Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (81 page)

‘I'm so sorry, Pen. I promise to make it up to you.'

‘Don't worry about it. Go on, take that seat over there next to Avery's cute single friend and at least enjoy the time you have.' She was saying all the right things, but the tightness of her mouth made her words seem forced.

Avery's decidedly uncute single friend immediately started reminiscing about his wild and crazy frat days at Michigan while I quickly worked my way through drinks two and three. One of Penelope's friends from the bank, a girl I didn't know when I was there but who seemed to be with Pen all the time now, made an impromptu toast that was adorably funny and charming. I tried to suppress my bitterness when Penelope threw her arms around the girl, and I insisted to myself that it was my paranoia speaking and that no one was staring at me, thinking me an awful friend. The half-hour passed in a split second. I thought it better to steal away than make a big production and explain myself to everyone, so I tried to catch Penelope's eye but simply left when it seemed like she was deliberately avoiding me.

On the sidewalk, I offered a dollar to a well-dressed man for a cigarette, but he refused and tossed me one for free, adding a pitiful headshake. There was no car in sight and I thought about going back in for a few more minutes, but just then a very familiar-looking lime green Vespa pulled up alongside the curb.

‘Hey, love, let's do this,' Philip said, flipping up the screen on his helmet and plucking the cigarette from my fingers for a drag. He kissed me roughly on the mouth, which, incidentally, hung open from shock, and dismounted to get the second helmet from underneath his seat.

‘What are you doing here?' I asked, inhaling sharply on my cigarette when he handed it back.

‘What does it look like I'm doing here? It seems we are obliged to attend. So let us hurry this along, okay? Nice suit.' He looked me up and down and snickered.

His cell phone rang to the tune of ‘Like a Virgin' – it was my turn to snicker – and I heard him tell someone we'd be there in ten minutes.

‘I'm actually waiting for a car that Elisa's sending,' I said.

‘Afraid not, love. Elisa sent me. We're going to pay a visit to my dear friend Caleb, and Elisa's going to bring the business blokes to us.'

This was not making any sense, but he did seem to be working on direct orders from Elisa. ‘Why are we going to your friend's apartment?' I asked.

‘He's having a little birthday gathering at his place. Costume party, actually. Let's go.' It was only then that I noticed he was in full seventies disco gear, from brown polyester bell-bottoms to a skintight white collared shirt and some sort of bandanna tied around his head.

‘Philip, you just said we had to meet Kelly and the BlackBerry people. We can't be going to a costume party right now. I don't understand!'

‘Hop on, love, and stop stressing. I'm handling it.' He revved the Vespa, if such a thing is possible, and tapped the seat behind him. I hopped on as gracefully as my pantsuit would allow and wrapped my arms around his waist. His rock-hard abs pushed back.

I still don't know why I turned around. I don't remember thinking anything was out of the ordinary – if you discount the fact that I was being kidnapped by a raging metrosexual celebrity on a Vespa – and yet I looked over my shoulder before we flew off, only to see Penelope standing on the curb. She was holding out her hand, my scarf draped limply over it, her mouth open, staring at my back. My eyes met hers for just the briefest moment before Philip revved the scooter and it shot forward, away from Penelope, leaving no time to explain anything at all.

‘Will you just relax, love? I told you, I'm handling it.' Philip parked the Vespa on the sidewalk carpet outside a beautiful West Village apartment building and slipped the doorman some cash, which was met with a discreet nod. I was struck by the sudden realization that this was the first time Philip and I had been alone together since the morning I woke up in his apartment.

‘Relax? You're asking me to relax?' I shrieked. ‘Excuse me, sir, could you please hail me a cab?' I asked in the direction of the doorman, who immediately looked to Philip for permission.

‘Bette, just chill the fuck out. You don't need a cab. The party's here. Now come inside, and let's get you a little drinky, okay?'

Drinky? Did I just hear that? This guy has shagged every attractive female in Manhattan between the ages of sixteen and forty-five and he says ‘drinky'?
I couldn't dwell on this disturbing development, though, as I had less than ten minutes to get to Soho House.

He continued. ‘Elisa called and I told her I couldn't possibly go; I'm expected at Caleb's party. She asked if she could bring the BlackBerry people here, said that they'd think it was cool to see a “real downtown party” or some bullshit like that. So they'll be here any minute. This is where we're
supposed
to be, okay?'

