Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (72 page)

‘Of course, Sofia, come right in,' he cooed deferentially, and I realized that the flapper was Sofia Coppola. The entourage followed her lead and nodded their respects to the bouncer, who was glowing with pride and happiness. It took him a full three minutes to regain his composure and another two to remember that we were still there.

‘Robinson,' I said, sounding definitely more irritated. ‘R-O-B-I –'

‘I can spell it,' he snapped, apparently now in a full-fledged snit. ‘Yes, fortunately for you, I have you on the list. Absolutely no one is getting in tonight otherwise.'

‘Mmm' was about all I could manage in reply to this fascinating piece of information.

He placed his hand on the velvet rope but didn't lift it. He leaned over and addressed Penelope directly, and none too quietly: ‘Just FYI for next time, girls: you're really a bit more casual than we like to see here.'

Penelope giggled, obviously unaware that our new transvestite friend was
not
kidding.

‘Hey, I'm just giving it to you straight,' he continued, his voice getting louder every second. A sort of silence had overtaken the previously fidgety and excited crowd, and I could feel fifty pairs of eyes staring at us from behind. ‘We prefer to see a little more style, a little more effort.'

My mind began to race, in search of a snappy retort, but of course I managed to say nothing. Before I knew what was happening, a girl so young, so tall, and with breasts so enormous they'd only ever work in LA, came over and volunteered a brief but highly informative lecture on the current fashion situation.

‘We especially like to see forties looks lately.' She smiled warmly.

‘Huh?' Penelope said, verbalizing exactly what I was thinking.

‘Well, it's just one option, of course, but it's quite effective. Black and white with bright red lipstick, you know? Perhaps some vintage Prada heels or something even chunkier. It's all about distinguishing yourself.' I heard a few people laughing appreciatively in the background.

It was at this point that I noticed that she looked like something out of
I Want a Famous Face
gone horribly awry.

What did I say? What did I do? Absolutely nothing. Instead of maintaining one iota, one tiny shred of self-respect, we proffered our left hands for the obligatory stamp and sort of shuffled shamefully past the velvet rope that had finally been lifted. The final indignity came just as the door was shutting behind us, when the cosmetically enhanced giraffe announced to the circus freak, ‘It wouldn't be quite so bad if they just minded their labels.'

‘Did that just happen?' Penelope asked, looking as dumbfounded as I felt.

‘I think so. Just how pathetic were we? I'm almost afraid to ask.'

‘There are actually no words for that level of pathetic-ness. It was like watching
Jeopardy!
– I knew all the answers, just ten seconds too late.'

I was about to suggest that we medicate ourselves with as much undiluted vodka as we could locate, but Elisa found us first.

‘This place is so hot,' she breathed into my ear while waving hello to Penelope. ‘Check it out. Far right, back corner, Kristin Davis. Far right, just in front of her, Suzanne Somers. Random, I acknowledge, but celeb nonetheless. Far left, not quite in the corner, more like twelve o'clock, Sting and Trudie Styler, making out. At the round leather couch in the middle, Heidi Klum and Seal, and Davide heard them say that Zac Posen is on his way.'

‘Wow,' Penelope said, making an admirable effort to sound impressed, ‘there are a lot of people here tonight. Bette? What do you say about getting a drink?'

‘I'm not finished,' Elisa hissed, pulling my arm tighter toward hers and continuing to scan the room. ‘Flirting with the waitress, by the side door, Ethan Hawke. Made significantly more awkward by the presence of Andre Balazs, Uma's new man, sitting with business associates at first banquette on the right. And look! That ugly little lesbian troll blogger who can't stop writing about how much blow she does every night is sort of lurking in the back there, watching them all. Tomorrow she'll have everything plastered all over her blog, making it sound like she was partying with everyone rather than spying all night long. Oh, and look! Right behind her, an assistant from Rush & Molloy. They rotate them constantly so no one ever knows who they are, but we have a source there who faxes over pictures and bios of the new ones right away. … Hmm, it doesn't look like Philip is here tonight. Shame. I bet you were wanting to see him, no?'

‘Philip? Uh, no, actually, not really,' I mumbled somewhat truthfully.

‘Oh, really? Does that mean he still hasn't called? How sad. I know what it's like, Bette. Don't take it personally – he obviously just has very strange tastes.'

