involuntarily sucked in my gut.
Before I could point out something nasty, like how five pounds on her frame would look like twenty, she said, ‘Hey, so tell me, have you spoken to Cameron recently? That was your boyfriend’s name, right? I heard something about him leaving you for a model, but of course I didn’t believe it.’
So much for not sinking to her level.
‘Cameron? I didn’t think you knew him. Then again, he is a guy who’s breathing and living in New York City, so …’
‘Oh, Bette, it’s really so great to see you,’ she said, ignoring my comment. ‘Let me take you to lunch, okay? We have so much to catch up on. I’ve been meaning to call you forever, but you just vanished since college! Who do you hang out with? Still that quiet girl? She was so sweet. What was her name?’
‘Oh, you mean Penelope? She’s gorgeous and engaged and, yes, I still see her. I’ll be sure to tell her you said hello.’
‘Yes, yes, definitely do that. So, I’ll call you at work next week and we’ll go somewhere fab for lunch, ’kay? Congratulations on finally leaving that dreadful bank and joining the real world. … I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone. There are just, like, so many people you need to meet!’
I was preparing what would surely be an even wittier response when Elisa materialized beside us. I never thought I’d be so happy to see her.
‘Elisa, this is Abby,’ I said, waving my arm at her listlessly.
‘It’s Abigail, actually,’ Abby interjected.
‘Right, uh-huh. And, Abby’ – I looked at her pointedly and continued— ‘this is my coworker Elisa.’
‘Hey, we’ve met before, haven’t we?’ Elisa mumbled, her front teeth clamped around a cigarette as she dug in her bag for a lighter.
‘Totally,’ Abby said. She plucked a matchbook off the nearest table and gallantly lit Elisa’s cigarette. ‘Do you have another ciggie for me?’
They made the exchange and began chattering about some new gossip roundup called New York Scoop. I’d heard it discussed in the office. Apparently, even though it had been published for years, nobody had cared about it until the arrival of a saucy new column written by someone using the unclever pseudonym Ellie Insider. It was published twice a week in both the online and print versions, although Ellie’s column – unlike similar Page Six columns by Cindy Adams or Liz Smith – did not have an accompanying photo of the writer. Now Abby was insisting that it was the hottest thing to hit media circles in years, but Elisa was saying that, according to her sources, only select groups from the fashion and entertainment world were reading it obsessively – although she predicted others would soon catch on. This conversation topic remained interesting for a solid minute and a half, before I had the blessed realization that I could simply excuse myself and leave.
It wasn’t until then that I realized I was standing alone in a swarm of gorgeous people who all just happened to have amazing rhythm, and I couldn’t move. Dancing had never been my thing. I’d somehow managed to shuffle my way through a few painful slow songs at high-school dances (always trying desperately to avoid the eight-minute rendition of ‘Stairway to Heaven’) and hop drunkenly along to the jukeboxes at our college dive bars, but this was truly intimidating. Before I could even manage to sway, I was overwhelmed with the same sixth-grade fears. It happened in a fraction of a second, but the feeling that everyone was staring at my baby fat and braces came rushing back. I needed to leave, or at the very least get back to the table and avoid the hell of dancing, but just as I made up my mind to escape, I felt a hand on the small of my back.
‘Hi there,’ said a tall guy with a British accent and a tan so perfect it could have only come from the great indoors. ‘Dance?’
I had to consciously keep from turning around to see if he might be talking to someone else, and before I could even worry about my smoky breath or my shirt, which was damp with perspiration, he had pulled me toward him and started moving. Dancing? We were dancing! I hadn’t been this close to someone since the last time a pervert on the subway had pressed up against me on the morning commute. Re-lax, have fun, re-lax, have fun, I chanted silently, hoping to remain calm and cool. But I didn’t need to do much self-convincing at all; my brain checked out as my body snuggled closer to the golden-skinned god who was offering me another glass of champagne. I sipped that one and then downed the next, and before I knew what was happening, I was perched on his lap, laughing with the table about some scandal or another while the gorgeous stranger played with my hair and lit my cigarettes.
I’d entirely forgotten I was inappropriately dressed in black, that I’d just been insulted by the pint-sized bitch who used to torment me in school, and that I possessed nothing resembling rhythm. I remember watching, slightly reaction-impaired, as one of the Englishman’s friends came over and asked who might be the new, charming creature on his lap. I didn’t even realize they were talking about me until he hugged me from behind and said, ‘She’s my discovery – brill, isn’t she?’ And I, the charming creature, the brill discovery, giggled delightedly, grabbed his face between both my hands, and kissed him squarely on the mouth. Which is, thankfully, the very last thing I remember at all.
The sound of an angry male voice jolted me awake. I wondered briefly if there was actually someone standing above the bed, driving a shovel into my head. The throbbing was so steady it was almost comforting, until I realized that I was not, in fact, in my own bed. Nor was last night’s all-black-all-wrong outfit in sight; instead, I was wearing a pair of unnervingly tight gray Calvin Klein boxer briefs and a giant white T-shirt that read SPORTS CLUB LA. Don’t panic, I instructed myself, trying to make out the words of the faraway male voice. Think. Where were you and what were you doing last night? Considering that I was not in the general habit of blacking out and waking up in strange places, I congratulated myself on a good start. Let’s see. Elisa called, dinner at Cipriani’s, cab to Bungalow 8, everyone at a table, dancing with … some tan British guy. Shit. The last thing I remember is dancing with a nameless man in a club and now I’m in a bed – albeit a huge, comfortable one with extremely soft sheets – I don’t recognize.
‘How many times do I have to tell you? You simply cannot wash Pratesi sheets in hot water!’ The male voice was shouting now. I jumped out of bed and checked for escape routes, but a quick glance out the window told me we were at least twenty floors off the ground.
‘Yes, sir, I am sorry, sir,’ said a whimpering female voice with a Spanish accent.
‘I’m keen to believe that, Manuela, I really am. I’m a reasonable bloke, but this just cannot continue. I’m afraid I have to dismiss you.’
‘But, sir, if I can just—’
‘I’m sorry, Manuela, but my decision is final. I’ll pay you your wages for the rest of the week, but that will be all.’ I heard some rustling and muffled crying, and then there was nothing but silence until a door slammed shut a few minutes later.
My stomach sent me the signal that it wasn’t going to tolerate its hangover much longer, and I glanced around frantically to locate the bathroom. I was rooting around for my clothes, debating whether it was better for him to see me half-clothed or throwing up since there clearly wasn’t time to remedy both issues, when he walked in.
‘Hello,’ he said,
