Everyone Worth Knowing (64 page)

doing his job. He thought I needed help."

"Why are you defending him, Bette? I'll see to it that his superiors

know he initiated an incident with one of our VIPs." She

turned to Sammy and held up an empty bottle of Grey Goose. "In

the meantime, make yourself useful and get us another bottle."

"Elisa, honey, she's defending him because she's fucking him,"

piped up a girl's voice from behind us. Abby. "At least that's my

guess. Philip, you can't be too psyched about that, now can you?

Your girlfriend's fucking the Bungalow bouncer. Hot stuff," she

laughed.

Philip chuckled, none too eager to engage me in a who'ssleeping-

with-whom tell-all. "She is not." He chuckled, stretching

his legs out on the glass table. "She may not be faithful to me, but I

don't think we have to accuse her of shagging the staff. Bette,

you're not shagging the staff, are you, love?"

"Sure she is." Abby giggled. "Hey, Elisa, why'd you never clue

me in on that one? It's so obvious—you must have known. I can't

believe I never saw it before."

It was like getting hit over the head with a shovel.
Why'd you

never clue me in on that one?
Everything became suddenly and

horribly clear. Abby knew where I was and who I was with at all

times because Elisa told her. It was that simple. End of story. The

only part I didn't quite understand was why Elisa would do that

in the first place. Abby wasn't so confusing: she was an all-around

nasty, vengeful, mean-spirited girl who would sell out her own

dying mother—or sleep with a friend's fiance—if it meant furthering

her career or her reputation by an inch. But why Elisa?

Elisa, having no idea what else to do, started to giggle and sip

her champagne. She glanced at me only once—long enough for me

to know it was true—and then looked away before I could say a

word about it. Avery had begun pleading again, and Sammy had

turned to walk back to the door with a disgusted look on his face.

Only Philip was either too drunk or too indifferent to really understand

what was happening. He persevered.

"Are you, babe? Are you having a romp with the bouncer?"

Philip prodded, absently playing with Abby's hair as she watched

me intently, a look of distinct pleasure on her face. It was only

then I wondered if he, too, had known about Elisa and Abby's little

alliance all along. Or worse—had he been involved with them,

looking for some public heterosexual confirmation himself? It was

too horrific to even imagine.

"Hmm, an interesting question, Philip," I said as loudly as I

dared. Avery, Elisa, Philip, Abby, and Sammy all turned to look at

me. "I think it's interesting that you're so fascinated with whether

or not I've had sex with 'the bouncer,' as you put it. It can't be because

you're jealous. After all, you and I have never progressed beyond

a wet and rather sloppy make-out."

Philip looked as though he might die. Everyone else looked

confused.

"What? Oh, come on now, people, please! You all know everything

about everyone, and you never even suspected that this selfproclaimed

God's gift to New York women actually prefers men?

Well, believe it."

Everyone started speaking at once.

"Yeah, right," Elisa said.

"Bette, love, why are you talking such rubbish?" Philip asked

with a calmness in his voice that didn't match his expression.

A shout from an unidentified floater came out over my headphones

that P. Diddy had just arrived unannounced, having come

from an earlier party somewhere nearby. Normally, this arrival

would have been cause for celebration; however, considering that

tonight an entourage of one hundred people joined him, it was a

disaster. Apparently, he was extremely unhappy that he'd been

kept waiting so long at the door, but since Sammy had been inside,

the second-in-command security guy hadn't wanted to make any

decisions. Did we tell him he couldn't come in because we were

already too crowded? Tell him he could choose ten friends and

have the VIP table of his choice, but the rest of his group had to

leave? Figure out how to toss out a hundred current partiers to accommodate

his crew? And who, exactly, was going to be the lucky

chosen conveyer of this news? No one was exactly jumping at the

chance.

Before we could get squared away on the Diddy disaster, one

of the interns called me with the news that high-profile boy-band

guests were in the process of being arrested for buying drugs in

the bathroom—the very same bathroom where one of New York's

finest had briefly stopped at the end of his shift doing crowd control

outside. The disturbing part of this information was obviously

not the incident itself but the fact that, according to the intern, it

was currently being captured by no fewer than five paparazzi—

pictures that would, of course, overshadow in the tabs all the good

stuff we'd hoped to promote.

The third call came from Leo. He informed me that somehow—

and no one knew how—the production company had miscalculated

during their ordering and had just run out of champagne.

"It's impossible. They knew how many people would be here.

They knew our main concern over liquor and beer was champagne.

Bunnies drink it. Girls drink it. Bankers drink it. The only

way to keep girls somewhere late is to give them champagne. It's

only twelve-thirty! What are we going to do?" I was screaming over

the decibel-crushing sound of an Ashlee Simpson song.

