How to Meet Cute Boys (30 page)

“They’re not people. They’re
models
.”

We made for the pool deck, and my spike heels sunk satisfyingly into AstroTurf. For once Audrey was in my domain. There were
no Martha touches to take the edge off the asylum white walls. No crepe de chine to soften the steel stools in the minimal
bar. In my world we mainline our aesthetic. It looked like it was going to be a pretty good party, too.

“Collin!” I waved. He was perched on the edge of a white chaise longue, wearing a T-shirt that said
STAR FUCKER
.

“Darlings.” He air-kissed both my cheeks. “Do you believe this party? I hear the gift bag contains a fucking
mountain
of product from Kiehl’s.”

“Urban gift bag myth,” I said. “The same rumor was going around that record release party at the Argyle a couple of weeks
ago.”

“I heard it from Tara Reid,” he huffed.

“Sure you did. Collin, this is my sister, Audrey. Audrey, this is Collin. Nobody knows how he earns a living.”

“I’m a celebrity stylist. Designer. Writer. Your basic hyphenate,” he said, giving Audrey’s outfit the once-over. I saw her
cringe a little under his gaze, and felt an unexpected urge to protect her.

“Hey look, Collin,” I said. “There’s Jason Biggs.”

“Oh my God, is the
entire
cast of
American Pie
here?” he said, turning around. “Gotta go—Jason’s a pal.”

“Of course he is,” I said. Collin gave me the finger and left.

“Drink?” I asked Audrey.

“Okay.”

On the way to the bar, she tapped me on the shoulder. “Look,” she whispered. “I think I see Chandra McInerney.”

“Where?”

“Right over there.” Audrey motioned toward a white bearskin rug in the lobby, where a very imposing-looking group was spread
out on the floor, drinking cocktails.

“Okay, let’s get the drinks first.”

“Chardonnay, please,” Audrey said to the bartender, a girl of indeterminate youth in a spiked collar, white T-shirt, skintight
sarong, and black combat boots. She gave Aud a withering glare.

“They don’t serve Chardonnay, at least not for free,” I whispered. “Two.”

The bartender pushed two Johnny Walker margaritas at us. I handed one to Audrey and she took a hesitant sip. “Ugh—this is
disgusting,” she said.

BY BENJAMINA FRANKLIN

In Hollywood a person’s value isn’t measured by her job title at the studio alone. To reach the apex of power, one must host
the perfect party, planned by a publicist who will ensure that your next cocktail gathering or birthday celebration has the
right people RSVPing and the wrong people sticking their heads in the oven and turning on the gas because their invitations
“got lost in the mail.” Not all of us can afford such an extravagance, but just because you can’t hire a publicist doesn’t
mean you can’t
think
like one.

Good parties, as any publicist will tell you, start with vetting the list. At studios, the pros list stars in a database where
they’re ranked according to A, B, and C. An actress on a low-rated sitcom, for example, is a C. Drew Barrymore is an A. You
should do the same. Give prospective guests an alphabetic value. Admit it, you
are
being shallow. But just because you lack depth doesn’t mean you shouldn’t improve your social status! On your A-list should
be: cool friends, hot guys, and “secret celebrities” whom it would be beneficial to get to know better. (Not actors, silly,
but restaurateurs, yoga instructors, graffiti artists, and club promoters!) On the B-list will be those who’ll do in a pinch,
and on the C-list are people you’d probably rather kill before they show up. Now, the publicist trick is to only start inviting
B-listers
after
A-listers have declined. If you have to stack your party with too many C’s, cancel. A troop of C-listers must never walk
down your red carpet.

Next, consider your theme. Inventive ones—home theater (in which everyone puts on a prepared performance) or an evening of
arts and crafts do the job. Avoid trends: A martini lounge is
way
too ’00. If in doubt, go traditional—champagne, crystal, the works. You won’t be creative, but you’ll be a class act.

