‘No one does,’ she said, clucking quietly. ‘I have no idea what her problem is, although I guess it’s not such a stretch to imagine her printing all this trash about you when she used to steal people’s papers in college and pass them off as her own, right? Do you remember sophomore year when she skipped her grandmother’s funeral because they were interviewing new columnists for the paper? The girl is seriously disturbed. Avery always said she’s the type who’d sell out her own parents to get ahead, and I think he’s right. He slept with her, of course, so I guess he’d know.’
‘What? Avery had sex with Abby? I didn’t know that.’
‘I’m not totally sure, but I’m assuming he has. All of his friends did. Hell, every guy we know did her in college. I think I’d rather not know for sure, but if I had to bet …’
I swallowed a wave of nausea at the thought and mustered the energy to say, ‘So how is that fiancé of yours, anyway? You said he was out of town?’
Her sigh said more than any of the words that followed. ‘He’s fine, I guess. I haven’t seen a lot of him, that’s for sure. I thought it would change once he was back in school and had to be on campus every day, but it’s only given him more free time to stay out late. He’s met a whole new crew of friends, so I guess that’s good.’
‘Do you like any of their girlfriends?’
She snorted. ‘What girlfriends? They’re all twenty-two-year-old kids, right out of school. He acts like he’s the godfather and they’re his acolytes. It’s slightly disturbing, but how can I say anything?’
Well, that made two of us. I tried to steer the conversation to something more neutral. ‘I’m sure it’s just a period of adjustment. Are you guys at least exploring the city? I know LA’s no New York, but there’s got to be something to do there, right?’
‘I go to the beach occasionally. Shop at Whole Foods, signed up for yoga, doing the whole Jamba Juice thing. Interviewing a lot. I know something will come up, but so far there’s been nothing interesting. Avery’ll be back the day after tomorrow, so maybe we’ll take a little road trip to Laguna. Or Mexico again – that was nice. If he doesn’t have to study the entire time.’ She sounded so listless that I wanted to cry for her.
‘Where is he, honey? How long has he been gone?’
‘Oh, he’s just back in New York for a few days. Family business of some sort – a meeting with his trust administrator and accountant or something like that. I’m not sure what, exactly, but I had an interview today, so he said he could handle it alone and there was no reason for me to fly all the way across the country.’
‘Got it. Well, I wish you were here to come with me to the Playboy party. I’d put you on Bunny patrol, have you scout the room and make sure all their tails stay attached. Sounds awesome, huh?’
‘Sure does. Bette, I miss you a lot.’
‘I miss you, too, Pen. And if you feel like it, get on a plane and come home for a visit. You didn’t move to Guam, you’re just on the left coast. If you’re feeling a little homesick, we’d love to see you for a visit. Maybe you and me and Abby can go out for lunch and then read in the paper the next day that we were both seen having sex with the Giants’ entire defensive line. Doesn’t that sound fab?’
She laughed and I wanted to hug her. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not necessarily opposed to having sex with the entire team. That’s not bad, is it?’
‘It’s sure not, honey, it’s sure not. Listen, I’ve got to try and sleep a little because tomorrow’s going to be brutally long, but can we talk when the party’s finally over?’
‘Sure. It’s just so good to hear your voice. Good luck getting through tomorrow night with no major scandals. I love you, B.’
‘I love you, too, Pen. Things are going to get better from here, I promise. I miss you, and I’ll talk to you soon.’
I placed the receiver back on its base and crawled into bed to finish the movie, happy just knowing that Penelope and I would somehow be okay.
30
‘Check, one-two-three, check. Can everyone hear me? Count off. One …’ I called into my earpiece, waiting for everyone else to call their numbers and let me know that the headphones were working. When Leo called out number sixteen, I knew we had everyone, and I took a deep breath. Guests were just beginning to show up and I was frantically trying to stem the tide of problems that wouldn’t seem to stop. All my cool confidence and perfect plans from the day before were starting to seep away, and it was getting harder to quell my panic.
‘Skye, can you hear me?’ I hissed into the microphone that crawled stealthily out of my ear and stopped right above my top lip.
‘Bette, honey, I’m right here. Calm down, everything’s just fine.’
