My first reaction, of course, was to hunt Abby down and subject her to a creatively torturous death, but it was difficult to consider any particulars because I was having trouble breathing. I gasped quite dramatically for a few moments. In some weird way I appreciated Abby’s self-awareness: if she had just attributed all those things to herself instead of to me, I would have applauded her honesty. But this insight was brief, vanishing the moment Kelly appeared at the doorway of her office, clutching a copy of the paper and grinning so maniacally that I instinctively backed away in my rolling chair.
‘Bette! You saw it, right? You read it, didn’t you?’ she asked frantically, rushing toward me with all the grace and enthusiasm of a linebacker.
She interpreted my dulled reaction time as a denial and literally threw the paper on my desk. ‘Didn’t you at least read the Dirt Alert?’ she shrieked. ‘The girls called me at home this morning to tell me about this one.’
‘Kelly, I, uh, I’m just sick about this—’
‘You minx! Here I was this whole time thinking you were this good little worker bee, slaving away at a bank, living a decidedly unfabulous life, and now I find out that you’re a secret party girl? Bette, seriously, I can’t tell you what a shock this is. We’d all had you pegged as, well, as a little reserved, shall we say – no offense, of course. I just didn’t think you had it in you. God only knows where you’ve been hiding the last couple years. Do you realize you’re a full sidebar? Here, read it.’
‘I’ve read it,’ I said numbly, no longer shocked that Kelly was delighted instead of horrified at such coverage. ‘You know none of that stuff is true, don’t you? You see, the girl who wrote that actually went to school with me and she—’
‘Bette, you’re a sidebar. Say it after me. Sidebar. In New York Scoop! There’s a huge picture of you, and you look like a rock star. You are a star, Bette. Congratulations! This so calls for a celebration!’
Kelly scampered off, presumably to plan an early-morning champagne toast, while I was left to consider the possibility of simply flying to Istanbul and staying there forever. Within minutes my phone was ringing off the hook with all sorts of unsavory calls, each hideous in its own special way. My father called immediately to announce that even though they were home on winter break, one of his students had emailed the article to him; this was followed by my mother saying she’d overheard some volunteers at her crisis hotline wondering when I would ever own up to the fact that I was dating a Jew-hating slave driver, and did I want to talk to someone about what appeared to be my ‘promiscuity/self-worth’ issues? A woman left a message offering her services as my publicist, kindly mentioning that this would never have happened had I been on her watch, and a couple gossip columnists from small, local papers across the country wanted to know if I would submit to phone interviews to discuss such crucial issues as my opinions on Brad and Jen’s breakup, my favorite party spot in New York, and my evaluation of Philip’s sexual orientation. Megu called on Michael’s behalf to say that if I wanted to talk about anything, they wanted me to know that they were both there for me. Elisa called from a cab on her way to the office to congratulate me on my sidebar status. So did Philip’s assistant, Marta. Simon called while I was riding in a Town Car to the airport. He declared, rather endearingly in light of our earlier conversations, that not one respectable person read New York Scoop, and not to worry because he was sure no one would ever even see it.
I decided to ignore everyone, but then I remembered that I was leaving the country and couldn’t really avoid calling my parents one last time to say good-bye. I opted for my father’s cell phone, figuring that it wouldn’t be on and I could leave a message for both of them, wishing them a happy new year and telling them I’d call upon my return. No such luck.
‘Well, look who it is. Anne, come here, our famous daughter’s on the phone. Bettina, your mother wants to talk to you.’
I heard some shuffling and a couple of beeps as they accidentally bumped numbers on the keypad before my mother’s voice rang out loud and clear.
‘Bettina? Why are they writing all those things about you? Is it true? Tell me what’s what because I don’t even know what to tell people when they ask. I certainly never would’ve thought a single word of it was valid, but ever since I heard about that Weston boy …’
‘Mom, I can’t really get into it now. I’m on my way to the airport. Of course it was all lies – how could you think otherwise?’