Once you’ve chosen a theme, make sure it informs everything at your party. Home theater is all about popcorn topped in real
butter and chocolate-covered raisins from Dean & Deluca. Arts and crafts should come with gourmet peanut-butter-and-plantain
sandwiches and freshly baked cookies served in designer lunch boxes.

When it all comes together, you’ll reap the benefits of being a social diva. Invitations will flow your way, the promotion
you deserve will be yours, and men will throw themselves at your feet. And consider this: If you have the stomach for using
your birthday as a way to increase your social influence, you may have a future in Hollywood. [[romega]]

It seemed Her Highness didn’t want a free drink. I tried to explain the concept of a party sponsor while she took these quick,
wincing sips that were already getting on my nerves.

As we approached Chandra, I could feel Aud tensing up. “I don’t really think we should ask for her autograph right now, do
you?” she said. Then Chandra spotted us and jumped up, making Audrey almost leap out of her skin.

“Where the fuck’ve you been, dawg?” Chandra said, wrapping me in a bear hug.

“What up, McC?”

“Booyah, baby, booyah.”

“Chandra, this is my sister, Audrey. Audrey, Chandra McInerney.”

“You know each other,” Audrey said. I thought she would be excited to meet a movie star, but instead she pointed to her glass
and said, “I’ll be right back.”

“You’ve finished your drink already?” I said. “Okay, yeah, I’ll see you in a sec.”

Chandra gave Kate-o a nudge to move over so I could sit down next to her (I couldn’t help thinking
ha-ha, bitch
) and proceeded to yell at me about how happy she was I finally got Max—or, as Chandra called him, “that fucking low-life
punk-ass cocksucker”—out of my life. Then she moved on to a tale about how she was convinced her personal assistant was spiking
her bottled water with LSD, possibly as part of an assassination plot.

“I don’t know, Chandra,” I said. I was trying not to look too incredulous. “I mean, I think it’s pretty hard to kill someone
with acid.”

“Tell that to Charles fucking Manson,” she said.

But before she really got going, Chandra turned her aggression toward the waitress, who’d forgotten she ordered her chicken
egg rolls with tofu. Not that Chandra intended to eat them. “I ordered these for my friends,” Chandra said, gesturing to the
group, most of whom were already digging in, “and we can’t have meat because
I’m a vegetarian
.”

“I’m sorry,” the waitress said, “but they make all the egg rolls in advance. They can’t take the chicken—”

“I don’t give a
fuck
when they make the egg rolls,” Chandra interrupted, looking around at us like
Can you believe this chick?
“I care about what
the people I love
put in their
fucking bodies,
mkay?”

The waitress was getting flustered, reaching for the egg rolls, then straightening up because half of them were already gone,
unsure what to do. Krantz, who was in Chandra’s armpit as usual, moved in to smooth things over. But, perhaps taking note
of the crowd that was starting to gather, Chandra stood up and got in the waitress’s face, stabbing her finger toward the
poor girl’s chest and yelling, “Do you wanna piece of this, you fucking bitch? Huh?
Do you wanna piece of this?
”

The waitress, scared out of her wits, dropped a tray full of drinks, and Johnny Walker margaritas splashed all over Chandra’s
Sigerson Morrison heels. That did it. Chandra grabbed the waitress by the hair, and, as she started to scream, started to
wrestle her around—throwing her from side to side. The air got thick with busboys, a hotel manager, photographers, Krantz—who
was wrestling with the photographers—and Collin, who rushed over, yelling “Get her, McC! Get her!” Chandra was screaming,
“I’m going to fucking end you, ’ho!
I’m going to end you!
” Scared I might actually get hit, I leapt for the sidelines, where I’d be able to watch the spectacle from a safe distance.
But as I tore my eyes away from the horror of Chandra trying to bite the waitress on the back of the neck so I could blot
margarita mix off my skirt before it stained, I realized Audrey was nowhere to be seen. Where had she gone?

