Everyone Worth Knowing (37 page)

held the door open for the forty or so of us who had already arrived.

The line quieted as we filed inside, and everyone tried to see

the famous among us.

"There's Johnny Depp!" I heard one girl stage-whisper.

"Ohmigod! Is that Philip Weston?" asked another.

"He dated Gwyneth, didn't he?" one of the guys said.

Philip swelled with noticeable pride and directed me to the

table that the maitre d' had just emptied for us. The evicted party

stood a few feet away, holding their drinks, their faces flush with

shame as we took our seats around the banquette.

Philip pulled me onto his lap and rubbed my leg, kneading it

in that way that tickles uncomfortably and hurts at the same time.

He mixed me a vodka tonic using the S400 bottle of Grey Goose

that was immediately deposited at our table, and greeted every single

person who walked past by name, occasionally burying his

face in my neck.

During one of these burrowings, he rested his chin on my

shoulder and gazed at the model sitting next to me, legs crossed

seductively, face in her hands, elbows on her knees, nipple tassels

slipping slightly off-center.

"Just look at her," he whispered, his voice husky, his eyes fixed

on the youngest-looking girl of all. "Look how she imitates the

older models, watching how they move their hips, their eyes, their

mouths, and doing exactly that because she knows it's sexy. She's

just growing into that body of hers, doesn't quite realize what she

possesses, and she's learning like a newly hatched chick. Isn't it

smashing to watch?"

Mmm, absolutely smashing. Downright gripping, actually,
I

thought, but I just shook him off and announced I'd be right back.

He nearly fell on her as I untangled myself from him, and 1 heard

him complimenting her directly as I walked toward the front of the

club.

Elisa was draped across an attractive man at a banquette near

the door, her head and shoulders leaning against his chest while

her bare feet—still red with sandal-strap lines—rested in Davide's

lap. She didn't appear to be too concerned—or even aware of—the

BlackBerry situation. I wasn't sure she was conscious or even alive

until I got close enough to see her concave stomach rise and fall

with the slightest motion.

"Bette, honey, there you are!" She mustered enough energy to

make herself heard over the music even though she probably

hadn't consumed enough calories that day to remain in a standing

position. I decided to address the BlackBerry debacle another time.

"Hey," I mumbled, displaying my lack of enthusiasm.

"Come here. I want you to meet the most talented skin-care

therapist in Manhattan. Marco, this is Bette. Bette, Marco."

"Aesthetician," he immediately corrected.

I'd been on my way to thank Sammy, but there was no avoiding

putting in at least a few minutes at their table. I sat down and

immediately poured myself a vodka tonic. "Hi, Marco, nice to meet

you. How do you know Elisa?"

"How do I know Elisa? Why, I like to think I can claim responsibility

for that flawless,
glowing
skin!" He held her head between

his manicured fingers and thrust it toward me as though it were an

inanimate object. "Here, look. Do you see this evenness? Do you

see the complete and utter lack of blemishes or discoloration? This

is achievement!" He spoke with a slight Spanish accent and much

flourish.

"Mmm, she does look great. Maybe you could help me out

sometime," I said, because I couldn't think of anything else.

"Mmm," he said back, examining my face. "I'm not so sure

about that."

I took that as my cue to excuse myself, but Elisa hoisted herself

into a sitting position and said, "Darlings, amuse yourselves for a

few minutes while Davide and I say hello to a few friends."

I looked up to see Davide lean forward so the table would obscure

his hands. He deftly opened Elisa's white and gold Dior bag

on the floor, removed a key from its ring, poured white powder

from a tiny packet into the key's longest groove, and held it

quickly up to his nose. His hand covered the entire key, and if you

weren't watching very closely, it wouldn't look like anything more

than a casual nose itch, perhaps a little allergy sniffle. He refilled it

within a second or two and passed it invisibly to Elisa, who also

worked so quickly that I wasn't even sure what had passed under

her nose or when. Another few seconds and the key ring was back

in her purse and the two were jumping out of their seats, ready to

work the room.

"They could at least have offered us some, don't you think?"

Marco asked.

"Yeah, I guess so," I said, not quite sure whether to announce

that I'd never tried it, and while I was immensely curious, I was

more scared.

Marco sighed meaningfully and took a long pull from his drink.

"Rough day?" I asked, again unsure of both how to proceed or

escape.

"You can say that again. Elisa fucked up my schedule again.

She knows how much I hate it when she passes out in my chair."

Another sigh.

"She passed out? Is she okay?"

His huge eye roll was followed by a long, exhausted exhalation.