She sighed, and I couldn’t tell if it was out of relief or frustration. ‘Bettina, honey, you can understand how a mother might wonder, especially when she finds out her daughter suddenly lives a strange and mysterious life.’
‘It might be strange, Mom, but it’s not mysterious. I promise. I’ll explain it all when I get back, but right now I have to get a move on or I’ll be late for the flight. Say good-bye to Dad for me. I’ll call you guys when I’m back on Sunday, okay? I love you.’
There was a moment of hesitation while she decided whether or not to push the issue, and then another sigh. ‘All right, we’ll speak to you then. See as much as possible, dear, and be safe. And try to keep your private life out of the public eye, okay?’
All in all, it had been one solidly shitty morning, but thankfully I had a new problem to take my mind off the sidebar: Louis Vuitton. Lots of it. Carts full of it, actually, more trunks and rolling suitcases and valet cases and garment bags and carry-on duffels and clutch purses sporting the interlocking LVs than could surely reside in the flagship store in Milan or the behemoth boutique on Fifth Avenue. Apparently, everyone on board had gotten the memo that Louis Vuitton was the luggage of choice. Three porters in burgundy uniforms were struggling to move it from the subtly named Million Air terminal to the belly of the Gulfstream, but their progress was slow. Elisa, Davide, Leo, and I had taken a limo from the city to Teterboro a few hours early to make sure everything was ready for the arrival of the helicopter that was bringing Philip and his group from the Wall Street helipad to the airport.
Meanwhile, since I was blessed with stimulating and challenging tasks like overseeing the loading of the Louis Vuittons and ensuring that there was a sufficient supply of Evian facial misters onboard, I didn’t have much time to stress about being portrayed as a lying, cheating prostitute in what was now the hippest, most coveted gossip sheet available, one that had found its way into the hands of every single one of my friends, coworkers, and family members. We were nearing our scheduled five o’clock departure time – with everyone onboard except one of our last-minute invites, a socialite and her ‘guest’ who’d called to say they were stuck in traffic at the Lincoln Tunnel – when the first crisis arose.
There were so many suitcases that the porters couldn’t fit all the luggage on the plane. ‘We’re at full capacity on the flight today,’ one of them told me. ‘You can figure that Gulfstream Fives can usually handle six average-sized or four oversized pieces per person, but this group has gone way over.’
‘How far over?’
‘Well,’ he said, crinkling his forehead. ‘Y’all average four oversized bags apiece. One gal has seven, including a trunk so big we needed to bring a crane from the hangar to haul ’er onboard.’
‘What do you propose we do?’ I asked.
‘Well, ma’am, the best-case scenario would be to eliminate some bags.’
Knowing full well that we’d be resorting to the worst-case scenario, I thought I’d try to be cooperative and see if anyone was willing to part with some possessions. I climbed aboard the jet, borrowed the intercom handset from the copilot, and explained our situation over the loudspeaker. Not surprisingly, it was met with jeers and catcalls.
‘You’ve, like, got to be kidding,’ Oliver said, laughing hysterically. ‘It’s a fucking private plane, for chrissake. Tell them to figure it out.’ Oliver was accustomed to making such decrees: he was the founder of a hedge fund so hugely successful that Gotham Magazine had named him Manhattan’s Most Desirable Bachelor of 2004.
&
nbsp; ‘If you think for one single second I’m going without my shoes, you’re very mistaken,’ Camilla, a cosmetics heiress, called out between sips of Cristal. ‘Four days, twelve outfit combinations, and two possible shoe changes per outfit. No way I’m leaving anything behind.’
‘I want every last one of those trunks put on this plane,’ announced Alessandra. ‘If I remembered to bring empty trunks for all the stuff I buy, then the least they can do is figure out how to get them there.’ Her mother was a notorious shopper, a woman infamous for spending millions a year on clothes and shoes and bags, Imelda Marcos–style. Clearly, that apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
‘Stop worrying so much, love. Come over here and have yourself a little drinky. Let the crew handle that – it’s what we pay them for.’ This was from Philip, of course, who was sprawled on one of the cream-colored leather couches, his checkered Armani shirt opened one button too far. Elisa appeared equally unconcerned as she perched on Davide’s lap, concentrating intently on hooking her iPod to the speakers in the cabin’s stereo system.
