Everyone Worth Knowing (14 page)

the nail on the head every time!"

"Is it good? I haven't read it yet," I said absently, walking and

talking quickly, the way people do when they're trying desperately

to avoid a conversation.

"Good? It's fantastic! Now there's a man who gets it! Anyone

who can poke a little fun at Hillary Clinton is a friend of mine! I

thought I was the only person in this whole city who voted for

George W., but your uncle assures me I'm not."

"Mmm. I suppose that's true." I headed toward the elevator, but

he was still going.

"Any chance he'll be coming 'round to visit you anytime soon?

Would just love to tell him in person how much—"

"I'll definitely let you know," I called as the elevator doors fi-

nally shut him out. I shook my head, remembering my uncle's one

visit to my building and the way Seamus had fallen all over himself

when he recognized Will's name. It was upsetting, to say the least,

that Seamus personified my uncle's target demographic.

Millington nearly collapsed in paroxysms of joy when I opened

the door, even more excited than usual now that I'd returned to

working all day. Poor Millington.
No walk for yon tonight,
I thought

as I gave her a perfunctory scratch on the head and settled down

to read Will's latest rants. She scampered off to use her Wee-Wee

Pad, realizing immediately that she wasn't leaving the apartment

today, either, and then jumped onto my chest to read with me.

Just as I was settling in with my folder of takeout menus, my

cell phone vibrated across my coffee table like a wind-up toy. I debated

whether or not to answer it. The cell phone was companyissued

and, much like my new colleagues, didn't ever seem to rest.

I'd been out the last three nights, attending events the company

had put on, following Kelly as she did everything from consulting

with clients to firing slow bartenders, hosting VIPs, and arranging

for press passes. The hours were even more grueling than at the

bank—a whole day of office work followed by a full night out—

but the office buzzed with young, pretty people, and if one has to

spend fifteen hours a day at work, I thought I might prefer DJs or

champagne cocktails to diversified portfolios.

TXT MESSAGE!
appeared on my color screen. Text message? I'd

never before received a message or sent one. After a moment's

hesitation, I looked at the screen and hit Read.

din 2nite @ 9? cip dwntn on w.broad, c u there.

What was that? Some sort of cryptic dinner invitation, for sure,

but where and with whom? The only clue to its origin was a 917

number I didn't recognize. I dialed it and a breathless girl answered

immediately.

"Hey, Bette! What's up? You in for tonight?" the voice said, crushing

my hope that the person had simply dialed the wrong number.

"Uh, hi. Urn, who is this?"

"Bette! It's Elisa. We've only worked together twenty-four/seven

for the past week! We're all going out tonight to celebrate being done

with the Candace party. It'll be the usual crew. See you at nine?"

I'd planned to meet Penelope at the Black Door since I'd

barely seen her during my unemployment hibernation, but I didn't

see how I could turn down my first social invitation from my new

colleagues.

"Uh, yeah, sure, that sounds great. What was the name of that

restaurant again?"

"Cipriani Downtown?" she asked, sounding a bit incredulous

that I wasn't able to deduce as much from her earlier shorthand.

"You've
been,
right?"

"Of course. I love it there. Do you mind if I bring a friend? I

had plans already and—"

"Fab! See you both in a couple hours!" she screeched and

hung up.

I snapped my phone shut and did what every New Yorker

does instinctively upon hearing the name of a restaurant: I checked

Zagat.
Twenty-one for food, twenty for decor, and a still respectable

eighteen for service. And it wasn't a one-word name like

Koi or Butter or Lotus, which might seem innocuous but almost always

guaranteed an exceptionally horrid time. So far, everything

looked promising.

"To see or be seen is never the question" at this SoHo Northern

Italian where watching Eurobabes "air kissing" and "pretending to

eat their salads" is more to the point than the surprisingly good

"creative" fare; natives may "feel like foreigners in their own

country," but the high ratings speak for themselves.

Ah, so it was going to be another Eurobabe night. Whatever

that meant. And more to the point, what was I supposed to wear?

Elisa and crew seemed to rotate between black pants, black skirts,

and black dresses at work, so it was probably safe to stick with the

formula. I dialed Penelope at the bank.

"Hey, it's me. What's up?"

"Ugh. You are so unbelievably lucky that you left this wretched

sweatshop. Is Kelly looking to hire anyone else?"

"Yeah, I wish. But listen—what do you think about meeting

everyone tonight?"

"Everyone?"

"Well, not everyone, just my immediate work group. I know

we had plans, but since we always go to the Black Door, 1 thought

it might be fun to go to dinner with them. Are you up for it?"

"Sure," she said, sounding too tired to move. "Avery's going out

with a bunch of friends from high school tonight and I was just so

not interested. Dinner sounds fun. Where is it?"

"Cipriani Downtown. Have you been?"

