Everyone Worth Knowing (51 page)

her crisis hotline wondering when I would ever own up to the fact

that I was dating a Jew-hating slave driver, and did I want to talk to

someone about what appeared to be my "promiscuity/self-worth"

issues? A woman left a message offering her services as my publicist,

kindly mentioning that this would never have happened had I

been on her watch, and a couple gossip columnists from small,

local papers across the country wanted to know if I would submit

to phone interviews to discuss such crucial issues as my opinions

on Brad and Jen's breakup, my favorite party spot in New York,

and my evaluation of Philip's sexual orientation. Megu called on

Michael's behalf to say that if I wanted to talk about anything, they

wanted me to know that they were both there for me. Elisa called

from a cab on her way to the office to congratulate me on my sidebar

status. So did Philip's assistant, Marta. Simon called while I was

riding in a Town Car to the airport. He declared, rather endearingly

in light of our earlier conversations, that not one respectable person

read New York Scoop, and not to worry because he was sure

no one would ever even see it.

I decided to ignore everyone, but then I remembered that I

was leaving the country and couldn't really avoid calling my parents

one last time to say good-bye. I opted for my father's cell

phone, figuring that it wouldn't be on and I could leave a message

for both of them, wishing them a happy new year and telling them

I'd call upon my return. No such luck.

"Well, look who it is. Anne, come here, our famous daughter's

on the phone. Bettina, your mother wants to talk to you."

I heard some shuffling and a couple of beeps as they accidentally

bumped numbers on the keypad before my mother's voice

rang out loud and clear.

"Bettina? Why are they writing all those things about you? Is it

true? Tell me what's what because 1 don't even know what to tell

people when they ask. I certainly never would've thought a single

word of it was valid, but ever since I heard about that Weston

boy . . ."

"Mom, I can't really get into it now. I'm on my way to the airport.

Of course it was all lies—how could you think otherwise?"

She sighed, and I couldn't tell if it was out of relief or frustration.

"Bettina, honey, you can understand how a mother might

wonder, especially when she finds out her daughter suddenly lives

a strange and mysterious life."

"It might be strange, Mom, but it's not mysterious. 1 promise.

I'll explain it all when I get back, but right now I have to get a

move on or I'll be late for the flight. Say good-bye to Dad for me.

I'll call you guys when I'm back on Sunday, okay? I love you."

There was a moment of hesitation while she decided whether

or not to push the issue, and then another sigh. "All right, we'll

speak to you then. See as much as possible, dear, and be safe. And

try to keep your private life out of the public eye, okay?"

All in all, it had been one solidly shitty morning, but thankfully

I had a new problem to take my mind off the sidebar: Louis Vuitton.

Lots of it. Carts full of it, actually, more trunks and rolling suitcases

and valet cases and garment bags and carry-on duffels and

clutch purses sporting the interlocking LVs than could surely reside

in the flagship store in Milan or the behemoth boutique on Fifth

Avenue. Apparently, everyone on board had gotten the memo that

Louis Vuitton was the luggage of choice. Three porters in burgundy

uniforms were struggling to move it from the subtly named Million

Air terminal to the belly of the Gulfstream, but their progress was

slow. Elisa, Davide, Leo, and I had taken a limo from the city to

Teterboro a few hours early to make sure everything was ready for

the arrival of the helicopter that was bringing Philip and his group

from the Wall Street helipad to the airport.

Meanwhile, since I was blessed with stimulating and challenging

tasks like overseeing the loading of the Louis Vuittons and ensuring

that there was a sufficient supply of Evian facial misters

onboard, I didn't have much time to stress about being portrayed

as a lying, cheating prostitute in what was now the hippest, most

coveted gossip sheet available, one that had found its way into the

hands of every single one of my friends, coworkers, and family

members. We were nearing our scheduled five o'clock departure

time—with everyone onboard except one of our last-minute invites,

a socialite and her "guest" who'd called to say they were

stuck in traffic at the Lincoln Tunnel—when the first crisis arose.

There were so many suitcases that the porters couldn't fit all

the luggage on the plane. "We're at full capacity on the flight

today," one of them told me. "You can figure that Gulfstream Fives

can usually handle six average-sized or four oversized pieces per

person, but this group has gone way over."

"Mow far over?"

"Well," he said, crinkling his forehead. "Y'all average four over-

sized bags apiece. One gal has seven, including a trunk so big we

needed to bring a crane from the hangar to haul 'er onboard."

"What do you propose we do?" I asked.

"Well, ma'am, the best-case scenario would be to eliminate

some bags."

Knowing full well that we'd be resorting to the worst-case scenario,

I thought I'd try to be cooperative and see if anyone was

willing to part with some possessions. I climbed aboard the jet,

borrowed the intercom handset from the copilot, and explained

our situation over the loudspeaker. Not surprisingly, it was met

with jeers and catcalls.

