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, I 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 SoHo, 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! I 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. I 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 his pretty face toward her neck again. ‘Come in when you are finito.’ Something about Davide’s accent still didn’t sound quite right. It seemed to meander from French to Italian and back to French again.
‘I’m finished,’ she sang merrily, tossing her cigarette underneath a table. ‘Let’s go in, okay?’
We had a table for six tucked in the back corner. Elisa immediately informed me that marginally cool people obsess about getting a table in the front of the restaurant, but the truly cool request tables in the back. Skye, Davide, and Leo comprised the rest of the group that had worked on the Candace Bushnell book party the night before, and I was relieved to see that Elisa and Davide were the only couple. They were all sipping drinks and arguing about something, looking relaxed in the way that only the truly confident ever can. And naturally, no one was wearing black. Skye and Elisa were wearing almost identical short dresses, one in a bright coral color with gorgeous silver heels and the other in a perfect aquamarine with matching metallic
