Everyone Worth Knowing (56 page)

the time I fought through the hordes of commoners. American rap

and hip-hop had given way to some sort of Turkish trance music,

and it seemed the entire space was pulsating with barely concealed

bodies. Camilla, Alessandra, and Monica had all found men—a soccer

player from Real Madrid, an anchorman for CNN International,

and an English playboy who claimed to know Philip from their

boarding-school days—and were tucked away with them in various

dark corners around Bella, under the watchful eye of Nedim

and the other owners. I spotted Elisa and Davide standing next to

the dance floor, gesturing wildly to each other. I figured they were

fighting, until I got close enough to hear. They weren't actually arguing

or having any kind of exchange at all: both were so obviously

high on coke that they were talking
at
the other one, each so

caught up in the importance of their own ideas that they shouted

enthusiastically over the other's voice. As usual, the photographers

and reporters had claimed a little table for themselves, away from

the rest of us, and seemed once again to be drowning themselves

in hard alcohol. Six empty packs of cigarettes were littered around

them, and they barely glanced up when I asked if they needed

anything. I didn't see Leo, but Philip wasn't hard to locate—I

merely looked for the blondest girl in the room, with the biggest

boobs, and then moved my eyes a few inches to the right. He had

his arm around her waist as they both stood in front of the DJ

stand. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place her from

behind. As I waited for them to turn around, I watched as Philip

removed a giant wad of cash from the back pocket of his AG jeans

and thrust it toward the skinny DJ, who maintained the requisite DJ

earphone-pressed-to-shoulder stance.

"Hey, mate, how much will it cost for you to play something with

some bloody words?" he asked as the girl giggled and swigged from

her drink. "I can't listen to this Turkish shit anymore."

The DJ palmed the cash and made it disappear under one of the

machines on his table. He beckoned to another kid sitting in the

booth and said a few words to him. The second guy turned to Philip

and said, "What you want to hear? He will play you anything."

"Tell him we want a little Bon Jovi or Guns n' Roses."

The helper translated and the DJ nodded, appearing puzzled.

Within ten seconds "Paradise City" was blaring from the speakers

and Philip was mock-smashing his head to the beat. When he spotted

me, he leaned in to whisper something to the girl and she nodded

and scampered off.

"Hey, love, how much better are these tunes?" he asked, checking

his reflection in the glass of the DJ booth.

"Was that Lizzie Grubman?" I asked, finally figuring out why

she looked so familiar.

He resumed hitting his head against an imaginary wall. "Apparently

she and Tara Reid heard about our posh party here this

weekend and wanted to have a look for themselves."

"She's, uh, she's pretty," I said lamely, knowing I should be

happy, professionally speaking, that Lizzie Grubman and Tara Reid

had followed our group to Istanbul.

"Face like a crocodile handbag," he said, grabbing me and

pulling me onto the dance floor. "Come on, love, loosen up a little.

Let's have a dance."

I sneaked away after a few minutes and went back to Elisa,

who seemed to have calmed a bit. She was sitting on Davide's lap,

chattering quietly as he massaged her shoulders and took long

drags off the joint that hung from his lips.

"Hey, do you think you can handle things here? I think a

bunch of people went back to the hotel, and I should probably

make sure everything's in order there."

"Sure, whatever. You worry too much, Bette. Everyone's having

a great time. Where's Leo? Just tell him you're going back and we'll

see you at the hotel, okay?" She giggled as Davide exhaled the pot

smoke in her face.

"Excellent. Will do. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, whatever. I don't plan to see daylight tomorrow, but I'll

find you when we wake up. Oh, where's Philip?" she asked, trying

very hard to sound casual.

"Philip? Last I saw, he was dancing with Lizzie Grubman and

Tara Reid."

"What? They're here?" She leapt off Davide and plastered on a

huge smile. "I'm totally going to say hi. See you later, Bette."

I looked around for Leo, but when I couldn't find him anywhere,

I figured he'd met a guy and had retired to his room

for playtime. Nedim offered to escort me back to the hotel in

his Porsche, and I was tempted to accept until he let his hand

brush against my lower back while smiling suggestively and saying

he'd give me a tour of Istanbul's late-night hotspots. I declined

politely and took a Town Car. The woman at the front desk

greeted me by name and briefed me on who had returned so far

and when.

"Oh, wait, there is a message for you." She handed me a piece

of folded paper, which I immediately opened, expecting some disaster,

MEET ME IN ROOM
18
WHEN YOU GET BACK
was written in bold

print, all caps. There was no signature, but a plastic room key was

enclosed.