‘I’ll calm down when you tell me that the step-and-repeat is finally finished. It looked like shit ten minutes ago.’
‘I’m standing outside, and it’s all good. Thirty feet of Playboy Bunny logos on cardboard, just waiting for celebs to step in front of it for pictures. They put the finishing touches on it just a minute ago, and it should be dry in another few minutes. No worries.’
‘Elisa? Do we have the final schedule for press set up and with security? Sammy from Bungalow 8 is in charge of the VIP entrance, so he needs to know which photographers are allowed where.’ I was barking orders like a lunatic and hating the sound of my own voice more with every passing minute. I hadn’t hesitated when I’d said Sammy’s name, though, and that was progress. He’d kissed me on the cheek when I’d arrived a few hours earlier and whispered ‘Good luck,’ and it was all I could do not to faint. The only thing getting me through the night was the knowledge that we would be in the same room for the next six hours.
‘Check. ET and Access Hollywood have prime placement. E! was still wavering on whether they were coming – they’re pissy they didn’t get the exclusive – but if they send someone, we’re ready. All of those plus CNN, MTV, and a guy who’s doing a party documentary for Fox and has clearance from some big-name studio head are being allowed inside; regular tabloid paparazzi will remain outside. Everyone’s been briefed on who’s who and who’s VIP enough to use this entrance. There’s just one question. Who’s Sammy?’
I couldn’t very well point out over the mic that Sammy was hooked up to our system and listening to every word we were saying – nor that the mere sight of him set my nerves on fire. ‘Elisa, very cute. Just give him the list, okay?’ I prayed she would drop it at that, but in her hunger-induced perma-haze, she persevered.
‘No, seriously, Bette. Who’s Sammy?’ she whined. ‘Oh, wait, he’s head of the production crew, right? Why does he need a finalized VIP list?’
‘Elisa, Sammy is in charge of security tonight. We weren’t thrilled with the idea of using Sanctuary’s gestapo door people, so Sammy was kind enough to help us out. He should be out front, going over the last-minute details. Just get him a list.’ I thought that would be the end of it, but of course Elisa wasn’t finished.
‘Oh, wait! Sammy. Isn’t he that guy Isabelle was keeping on commission? Totally! I remember now. He was in Istanbul with us, wasn’t he? She had him racing around like a slave all weekend. You thought they were—’
‘What? Elisa? I can’t hear you. I’m talking to Danny right now, so I’m muting my headphones. Back in a few.’ I tore the headphones off and collapsed on one of the banquettes, trying not to imagine what Sammy had just thought of that little exchange.
‘What up?’ the ever-articulate Danny asked from his post at the bar. He was ogling the Bunnies as they scampered from place to place, preparing themselves for the onslaught of grabby men and jealous women.
‘Nothing, nothing. I think we’re actually ready, don’t you?’
‘Word.’
‘Is there anything you can think of that I’m missing?’
He downed his third beer in five minutes. ‘Nope.’ He belched.
I looked around and was pleased with what I saw. The club had been transformed to the perfect space for celebrating fifty
years of centerfolds. We had two entrances set up, one for VIPs and one for everyone else, each shrouded in a black tent with plenty of red carpet and logos. The security guys would all be wearing suits and subtle earpieces so as to remain as inconspicuous as possible. After entering an outside tent, each guest would be admitted to a long hallway shrouded in black, which culminated in a sweeping staircase adorned with filmy black curtains. Upon climbing the stairs and stepping through the curtains, they’d find themselves on a raised stage of sorts, a platform where everyone could watch as they descended the stairs into the main room. An eighty-five-foot bar occupied the left side of the room, where thirty-five female bartenders in hot pants, bikini tops, and bunny ears would be mixing drinks all night long. The wall behind the bar was covered in a floor-to-ceiling collage of Playboy centerfolds from the last fifty years: each was in full color and blown up to double poster size, and they were stuck together in no apparent pattern (save for the abundance of pre–bikini wax shots). We’d placed the VIP area on the far right side, a roped-off section of black velour banquettes and RESERVED signs resting next to the bottle chillers on each glass table. Gleaming from the exact center of the room was a circular stage shaped like a massive, multitiered cake. The bottom two tiers would provide dancing space for the Bunnies at the midnight performance, and the top level would be uncovered to reveal our surprise guest. A huge, 360-degree dance floor wrapped around the cake-shaped stage and was adorned with low velour benches around its perimeter.