Fair enough. If no one else cared, neither did I. Besides, as long as they didn’t leave behind my single silver Samsonite, it really wasn’t my problem. I accepted a glass of bubbly from a flight attendant whose perfect figure was only accentuated by her navy uniform and listened to one of the pilots – who also looked like a movie star, complete with chiseled Brad-esque jaw and subtle highlights – give us the rundown on the flight. It was only slightly unnerving to survey both passengers and crew and realize that all involved looked like they had stepped directly out of an episode of the Fabulous Life Of, except for yours truly.
‘Flying time should be ten hours with minimal turbulence as we cross the Atlantic,’ the pilot said with a heart-stopping grin and some sort of indeterminate European accent. No one that good-looking should be responsible for our lives, I thought. Someone slightly uglier and not as cool was likely to drink less and get more sleep.
‘Hey, Helmut, why don’t we divert this baby to Mykonos and call it a day?’ Philip called out to the pilot.
Cheers went up all around.
‘Mykonos?’ asked Camilla. ‘That’s, like, so much more appealing than Beirut. It’s at least civilized. There’s a Nobu there.’
Helmut laughed again. ‘Just say the word, kids, and I’ll take ’er wherever you want to go.’
A woman’s voice rose above the others. It was coming up the stairs from the tarmac. ‘We’re going to Mykonos?’ we heard her ask someone, though we couldn’t yet see who it was. ‘I thought we were going to Istanbul. Jesus Christ, my fucking publicist can’t get anything right. I was all set to buy a Turkish carpet!’ she wailed.
It occurred to me that this must be Isabelle, our missing socialite with no job and certainly no apparent need for a publicist. Just as I was mentally congratulating her for knowing that Istanbul was in Turkey, a couple strolled aboard and looked around – a couple that just so happened to consist, as couples often do, of two people. It took my brain a second to register that the male half of this particular couple was none other than Sammy. My Sammy.
‘Isabelle, honey, of course we’re going to Istanbul, just like you were told. The boys are only joking – you know how they get when you mention the Greek Islands! Leave your stuff right there and come have a drink.’ Elisa rushed to comfort the woman I immediately recognized from the park. ‘And introduce us to your gorgeous friend.’
At this Sammy appeared to freeze, looking so rigid and uncomfortable I thought he might collapse. He hadn’t seen me yet, hadn’t taken in the entire group, but he did manage to mutter something. ‘I’m Sammy. From Bungalow 8?’ he said, his voice strangely high-pitched.
Elisa stared at him blankly while Isabelle struggled to haul aboard a massive Louis Vuitton duffel. She smacked him on the shoulder and nodded toward the bag, which he effortlessly lifted and placed under one of the leather banquettes.
‘Bungalow? Did we meet there one night?’ Elisa asked with a confused expression. I flashed back to the half-dozen times I’d gone there with her and watched as she had flirted with Sammy, hugged him, thanked him, and generally acted as though they were the best of friends. As far as I could tell, though, this wasn’t an act; she really had no clue who he was.
By that point everyone’s attention had been diverted to the unfolding awkwardness and all must have been wondering why, exactly, this very attractive guy looked so damn familiar when they just couldn’t place him.
‘I work there,’ he said quietly, looking her directly in her face.
‘At Bungalow 8?’ Elisa asked, appearing more baffled than ever. ‘Oh, I get it! You mean you spend so much time there that it’s become like an office to you! Yeah, I totally know what you mean. It’s like that for us, too, isn’t it, Bette?’ She giggled and sipped and appeared relieved to have solved the puzzle.
