people, all of whom

stared, slack-jawed, as we exited the fleet of cars in our outrageous

costumes. Sammy was standing off to one side while a man from

the party wearing a long blond wig and very high heels yelled at

him. I tried to get his attention as we cut in front of the entire line,

but another bouncer approached us first.

"How many are you?" he asked Philip pleasantly, giving no indication

that he knew who anyone was.

"Oh, I don't know, man, forty? Sixty? Who bloody knows?"

"Sorry, dude—not tonight," the doorman replied, turning his

back. "Private party."

"My man, I don't think you understand. . . ." Philip clapped

him on the back and the bouncer looked like he might deck him,

but then he noticed the credit card Philip was brandishing—the

one and only Black Card. The negotiations began.

"I only have three tables right now. I'll let in six per table and

an additional ten people, but that's the best I can do," he said.

"Any other night, no problem, but tonight it's really out of my

hands."

This guy was clearly new and had no idea who he was dealing

with, and Philip looked like he was ready to let him know. His

voice tight and controlled, he got within three inches of the

bouncer's face and said, "Look, man, 1 don't give a toss what your

problem is. Caleb is one of my closest mates and it's
his
party.

Three tables is bullshit. I want six tables, starting with two bottles

apiece, and everyone admitted.
Now."

I noticed Sammy finishing his conversation and tried to slink

away from the front as quietly as possible so I could lose myself in

the crowd; I was desperate not to let him see me with Philip. All

around me, guys were working their cell phones, calling anyone

and everyone they knew who might get the bouncer to release the

velvet rope; girls approached the doormen with puppy eyes,

stroking their arms and quietly making their pleas for admittance.

Sammy walked toward Philip and caught my eye as I moved closer

again to hear what was happening. I fervently hoped he would tell

them all to fuck off, to take their money and party elsewhere, but

he just looked quickly at me again and addressed the other

bouncer.

"Anthony, let them in."

Anthony, who'd already been surprisingly accommodating and

nonconfrontational, appeared dismayed at this development and

began to argue. "Dude, they have like eighty fucking people. I

don't care how much cash they got, it's my ass on the line if—"

"I said let them in. Clear out whatever tables you need to and

give them whatever they want. Do it now." And with that, Sammy

glanced at me one last time and stepped inside the door, leaving

Anthony to handle us.

"See there, mate?" Philip gloated, unable to help himself, assuming

it was his fame that had secured our entrance. "Do what

the good man said. Take this card here and get us our goddamn

tables. You can handle that, can't you?"

Anthony took the Black Card, his hands shaking with rage, and