"You've, like, got to be kidding," Oliver said, laughing hysterically.

"It's a fucking private plane, for chrissake. Tell them to figure

it out." Oliver was accustomed to making such decrees: he

was the founder of a hedge fund so hugely successful that
Gotham

Magazine
had named him Manhattan's Most Desirable Bachelor of

2004.

"If you think for one single second I'm going without my

shoes, you're very mistaken," Camilla, a cosmetics heiress, called

out between sips of Cristal. "Four days, twelve outfit combinations,

and two possible shoe changes per outfit. No way I'm leaving anything

behind."

"1 want every last one of those trunks put on this plane," announced

Alessandra. "If I remembered to bring empty trunks for all

the stuff I buy, then the least they can do is figure out how to get

them there." Her mother was a notorious shopper, a woman infamous

for spending millions a year on clothes and shoes and bags,

Imelda Marcos-style. Clearly, that apple didn't fall far from the tree.

"Stop worrying so much, love. Come over here and have yourself

a little drinky. Let the crew handle that—it's what we pay them

for." This was from Philip, of course, who was sprawled on one of

the cream-colored leather couches, his checkered Armani shirt

opened one button too far. Elisa appeared equally unconcerned as

she perched on Davide's lap, concentrating intently on hooking

her iPod to the speakers in the cabin's stereo system.

Fair enough. If no one else cared, neither did I. Besides, as

long as they didn't leave behind my single silver Samsonite, it

really wasn't my problem. I accepted a glass of bubbly from a

flight attendant whose perfect figure was only accentuated by her

navy uniform and listened to one of the pilots—who also looked

like a movie star, complete with chiseled Brad-esque jaw and subtle

highlights—give us the rundown on the flight. It was only

slightly unnerving to survey both passengers and crew and realize

that all involved looked like they had stepped directly out of an

episode of the
Fabulous Life Of,
except for yours truly.

"Flying time should be ten hours with minimal turbulence as

we cross the Atlantic," the pilot said with a heart-stopping grin and

some sort of indeterminate European accent.
No one that goodlooking

should be responsible for oar lives,
I thought. Someone

slightly uglier and not as cool was likely to drink less and get more

sleep.

"Hey, Helmut, why don't we divert this baby to Mykonos and

call it a day?" Philip called out to the pilot.

Cheers went up all around.

"Mykonos?" asked Camilla. "That's, like,
so
much more appealing

than Beirut. It's at least civilized. There's a Nobu there."

Helmut laughed again. "Just say the word, kids, and I'll take 'er

wherever you want to go."

A woman's voice rose above the others. It was coming up the

stairs from the tarmac. "We're going to Mykonos?" we heard her

ask someone, though we couldn't yet see who it was. "I thought

we were going to Istanbul. Jesus Christ, my fucking publicist can't

get anything right. I was all set to buy a Turkish carpet!" she

wailed.

It occurred to me that this must be Isabelle, our missing socialite

with no job and certainly no apparent need for a publicist.

Just as I was mentally congratulating her for knowing that Istanbul

was in Turkey, a couple strolled aboard and looked around—

a couple that just so happened to consist, as couples often do, of

two people. It took my brain a second to register that the male

half of this particular couple was none other than Sammy. My

Sammy.

"Isabelle, honey, of course we're going to Istanbul, just like

you were told. The boys are only joking—you know how they get

when you mention the Greek Islands! Leave your stuff right there

and come have a drink." Elisa rushed to comfort the woman I immediately

recognized from the park. "And introduce us to your

gorgeous friend."

At this Sammy appeared to freeze, looking so rigid and uncomfortable

I thought he might collapse. He hadn't seen me yet, hadn't

taken in the entire group, but he did manage to mutter something.

"I'm Sammy. From Bungalow 8?" he said, his voice strangely highpitched.

Elisa stared at him blankly while Isabelle struggled to haul

aboard a massive Louis Vuitton duffel. She smacked him on the

shoulder and nodded toward the bag, which he effortlessly lifted

and placed under one of the leather banquettes.

"Bungalow? Did we meet there one night?" Elisa asked with a

confused expression. I flashed back to the half-dozen times I'd

gone there with her and watched as she had flirted with Sammy,

hugged him, thanked him, and generally acted as though they

were the best of friends. As far as I could tell, though, this wasn't

an act; she really had no clue who he was.

By that point everyone's attention had been diverted to the unfolding

awkwardness and all must have been wondering why, exactly,

this very attractive guy looked so damn familiar when they

just couldn't place him.

"I work there," he said quietly, looking her directly in her face.