"No, but my mother talks about it obsessively. She's been dying

for me to become a regular."

"Should I be upset that your mother and my uncle seem to

know every cool place in the city, and we're completely clueless?"

"Welcome to my life." She sighed. "Avery's the same way—he

knows everyone and everything. I just can't be bothered. The effort

required for mere maintenance is too exhausting. But tonight will

be fun. I'd like to meet people who plan parties for a living. And

the food's supposed to be great."

"Well, I'm not sure that's a huge selling point with this crowd.

I've spent forty hours with Elisa this week and haven't seen her eat

a thing. She seems to subsist solely on cigarettes and Diet Coke."

"Hot-girl diet, huh? Good for her. You've got to admire that

level of commitment." Penelope sighed again. "I'm headed home

in a few. Want to share a cab downtown?"

"Perfect. I'll pick you up at the corner of Fourteenth and Fifth

a little before nine. I'll call when I get in the cab," I said.

"Sounds good. I'll wait outside. Bye."

I headed for my closet. After some discards and retries, I settled

on a pair of tight black pants and a plain black tank top. I extracted

some decently high heels, bought during a shopping trip in

SoIIo, and took the time to blow out the exceedingly thick black

hair I inherited from my mother—the kind that everyone thinks

they want until they realize it barely fits in a ponytail and instantly

adds thirty minutes to any preparation time. I even attempted some

makeup, which got put to use so infrequently that the mascara

wand was all clumpy and a few of the lipsticks were stuck inside

their tubes.
No matter/
1 thought, singing along to Mike & the Mechanics'

"The Living Years" as I worked on my face . . . this was

even kind of fun. I had to admit, the end results were worth the

extra effort: my love handles no longer bulged over the waistline

of my pants, my boobs had retained their chubby-girl fullness even

though the rest of me had shrunk, and the mascara I'd haphazardly

brushed across my lashes had accidentally smeared to perfection,

giving my somewhat bland gray eyes a sexy, smoldering look.

Penelope was waiting outside at exactly ten to nine, and we

were deposited at our requested address right on time. There were

a ton of restaurants on West Broadway, and everyone seemed to

be clustered at outdoor tables looking exceedingly well-scrubbed

and unnervingly happy. We had a little trouble finding the place

because the restaurant management had neglected to post a sign.

Perhaps it's an issue of practicality; since the shelf life of most New

York hot spots is under six months, it actually leaves one less thing

to remove when they close. Luckily, I remembered the street number

from
Zagat
and we scoped it out from the far corner. Groups

of scantily but expensively clad women congregated around the

bar as older men kept their drinks filled, but I didn't see Elisa or

anyone else from the office.

"Bette! Over here!" Elisa called, a champagne glass in one hand

and a cigarette in the other. She was planted in the middle of

Cipriani's outdoor tables, leaning seductively against one of the

Italians' chairs, her branch-like limbs looking as though they might

snap at any moment. "Everyone else is inside. So glad you could

come!"

"Jesus Christ, she's skinny," Penelope muttered under her

breath as we walked toward the tables.

"Hi," I said and leaned in to kiss Elisa hello. 1 turned to introduce

her to Penelope but noticed that Elisa was still waiting there,

her face thrust forward and filled, eyes closed. She had expected

the traditional Euro double kiss, and I'd given up halfway through.

I'd recently read a convincing piece in
Cosmo
decrying the double

kiss as a stupid affectation and decided to make a stand: there

would be no more double kisses for me. I left her hanging but

said, "Thanks for inviting me. I absolutely love it here!"

She recovered quickly. "Ohmigod, me, too. They have the best

salads of anywhere. Hi, I'm Elisa," she said, offering a hand to

Penelope.

"I'm so sorry, that was so rude of me." I flushed, realizing I

must have sounded ridiculous to Penelope. "Penelope, this is Elisa.

She's been showing me around all week long. And, Elisa, this is

Penelope, my best friend."

"Wow, fab ring," Elisa said, grabbing Penelope's left hand instead

of her right and softly fingering the massive stone. "That

carat-glare is, like, blinding!" Penelope was, in fact, sporting her

"wearable" three-carat rock, and I wondered what Elisa would

think of her second ring.

"Thanks," Penelope said, clearly pleased. "I just got engaged

last—" But before she could finish, Davide grabbed Elisa from behind

and wrapped his arms around her tiny waist, careful not to

hug too hard and break her. He leaned in and whispered something

in her ear and she threw her head back with laughter.

"Davide, honey, behave! You know Bette. Davide, this is

Bette's friend, Penelope."

We all air-kissed on both cheeks (my no double-kiss rule hadn't

lasted twenty seconds), but Davide didn't manage to remove his eyes

from Elisa for a single second. "Our table. It is ready," he announced

gruffly in Italian-accented English, patting Elisa's bony ass and leaning