I scanned the lobby. No sign. Poolside? Nope, not there either. The bar? Huh. Chandra was stomping down on the waitress’s
foot in a very entertaining—and probably effective—manner as a busboy tried to pull her off, but now I was worried. I walked
out to the front to see if maybe she was standing outside, but Audrey would rather gargle Drano than smoke, so I wasn’t surprised
when I didn’t see her skulking around Sunset with all the banished nicotine addicts. I really wanted to sneak one myself,
but I didn’t want to leave Audrey inside alone, what with Chandra on the loose and Collin in a bitchy mood.

I finally found her talking on the far end of the pool deck with some guy who looked vaguely familiar—I thought maybe he’d
been my waiter at Ammo the other day, but then again that didn’t seem quite right. And, wait a minute, why would Audrey be
flirting
with my lunch waiter? She was perched on a lounge, and he started to lean toward her, his dark hair falling into his eyes.
Then she laughed at whatever he said, throwing her head back as if to say
you are so funny!

“Hi,” I said, standing above them.

“Oh. Hi,” she said, and they both started laughing again like I was the punch line for some in-joke.

I turned to the guy: “And who are you?”

“Jeff.”

Jeff? I looked at Audrey.

“Jeff was in that Gap commercial,” she said, looking supremely satisfied.

I said, “Ah.”

“Something from the bar?” Jeff asked, standing up. She nodded, and he made his way past me—
without
asking if I wanted anything, by the way—and sauntered off with a smirk. From the looks of things, she’d had at least another
margarita, if not two, since the last time I saw her.

“Audrey?” I said. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

She looked up at me, stuck her chin out. “What the fuck is with your tone?”

I was surprised she’d said the F-word. She never used the F-word.

Not to be outdone, I said, “What the fuck is with hanging all over some guy who screamed ‘Mambo!’ on TV?”

She stood up. “What the
fuck
is with you asking what I’m fucking up with when you’re the one who’s so fucking fabulous all the time and can’t let anyone
else have fun?” And then she flopped back into the lounge chair.

“Have another drink, Audrey.”

She waved me off. “Ben, I’m having a good time.
Is that okay?
”

Oh, so
that’s
how it was going to be. I told her that if she wanted to have “fun” with some complete stranger/cheeseball, it was fine with
me. “Go ahead—flirt with the Mambo guy,” I said. “And when you’ve come to your senses? Maybe I’ll still be nice enough to
drive you home.”

I turned on my heel and stalked off, determined to find someone besides her to talk to. Before I passed through the sliding-glass
doors, I saw Audrey downing yet another drink and putting her head on Jeff’s chest because she was laughing so hard.

I grabbed another whiskey margarita and sat down in the bar to pout. I couldn’t believe I’d thoughtfully cleaned my apartment
just so Aud could come down and take over my party.
Besides,
I thought,
she’s supposed to be my wingman while I flirt with new boys
. I looked back over my shoulder and—what the hell was this?—she was now
kissing
the Mambo guy. It was really unbelievable.

No,
I decided.
This is too much
. I was going back over there, and I was going to knock some sense into her.
I
was the crazy sister who dated younger men and slept around with MTV employees.
She
would have to play the stable sister getting married—with the big fat ring that she waved in my face all the time to prove
it. I grabbed the sticky glass and started to cross the lobby—
again
—when two things happened simultaneously.

One, I saw Jamie walking toward the pool in a powder blue Polo shirt, head swiveling from side to side like a lighthouse.
It instantly dawned on me that Miss Party in Her Pants must have told him we were coming here to see if he’d want to meet
up. Clearly she’d forgotten. We needed to spend some sister time together.
As if
.

Two, Max. Walking right toward me.

I stopped dead in my tracks, not sure what to do. Break right, and save Audrey’s irritating marriage? Or stay put, and talk
to Max for the first time in months? It was a toss-up. I looked back toward the pool—wait, Audrey was gone. Jamie was gone.
Even the Mambo guy, gone.