"I know, Bette, I'm on it. I sent a few of the bartenders out in

search of as many cases as they can find, but it's not going to be

easy at this time of night. They can buy a few bottles at liquor

stores, but I don't know where they're going to find mass quantities

now," Leo said.

"Bette, I need to know what you want me to do with, uh, with

our waiting VIP," the panicked floater at the door called over the

headphones. "He's getting restless."

"Bette, are you there?" My earpiece crackled and Kelly's voice

came booming through. She'd grabbed someone's headset again

and was beginning to piece together what was happening. The

usual nice boss lady was gone and she'd been replaced by a demonic

monster. "Are you aware that we have kids here getting arrested

on drug charges? People do not get ARRESTED at our

parties, do you hear me?"

She cut out for a moment, but then came through loud and

clear. "Bette! Can you hear me? I need you at this door pronto!

Everything's falling apart, and you're nowhere. Where the hell are

you?"

I watched as Elisa removed her headpiece—out of some deliberate

sabotage or just plain wastedness, I couldn't tell—and

flopped down next to Philip, where she began to vie with Abby for

his attention. Why fight when you can drink? I was just working up

the energy to deal with all the problems I cared so little about

when I heard one final comment.

"Hey, mate? Yeah, you right there." Philip, who was now

cradling Abby under one arm and Elisa under the other, was calling

out to Sammy. Avery sat babbling incoherently at his side.

"Yeah, man?" Sammy asked, still not quite sure Philip was addressing

him.

"Be a good chap and bring us a bottle of something. Girls,

what will we have? Bubbly? Or would you prefer some vodka

drinks?"

Sammy looked like he'd been slapped. "I'm not your waiter."

Apparently Philip found this hysterical because he convulsed

with laughter. "Just get us a drink, will you, mate? I'm less interested

in the details of how it happens."

I didn't wait to see if Sammy would hit him or ignore him or

retrieve the bottle of vodka. I wasn't thinking about much besides

how comfortable a bed would be right then and how little I cared

if P. Diddy brought one guest or a hundred or even showed up at

all. It occurred to me that I'd been spending nearly every minute of

every day and night with some of the worst people I'd ever met,

and I had nothing to show for it but a shoebox full of clippings

that humiliated not only me but also everyone I loved. As I stood

there watching a photographer snap away at a mugging Philip and

listened to even more problems ring out over the earpiece as

though they were huge international crises, I thought of Will and

Penelope and the book-club girls and my parents and, of course,

Sammy. And again, with a sense of calm I hadn't felt in many

months, I simply removed my headset, placed it on the table, and

said quietly to Elisa, "I'm finished."

I turned to Sammy and, not caring who heard what, said, "I'm

going home. If you want to stop by later, I would love to see you.

I'm at 145 East Twenty-eighth Street, apartment 1313- I'll wait for

you."

And before anyone could say anything, I turned away. I

walked across the dance floor, past a couple who appeared to be

having actual intercourse near the DJ, and straight on to the door,

where a horde of people seemed to be swaying with the music. I

saw Kelly out of the corner of my eye, and a few List Girls who

were flirting with some of P. Diddy's group, but I managed to slip

quietly past them and onto the sidewalk. The crowd there threatened

to overtake the street, and no one was paying any attention

to me. I made it halfway down the block without talking to anyone

and was just opening the door to the cab I'd hailed when I heard

Sammy call my name. He ran toward me and slammed the cab

door shut before I could get inside.

"Bette. Don't do this. I can handle myself in there. Go on, head

back inside, and we can talk about all this later."

I stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and raised my arm to hail

another cab. "I don't want to go back inside, Sammy. I want to go

home. I hope I'll see you later, but I've got to get out of here."

He opened his mouth to protest, but I got in the cab. "I can

handle myself, too," I said with a smile as I sat down. And I pulled

away from the entire surging nightmare.

31

By two-thirty in the morning, there was still no sign of Sammy.

My phone was ringing off the hook with calls from Kelly and

Philip and Aver)', but I ignored them all. I'd calmed down long

enough to draft a letter of apology to Kelly, and by three I'd come

to the conclusion that Elisa—unlike Abby—was not necessarily evil

and malicious, just very, very hungry. When four rolled around and

I still hadn't heard from Sammy, I began to fear the worst. I fell

asleep sometime around five and almost cried when I woke a couple

of hours later to no messages and no Sammy.

He finally called at eleven the next morning. I thought about

not answering the phone—decided that I wouldn't, actually—but

just seeing his name on the little screen was enough to demolish

my willpower.

"Hello?" I said. I was aiming for breeziness, but the noise that