I looked at him dubiously, wondering how this had all unfolded. Was Elisa diverting me deliberately? I considered that for a moment but then realized there was no way she could sabotage this party without Kelly knowing, and besides, why would she want to? Granted, she might have wanted Philip at one point, and maybe she'd seemed less friendly lately, but I figured it was just because we were all really busy at work, planning individual events in addition to laying all the groundwork for the
Playboy
party. All I wanted to do was call Penelope, explain that I hadn't lied to get out of her dinner so I could run off into the night with this sad excuse for a boyfriend. Philip had already strolled past the doorman and was waiting impatiently for me to join him, and as soon as we stepped into the elevator, true to form, he attacked me.

‘Bette, I simply cannot wait to take you home later and shag you all night,' he crooned into my hair, his hands running all over my body and sliding under my shirt. ‘Even in that silly getup you're hot.'

I pushed his grabby hands away and sighed. ‘Let's just get through this, okay?'

‘Why do you get your knickers in such a twist, love? Oh, I see now, you'd like it if I tried a touch harder. I am most willing to accommodate. …' And with that, he thrusted his entire lower half into mine with minimal skill and his characteristic tongue lashing. Had Gwyneth really endured such treatment? Was it actually possible he'd slept with so many girls only once that none had bothered to tell him that he had no idea what he was doing? It was sickening, as was the sudden realization that Philip only pursued me with this passion when he knew we couldn't go through with it. Tonight was no different; there was no risk of me tearing off my clothes and pleading for sex when the elevator doors would swing open at any moment. Which they did, directly into Caleb's penthouse apartment. A quick and subtle backhanded wipe across my face and neck removed most of the saliva, and I was as ready as I'd ever be.

‘Philip, baby, come on over!' a lanky guy with long hair called from the couch, where he was hunched over a mirror, rolled-up bill in hand. What appeared to be a naked girl was draped across his lap. She stared up at him with a look that surpassed admiration and approached worship. He snorted quickly, effortlessly, handed the girl the bill, and then pulled his mask back over his face.

‘Cally, Cal-man, this is Bette. Bette, Caleb, the thrower of this most fabulous party, and as of today, a gentleman no longer in his twenties.'

‘Hi, Caleb, nice to meet you,' I said to the mask. ‘Thanks for inviting me.'

All three of them looked at each other and then at me and started laughing. ‘Bette, why don't you come join us here for a little taste, and then we'll head upstairs? Everyone's on the roof.'

‘Uh, I'm good, thanks,' I said, unable to take my eyes off the girl. She finished the two small lines Caleb had left for her and rolled onto her back. Technically, she wasn't completely naked, if you counted the swatch of fuchsia silk that hung low on her hips and covered only the front of her pelvis, leaving her entire backside bare. The thong I thought she'd been wearing when I first saw her turned out to be nothing more than a tan line, and her breasts had long since broken free from their own silk constraints, a contraption shaped something like a bra but with no actual hooks, straps, or shape. She curled up in a ball with a happy smile and sipped her champagne, announcing that she was just going to party downstairs a little longer before joining everyone else.

‘Suit yourself, babe,' Caleb said, motioning for us to follow him. We stepped back in the elevator, where he used a special key that allowed us to select the Terrace button. I almost passed out when the doors opened again. I don't know what exactly I'd been expecting, but this sure wasn't it. Perhaps I'd thought it was going to be like Michael's Halloween party, when a bunch of his friends from UBS and college had gathered in his fourth-floor walk-up. The kitchen table had held bottles of cheap booze and mixers and a few cereal bowls of candy corn, pretzels, and salsa. Some guy in drag announced that pizza was on the way to the assorted costumed revelers, who sat around talking about college, who had gotten engaged or promoted, and how badly President Bush was fucking up in Iraq.

This scene was very, very different. The rooftop itself looked like an exact replica of Skybar in LA, all sleek and chic and streamlined, with low-rider lounging beds and heat lamps and geometrical candelabras casting a soft glow over everything. A frosted-glass bar peeked out from behind some sort of intimidating vegetation, and a DJ booth had been installed in another corner, mostly out of sight so as not to block one inch of the incredible city views that spanned below us. Nobody seemed much interested in the Hudson right then, though, and I immediately understood why: the flesh on display was far more compelling than some river, and far more expansive.