A jolt went through Sammy at the sound of my name, but he kept his gaze on Elisa’s face, as though he were physically unable to divert his eyes. A full ten seconds passed before he turned his head slowly and looked at me. The smile that followed was sad but not surprised.
‘Hey,’ he said, but it came out sounding more like a whisper. Isabelle had settled in next to Elisa and everyone else had resumed chatting, which only served to make the moment feel intensely intimate.
‘Hi,’ I said, trying to stay casual while my mind frantically tried to process this new development. When Kelly had given us the final list for the group, she’d mentioned that Isabelle Vandemark had agreed to come only if she could bring her assistant. Naturally, Kelly had agreed. Did that mean that Isabelle wasn’t Sammy’s girlfriend? I had to know.
‘There’s a seat right here,’ I said, waving in the general direction to my left. ‘If you need one.’
He glanced at Isabelle, who was talking to Elisa, and tentatively began stepping over legs and carry-ons to make his way toward me. He stood in stark contrast to the flamboyant Leo and the meticulously dressed Philip, somehow more masculine and vulnerable at the same time. When he fell into the leather armchair next to mine, it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the plush cabin.
‘Bette,’ he started, talking so quietly I had to lean forward to hear him. ‘I had no idea you were going to be here. I’m sorry about this. I really didn’t know this was your trip.’
‘What? She just told you that you guys were going to Istanbul for a few days?’ I asked, holding back tears.
‘Yes, if you can believe it, that’s exactly what happened. She mentioned something last week about wanting me to go with her on some sort of press junket, but she didn’t tell me we were definitely going until yesterday. I didn’t really ask any questions. I just kind of packed my bag.’
‘You just go wherever she tells you to go? What about work? What about school? I don’t understand how you can just leave everything because she wants you to. No one else here has a job, it’s not so weird that they just jet off to Istanbul when they feel like it. Does that mean you quit?’
He looked sheepish at first, and then his face hardened. ‘No, they understand at work. Sometimes these things come up.’
‘Oh, well, that makes sense,’ I said nastily. ‘Now you’re being perfectly clear.’
‘Bette, I’m sorry, it’s complicated. She’s complicated.’
I softened a bit when I saw how miserable he was. ‘Look, Sammy, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I’m just surprised, that’s all.’ It occurred to me that, unfortunately, he owed me no explanation whatsoever. Since The Kiss, I’d only seen him out at night. One of those times he was being hassled by a group of khaki-clad bankers who weren’t pleased to be neglected on the sidewalk line. He’d merely glanced at me, smiled thinly, and lifted the rope so I could pass by.
‘Let’s forget it for now, okay? I’ve had a hell of a day trying to get her here,’ he said and closed his eyes.
I thought about the horrifying Dirt Alert, but refrained from one-upping him on bad days.
The crew worked out the luggage situation and after a few frighteningly abridged safety instructions from the flight attendant, we lifted off into a moonless sky. Within minutes, Elisa began divvying up a small mountain of pills on the coffee table in front of her and auctioning them off, Sotheby’s-style.
‘Uppers, downers, what can I get everyone? Do we want to party or sleep?’ she asked the already-bored group. ‘This is off the record, right?’ She turned to one of the reporters, who just nodded listlessly.
‘Sleep,’ Isabelle whined. ‘I had the most hellish week ever, and I’m exhausted.’
‘Definitely sleep,’ Leo agreed, kicking off his Prada sneakers and cracking his powdered toes in the air.
Davide nodded, and even Philip concurred that it might be wise to sleep on the flight since their sole task for the next four days was to party.
‘You guys are no fun!’ Elisa baby-talked, shaking her head in a show of mock disappointment. ‘But if that’s what everyone wants … how can I help?’
‘What do you have?’ Emanuel, the Argentinean billionaire, asked with little interest. He appeared barely able to lift his face from the bowl-sized martini glass he was holding with both hands.
‘You name it, I got it. Just tell me what you need. We have to get rid of all this before we land, anyway. I saw Midnight Express and I want no part of that,’ she announced.
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