"Look at her—does she look okay to you? I ley, I'm all about

starving yourself—I've certainly had to do it myself a few times—

but you've got to take responsibility for your actions! You
know

when you're about to pass out! There are little flashes of light before

your eyes and you get really dizzy. Your body does this to let

you know that it's time to take a bite of that PowerBar you should

be toting around for occasions like this. You gotta heed the warnings,

you know, and get the hell out of my chair, or else you're

going to screw up my entire schedule."

I wasn't quite sure how to respond to this, so I just sat and listened.

"These girls think they can come in after a long week of nose

drugs and no food and just conk out in my chair and I'll take care

of them. Well, that used to be okay, but I've got better things to do

now. The way I see it, it's the same as some heroin junkie: I

couldn't care less if you're using, man, just don't overdose in my

home because then it becomes my problem. You know?"

I nodded.
The world is lucky to have a guy as sensitive as

Marco,
I thought.

"People have it worse than I do, though," he continued

earnestly. "Friend of mine's a makeup artist. He brings one case of

makeup with him, and another of PowerBars and fruit-juice boxes

because the girls are always conking out on him. At least when

mine faint in the chair, I don't have to start all over. He also usually

sees them right before big events, at their hungriest, since they've

been on super-starvation to fit into their dresses. It's tough, man.

They leave us to pick up the pieces."

"Yeah, I hear that. Listen, it was really nice to meet you, but

I've got to run and say hi to a friend. Will you be here for a few

minutes?" I asked, realizing that if I didn't escape soon, it might

never happen.

"Sure, whatever, great to meet you. Catch you later." He nodded

in my direction before leaning over to mix another drink.

I wanted to find Sammy and thank him for what he'd done,

maybe explain that I was not there as Philip's date or his girlfriend

or even by choice, but by the time I fought past the door crowd—

which seemed to have expanded exponentially in the last hour—

Sammy was nowhere in sight.

"Hey, have you seen Sammy?" I asked Anthony, trying to sound

casual.

He appeared to have calmed down since our last interaction

and shook his head while glancing over his clipboard.

"Nah, he headed out early to meet his girl. Left me here alone

for one of the biggest parties of the year. Wouldn't usually do that,

so it musta been important. Why, you gotta problem? I'll try and

help you in a few when I get rid of some of these people."

"No, no problem. Just wanted to say hi."

"Yeah, well, he'll be back tomorrow."

I bummed a cigarette from a guy in an emerald green prom

dress and willed myself to go back inside. I didn't have to, though.

The party had come to me.

"Bette! I was hoping I'd see you here!" Abby screeched as her

behemoth breasts threatened to overtake her entire face. "You

should be inside keeping an eye on that boy of yours, don't you

think?"

"Hey, Abby. I'd love to chat, but I was just leaving."

"It's Abigail now, actually. Come inside and have one cigarette

with me, okay? For old times' sake."

I wanted to tell her that there had been no old times, but I was

already feeling defeated by the mental image of Sammy curled up

with Isabelle, the Botox beauty.

"Sure," I said listlessly. "Whatever."

"So, tell me. How is everything with Philip? It's just so amazing

that you two ended up together!" she said, leaning in conspiratorially.

"Amazing? Not really." I tried to think of something, anything,

to end the conversation.

"Bette! Of course it is! Now, I hope you don't mind if I ask you

a personal question, but I've always been dying to know: How is

he in bed? Because, as I'm sure you're aware, there are rumors

that—"

"Abby, 1 don't want to be rude, okay? But I really need to

leave. I cannot have this conversation now."

She appeared completely unfazed. "Sure, no problem. I know

how tired you must be from the new job. Anyway, we'll be sure to

catch up soon, right? Oh! And I just love what you did with that

suit—only you could make something so average look so good!"

I backed away as though she were a rabid dog and began to

stumble back to Elisa's table to collect myself. Instead, I headed to

the bar and drank down a martini—mixed just the way Will liked

them. It wasn't half-bad, actually, sitting and getting drunk solo,

but when an entire horde of gorgeous and mostly naked girls commandeered

my personal space, the temptation to leave was just too

great to resist. No matter Kelly's photo ops—I just couldn't endure

more of Philip's fascinating musings on the growth cycle of South

American models or Marco's suggestions for the most efficient starvation

techniques, so I texted both Philip and Elisa one line claim-

ing sudden illness and collapsed into the backseat of a cab. I

looked at my watch—one-thirty in the morning. Would they still be

at the Black Door? I got my answer when Michael slurred hello on

the fifth ring.

"Sorry," I said.

"Just got home," he replied. "You missed a good night. But the

Black Door with Pen and Avery is a lot different from the Black

Door with Pen and Bette!"

I began calling Penelope as soon as the meter began running