I briefly considered my options. The note had to be from

Sammy. He'd somehow arranged for a room away from Isabelle so

that we could spend some private time together. It was, if I dared

to think about it, the most exciting romantic gesture of my lifetime.

I was buffed and polished from the spa that morning, and now my

secret boy had called. It didn't get better than this.

The elevator ride seemed to last forever, and by the time I

knocked on the door, I was shaking with excitement.

It took almost a minute for it to open, a minute that felt like a

month, and I had a fleeting, horrifying thought that it wasn't

Sammy at all, or that maybe the note was intended for someone

else. A dozen possible misunderstandings flashed through my mind

in the thirty seconds I stood there, rooted to the carpet, quietly

panicking and wondering how I could possibly be expected to

function if it wasn't him, if he wasn't waiting inside, preparing to

tear my clothes off and throw me on what would surely be a kingsized

bed tricked out in all its Four Seasons, down-filled, Frettecovered

glory.
Oh, please,
I prayed to some unknown entity,
oh,

please let it be him and let him want me as badly as I want him

and also make it so that he has
—

The door swung open, and Sammy pulled me inside immediately,

pressing his mouth to mine even before kicking the door

shut. "I want you so badly," he breathed, moving his mouth over

my face, my neck, my shoulders as he pushed aside the straps of

my dress before he got frustrated and pulled the entire thing over

my head.

Those were the last words either of us bothered with. We collapsed

on the bed, which delivered every inch of fabulousness I'd

imagined, and attacked each other with a ferocity that would have

scared me if it hadn't delighted me so much. It was impossible to

tell whose limbs belonged to whom, and I lost all awareness of

time or place or where, exactly, I was being touched. It was a total

sensation overload—the weight of his body, the smell of his deodorant,

the way the hair on my arms and the back of my neck

stood on end every time his fingers ran down my back. It was, I

had to admit, a sex scene straight out of a Harlequin—maybe better.

It wasn't until someone knocked at the door that I even no-

ticed the dozens of candles strewn about or the two glasses of red

wine that sat untouched or the great Buddha Bar soundtrack playing

from the bedside Bose CD player.

"Who knows you're here?" I whispered, climbing off him and

collapsing all in one motion.

"No one but the front desk. I put it on my personal credit card."

"Could Isabelle have heard you?"

"No way. She took a fistful of Ambien to get over the time difference.

She won't be awake for another two days."

We continued to debate this for another few minutes, until I realized

that night had eased its way into morning and I'd better be

getting back to my rightful room if I didn't want to deal with lots

and lots of questions.

He pulled me on top of him again and began kissing my earlobe,

earring and all. "Don't go. Not yet, at least."

"I've got to, I'm sorry. You don't want this to be public yet, do

you? Not like this."

"I know, I know, you're right. Not like this. We'll have all the

time in the world together once we're back in New York."

"You aren't going to be able to get rid of me once we're

home," I whispered. My short, beaded dress was bunched up in a

tiny ball on top of the desk, but I managed to get it on with some

semblance of dignity before falling back into the bed. The thought

of putting on any sort of undergarments was unbearable; after freeing

my strapless bra from its resting place on the headboard, I

tossed it and my underwear into my purse.

He yanked a sheet from the bed we'd destroyed and wrapped

it around his waist as we walked to the door. "Bette, thank you for

an amazing night," he said, holding my face in both his hands,

making it feel small and delicate and absolutely gorgeous.

I stood on tiptoe to wrap my arms around his neck one last

time. "It was perfect," I said.

And it was perfect, everything I'd hoped it would be, until the

very second I opened the door and was greeted by the brightest,

most aggressive flashbulb I'd ever experienced. It continued rapidfire

as I stood, frozen, too shocked to move.

"Oh, hey, sorry about that. Wrong room," said John, one of the

photographers we'd toted along.

"What the hell is going on?" Sammy asked.

"Let me handle it," I said. "Stay here."

I stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind me.

"What was that? What are you doing?" I practically shrieked.

"Hey, honey, I'm sorry about that. No worries, really, I didn't

see a thing," he said unconvincingly. He was the slickest of the

group and had made me nervous from the very beginning—most

of his work consisted of paparazzi-style pictures that he sold to the

tackiest tabloids for the highest bid. Kelly had insisted it would be

good to have him along because the photo editors loved everything

he submitted.

"Why were you staking out my room? Uh, his room, I mean.

I've spent all morning going around to everyone to discuss

tonight's schedule, so you see, there's nothing really interesting

there."

"Look, I don't care who you're screwing." He chuckled loudly

and with great gusto. "Of course, I imagine I could find someone

who'd be interested to know that Philip's girl didn't spend the