I had spent three weeks dodging Elisa's questions, trying to appear nonchalant about Philip Weston. I was about to repeat that I couldn't care less that he hadn't called, that I hadn't even left my number as instructed, but I figured it wasn't worth it. This was clearly a sensitive point and best left alone. Besides, I didn't exactly adore the fact that I hadn't heard from him, number or not.

Penelope and I followed Elisa over to a small circle of white suede couches – a phenomenally stupid idea for a place where people do nothing but eat, drink, and hook up – and said hello to Leo, Skye, Davide, and someone Elisa introduced as ‘the brains behind this entire production.'

‘Hi, I'm Bette, and this is my friend Penelope,' I said, extending my hand to the Semitic-looking-yet-mullet-sporting guy Elisa had referenced.

‘Yo. Danny.'

‘Without Danny, we wouldn't be here tonight.' Elisa sighed, and everyone at the table nodded knowingly. ‘He came up with the whole concept that is Sanctuary and put the whole project together. … Isn't that right, Danny?'

‘Word.'

I was wondering why this short Jewish guy from either Great Neck or Dix Hills was attempting to sound as though he'd grown up on the playgrounds and basketball courts of Cabrini Green.

‘Oh, so you were the one who hired that charming bouncer, huh?' I asked, and Elisa shot me a warning look.

Danny apparently sensed nothing amiss. ‘Fag freak, but whatever. Gets his shit done. Keeps out the losers – all that matters to me.'

Mmm. Penelope nodded seriously in agreement and simultaneously nudged me, and I gnawed the inside of my cheeks to keep from laughing. Compared to two minutes ago, Danny was being downright verbose.

‘So, Danny, what gave you the idea for Sanctuary?' Penelope asked, staring at him with wide, fascinated eyes.

He took a swig from his Stella Artois and peered at her as though he were trying to determine which language she'd just used, his eyes scrunched up in confusion, hand on his crinkled forehead, head shaking slightly from side to side. ‘Dude. Everywhere else is so fucking stressful. The line at Bungalow's a nightmare and I can't stand all those fuckin' media types at Soho House. Figured we all need a place that could be, like, a y'know, what's the word? A place to chill.'

‘A sanctuary?' I supplied helpfully.

‘Right on.' He nodded, obviously relieved. The amount of product in his hair was nothing short of astounding.

Unfortunately, before this fascinating conversation could see itself to its logical end – most likely the one where Danny eventually remembered the name of his own club – I spotted an exceedingly familiar tan.

‘Ohmigod, it's him,' I stage-whispered to our motley crew, immediately leaning my head in for both cover and consultation.

Heads turned.

‘Philip. Philip Weston is here. Just walked in with that, that, that
model
,' I spat out, not even remotely aware of how insanely jealous I sounded. And looked.

‘Bette, is that jealousy I hear?' Elisa asked, leaning in to whisper in my ear. ‘And here I thought you were immune to the Weston charms. Good to see you're a red-blooded American girl after all. Of course, just because you're interested doesn't mean he is. …'

‘Dude! Philip! Over here,' Danny was calling, and before I'd even realized what was happening, Philip was kissing me hello on the mouth.

‘Hi, love, I was hoping you'd be here. You can run, but you can't hide. …'

‘Pardon?' was about all I could manage, since at this point I was fairly certain he'd meant to direct both the kiss and comment elsewhere. Like toward the knockout who was patiently waiting about three feet behind him, not looking the least bit distressed about anything.

‘You didn't leave your number with my doorman. What do you call that here? Playing hard to get. Well, I always fancy a good game, so I decided to play along and find you myself.'

I saw Elisa collapse into the couch behind him, her mouth hanging open quite unattractively, shock flashing across her face.

‘Play along?' I asked him.

‘Girls don't exactly flee from me, love, if you know what I'm saying. Hey, mate, may I get a Tanq and tonic?' he said, addressing Danny as though he were our waiter.

‘Right on, dude, coming right up,' Danny said, moving as quickly as one might expect only when the offer of drugs or girls was promised.

He turned around when Philip called, ‘And hey, something for Sonja here, too.' He turned not to me but to the girl with infinite legs. ‘Sonja, doll baby, what can I get for you? Ginger ale? Vegetable juice? Talk to me, honey.'

