enveloped in a cloud of smoke.
‘How do you know him?’ Elisa asked as Davide greeted everyone within a twenty-foot radius.
‘Who?’
‘The door loser.’
‘Who?’
‘The idiot working the door,’ she said, exhaling what appeared to be more than a lungful of smoke.
‘You seemed to like him enough,’ I said, remembering how warmly she’d embraced him.
‘What else am I supposed to do? It’s all part of the deal. Such a waste of a face. Do you know him?’
‘No. He was pretty hostile to me at Penelope’s engagement party a few weeks ago. Made me wait outside forever. I know I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t place him.’
‘Hmm,’ she murmured, sounding less interested with every passing second. ‘Let’s get a drink.’
For one of the hottest clubs in the country, it still didn’t look all that major. The whole place was one rectangular room, with a bar at the far end and about eight tables with banquette seats along each side. People were dancing down the middle of the room while others congregated at the bar, and only the high all-glass ceiling and rows of palm trees made me feel that we were somewhere a touch exotic.
‘Hey, guys, over here,’ called Leo, who was tucked into a couch in the far left corner, just as Elisa had requested. A hidden DJ was blasting 50 Cent, and I noticed that Skye had already settled onto some guy’s lap and was grinding rhythmically to the music. There was a sort of minibar set up on their table with scattered bottles of Veuve Clicquot, Ketel One, and Tanqueray. Carafes of orange, grapefruit, and cranberry juice were provided for mixers, as well as a couple bottles of tonic and sparkling water. Penelope had mentioned the prohibitive cost of her party, so I knew that we were paying many hundreds of dollars a bottle.
‘What can I make you to drink?’ Leo asked, coming up behind me.
I wasn’t risking another uncool drink order, so I just asked for a glass of champagne.
‘Coming right up,’ he said. ‘C’mon, let’s dance. Skye, you coming?’
Leo stood, but in the last six minutes Skye had progressed to a full-fledged make-out with the random guy she was straddling. We didn’t wait for an answer.
The crowd was almost uniformly beautiful. Everyone fell into a ten-year age range, from mid-twenties to mid-thirties, and they’d all obviously been there before. The women were tall and thin and completely comfortable baring wide expanses of thighs and ample décolletage in a decidedly untacky way. The men danced at their sides, moving their hands over hips and backs and shoulders, never perspiring, never letting a girl’s drink run low. It was nothing like the one rebellious teenage night I’d spent awkwardly camped out in a corner, terrified of the writhing masses at Limelight.
By the time I’d finished scanning the scene, Leo had already selected a beautiful dark-haired guy. The two of them danced with a model-hot straight couple, all four of them moving perfectly in tune against each other’s bodies. Occasionally they’d reposition themselves so the ‘girls’ would be facing one another, grinding.
I went to the bathroom, and before I could see who owned them I felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around me. I caught a glimpse of waist-length wavy hair, a sort of mousy light brown color, and I smelled the scent of smoke and mouthwash in equal parts.
‘Bette, Bette, I can’t believe how long it’s been!’ the girl shrieked into my shoulder. Her chin was squished against my breasts in a way that was fairly uncomfortable considering her identity was still in question. She hugged me for a few more seconds, and when she pulled away, I could not have been more surprised.
Abby Abrams.
‘Abby? Is that you? Wow, it’s been a really long time,’ I said carefully, trying not to show just how unhappy I was to see her. I had nothing but terrible memories of her from college and had somehow managed to forget she existed once we’d all moved to the city. Until now, it had been a big enough place to spend a half-decade without a single run-in. My luck had clearly expired. The five years since college graduation had made her look harder, older than her age. She’d obviously had a nose job and an extra-heavy serving of collagen in the lip area, but most noticeable were her breasts. Her now super-sized chest seemed to occupy her entire four-eleven frame.
‘I go by Abigail now, actually,’ she immediately corrected. ‘So crazy, isn’t it? Of course, I’d heard you work at Kelly, so I knew I’d run into you here sooner or later.’
‘Huh? What do you mean? How long have you been living in the city?’
She stared at me, slightly horrified, and pulled me by the wrist onto a couch. I tried to shake loose, but she maintained her death grip and leaned in much too close. ‘Are you, like, serious? Have you not heard? I’m at the vortex of the media world!’
I had to use my left hand to cover my mouth while pretending to cough so she wouldn’t see me laughing uncontrollably. Since our days at Emory, Abby had loved declaring how she was ‘at the vortex’ of something or other – sorority rush or the men’s basketball team or the college newspaper. No one really knew what it meant – it was the wrong usage, actually – but for some reason she’d latched onto the phrase and refused to let go. We’d lived on the same floor our freshman year. I’d noticed right away that she seemed to have an uncanny knack for sensing people’s insecurities. She was always grilling me on what boy I liked, only to ‘coincidentally’ be seen throwing herself on whoever I named within twelve hours of my admission. I’d overheard her once in the dorm bathroom grilling an Asian girl for tips on how to get that ‘sexy, slant-eyed look’ using an eye pencil. She’d once ‘borrowed’ one of her classmates’ history papers and turned it in as her own, only admitting to the ‘mix-up’ once the professor threatened to fail both of them. Penelope and I met Abby around the same time, in freshman writing seminar, and we immediately agreed that Abby was to be avoided. She’d been creepy from the beginning, the kind of girl who would make subtle but mean comments about your hair or boyfriend or outfit and then feign horror and regret when you inevitably took offense. We ditched her often and regularly, and she never seemed to get it. Instead, she’d purposefully make contact in order to put us down. Not surprisingly, she’d never had any real girlfriends, but she kept herself quite busy working her way through nearly every fraternity house and athletic team at Emory.
‘“Vortex of the media world,” huh? No, I didn’t know that. Where are you these days?’ I asked in the most bored tone I could muster. I vowed not to let her get under my skin.
‘Well, let’s see. I started at Elle and then made the jump to Slate – so much smarter, you know? Had a brief stint at Vanity Fair, but the office politics were so intense. Now I’m freelancing – my byline’s everywhere!’
I thought about that for a moment and couldn’t remember seeing her name … anywhere.
‘And you, missy, how’s the new job?’ she screeched.
‘Um, yeah, it’s been about a week, I guess, and it’s pretty cool so far. I’m not sure if it’s at the vortex of the public-relations world, but I like it.’
She sensed no sarcasm whatsoever, or she ignored it. ‘It’s such a hot firm; they’re repping all the best clients these days. Ohmigod, I absolutely