There are parties and there are costume parties, and then there's what was unfolding on Caleb's rooftop, something that by definition would technically qualify as a costume party but what in reality looked more like a revival of
Hair
– plus La Perla lingerie, minus tacky sixties updos. I felt an immediate desire to strip off my shoes and suit and roam around in nothing but my bra and underwear, if for no other reason than an intense desire to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Even then I'd surely be wearing more clothing than any other woman here, but at least I wouldn't stand out quite so much.

Caleb had disappeared briefly and returned with a glass of champagne for me and a tumbler of something amber-colored for Philip. I downed it in one long gulp and gaped openly at the girl he'd brought over to meet us. The introduction was preceded by a long and very visual kiss during which both Caleb and the girl opened their mouths so wide and with such tongue enthusiasm that I almost felt like an equal participant.

‘Mmm,' he murmured, playfully biting her neck after reclaiming his tongue from the depths of her face. ‘Guys, this is … the most gorgeous girl at the party. How hot is she? Seriously, have you seen anything so stunning in your lives?'

‘Gorgeous,' I concurred, as though she weren't there. ‘You're absolutely right.' The girl apparently wasn't bothered that Caleb appeared to have forgotten – or never discovered – her name. Not so weird, I figured; it seemed like lots of people hung out together but didn't really know one another's names. The music was always too loud and everyone was usually wasted, but mostly it was because no one cared. ‘I'll remember her name when I read it on Page Six,' I'd heard Elisa announce on the subject. This girl didn't seem to mind much, perhaps because she didn't appear to comprehend a single word we were exchanging. She just giggled and occasionally adjusted her outfit and concentrated very hard on touching Caleb as often and as suggestively as possible. Yet another guy in drag (this one sporting a full-body mask with bare breasts, shimmery eyeliner, and a black-and-white-checked headdress à la Yasir Arafat) came over to announce that the cars would arrive in just a few minutes to take us to Bungalow 8 for Caleb's ‘real' party.

‘It will hopefully be an improvement over my rubbish birthday party last year,' Philip replied.

‘Why rubbish?' I asked, not caring but trying to appear involved so my staring wouldn't be quite so obvious.

‘The fuckwits at the door let everyone in, and within an hour it was overrun with B&T. Bad times.'

‘Was,' agreed the she-male Arafat. ‘Bad times all around. Tonight will be better. That big one, what's his name, Sammy's at the door. He's no genius, but he's not a complete fucking idiot, either.'

Sammy! I wanted to sing out his name, hug the guy who'd just uttered it, dance in little circles at the thought of seeing him. But first I had to get through this.

‘So, what are you?' the turbaned guy asked me.

‘She's going as an uptight bi … businesswoman,' Philip kindly answered on my behalf. And as I looked around, I wondered what it was about costume parties that always made guys dress like girls and girls dress like sluts. Regardless of the coolness of the party or the price of the alcohol served, it happened each and every time, without fail. I looked around for the scantily clad kittens, nurses, princesses, singers, French maids, cheerleaders, Catholic schoolgirls, devils, angels, or dancers, but these girls didn't bother with such repressive titles. None of their outfits were technically costumes, just an amalgamation of shiny fabrics and sparkly accessories designed to showcase some of the best bodies God had ever created.

A brunette reclining on one of the beds was wearing a pair of flowing magenta gypsy pants that billowed out from a low-slung belt and were gathered together at her ankles, the transparent material allowing us to view her diamond-studded thong, which was tucked between perfectly firm butt cheeks. On top she wore a diamond-studded bra that created cleavage in that flawless way that said, ‘Look at me' but not ‘I'm an aspiring Pamela Anderson.' Her friend, looking all of sixteen and lying next to her, playing with her hair, wore a pair of silver fishnets that stretched so far across her infinite legs that they looked partially shredded. She had pulled on a pair of red leather boy shorts over them, which dipped so low at the hips and so high at the thigh that she'd definitely needed to make a special request at the waxer's. The only accompaniment to the ‘costume' were the silver fringe tassels hanging from the nipples of her apple-sized breasts and a giant tiara of multicolored feathers and fur that cascaded down her back. I've never had a single sexual impulse toward another woman in all my twenty-seven years, and yet I thought I would sleep with either one of them right then.