She stared back, uncomprehending, and I was almost – almost – amused by the idea that Philip had brought along one girl for accompaniment as he pursued another. He
was
pursuing me, wasn't he?

Elisa had returned to Davide's lap, apparently recovered from Philip's unexpected arrival. I saw her very discreetly remove a small packet of white powder from her seafoam green Balenciaga bag and slip it to Skye, who immediately bolted in the direction of the ladies' room. Ever resourceful, Elisa then stuck a hand into the bag's side pocket and distributed a few tablets among the table's remaining people. Hands simultaneously found their way to mouths, and the mystery pills were quickly washed down with champagne and vodka and what Skye – our very own drink critic – had described as ‘the only decent cosmopolitan in this entire fucking city.'

‘Oh, Pheeeely, I think it will be nice to have the tom-ahto juices,
oui
?' Sonja said, biting her lower lip seductively.

‘Hey, y'all, come and play. We've got more than enough to go around!' Elisa called over the Hotel Costes CD that might've passed for relaxed lounge music had it not been pumped out at decibels capable of drowning out a 747.

Danny left to fetch drinks for Philip and Sonja, while Penelope tried gamely to make conversation with an ever more wasted Elisa. I just stood there, acutely aware that I looked awkward and dumb, but not really possessing the faculties to move.

‘So, Philip, introduce me to your, uh, your friend,' I managed, wondering what the protocol was when the guy whose bed you'd recently shared made the effort to track you down with his girlfriend in tow.

‘Sure thing, love. Sonja, this is the smashing creature I was telling you about – the one who turned me down a few weeks ago, if you can believe it. She was completely blotto, of course; it's the only feasible explanation.' Sonja nodded, not necessarily comprehending anything. He rapidly switched to French and the only word I managed to catch was
name,
which I immediately assumed meant he was informing her he didn't know what mine was.

‘Bette,' I said, extending my hand to Sonja while ignoring Philip.

‘Son-yaaah.' She giggled, revealing shiny teeth with absolutely no nicotine stains.

‘Sonja's folks have entrusted her to me for the week while she interviews at all the agencies,' he explained in his irritatingly adorable British accent. ‘Our parents have neighboring villas in St Tropez, so she's always been like a little sister to me. Only fifteen. Can you believe it?' In all fairness, he was neither leering nor lecherous, but it felt as though he should have been.

I once again found myself in the rather uncomfortable position of being unable to speak or respond with any sort of consistency, and so I was delighted when Penelope announced that she was ready to go.

‘I know we just got here,' she said quietly in my ear, ‘but this just isn't my scene. Are you okay here by yourself? Your whole office is here. It should be fine, right?'

‘Pen, don't be crazy! I'm coming with you,' I announced, mostly eager for an excuse to leave, with only a hint of desire to stay and talk to Philip.

Danny returned, leading a cocktail waitress over to us. Philip and Sonja received their requested drinks and I was thoughtfully provided with a mini bottle of Piper and a red-striped sipping straw. Penelope received nothing.

‘Here, have a drink before we go,' I said, and thrust the bottle in her direction.

‘Bette, I'm just done, okay? I really think you should just stay and—'

‘AVERY!' Elisa shrieked all of a sudden, propelling her emaciated figure off the couch and into the arms of a tall blond guy wearing an aggressively preppy pink shirt. Both Penelope and I turned simultaneously to see her fiancé embracing my coworker as though they'd known one another for years. ‘Come here. Y'all just have to meet my favorite party boy, Avery Wainwright. Avery, this is—'

Apparently the look on both our faces was enough to stop her mid-sentence, a feat I'd never before thought possible.

‘Hey, honey, I didn't know you were coming here tonight,' Avery said, extracting himself from Elisa's signature arm-grip and enveloping Penelope in a rather awkward bear hug.

‘I didn't know you were, either,' she said quietly, not quite meeting his eyes. ‘You said you were going to dinner with the boys tonight.'

I wished I could scoop up Penelope and whisk her off to the Black Door, where we could drown that yucky feeling – he hadn't done anything technically wrong, but I knew her stomach was sinking anyway. But there was nothing to do but try and divert attention away from their two-person show.