‘Hey, how is everything?’ Kelly asked, twirling to show off her ultra-tight, ultra-short, barely opaque wrap dress. ‘You like it?’
‘You look amazing,’ I said and meant it.
‘Bette, I’d like you to meet Henry. Henry, this is one of my brightest stars, Bette.’
A pleasant-looking but entirely nondescript man of about forty – medium height, average build, brown hair – reached out his hand and revealed one of the warmest smiles I’d ever seen. ‘So nice to meet you, Bette. Kelly’s told me a lot about you.’
‘All good, I hope,’ I said without an ounce of creativity. ‘Having fun, I hope? Things should really get going soon.’
They both laughed and looked at each other with such enthusiastic affection that it was impossible not to hate them.
By ten o’clock the party was fully under way. Hef took up the two most prominent VIP tables with his six girlfriends and drank Jack Rabbits, some combination of Jack Daniel’s and Diet Coke. Scattered at tables around him were assorted celebs and their entourages: James Gandolfini, Dr Ruth, Pamela Anderson, Helen Gurley Brown, Kid Rock, Ivanka Trump, and Ja Rule all appeared content enough with the unlimited drinks and the platters of bunny-shaped chocolates and strawberries that we’d provided for them. The commoners were just starting to hit that point where they’d had a few drinks and were ready to dance, and the Bunnies were in full circulation, brushing up against every guy and most of the girls in the room. They were captivating to watch. Nearly two hundred of them in bunny ears, black satin bustiers, and thongs pulsated through the room, shaking their bottoms to emphasize their bunny tails and pushing their pelvises forward to show off the little horse-race ribbons that announced their names and hometowns. What the men didn’t realize was that the real party was in the downstairs ladies’ room, where the Bunnies gathered to smoke, chat, and make fun of the gaping men. They had to unzip their bustier outfits and completely climb out of them in order to pee, and they weren’t able to get dressed again without help. I leaned against a wall, staring, waiting for a stall to open, as one blond girl reached out and cupped another Bunny’s huge, pillow-like breasts with two hands. She admired them for a few seconds before asking – boobs still in hand – ‘Real or created?’
The fondled one giggled and gave a little shimmy. ‘Girlfriend, these are entirely store-bought.’ Then she squatted, leaned forward, and mashed her breasts as tight as they’d go against her chest while motioning for the fondler to zip her up. When she straightened up again, the black satin barely covered her nipples, and she looked like she might just topple forward from the weight imbalance. They finished their sneaked cosmos, left the empty glasses on the sink, and half-ran, half-hopped back upstairs to rejoin the party.
When I made it back myself, I did another cursory check over the headphones with everyone to see that all was progressing as planned, and there were blessedly few emergencies: a fallen disco ball that hadn’t hit anyone, a couple of minor fights that Sammy and his crew had already dismantled, and a shortage of maraschino cherries due to hungry Bunnies who were reportedly grabbing them from behind the bar by the fistful. Elisa seemed to be sober and in control of the VIP lounge, while Leo had managed to keep his pants on long enough to patrol the bar and dance floor. There was only an hour to go until the midnight surprise and it was time for me to focus on that.
The surprise midnight performance had been my baby, something I’d been working on especially hard since returning from Turkey, and I was desperate for it to go well. At that moment, only Kelly, the head PR person from Playboy, and Hef himself knew what to expect, and I couldn’t wait to see everyone’s reactions. I was just getting ready to triple-check with Sammy and his staff at the door that they knew to refuse admission to Abby if she tried to get in when I heard his voice crackle on the headset.
‘Bette? Sammy here. Jessica and Ashlee just pulled up.’
‘Copy, I’ll be there in a second.’ I grabbed a gin and tonic from the main bar to bribe Philip with, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. Not wanting the sisters to go unescorted, I sent the announcement out over the headset for anyone who saw Philip to meet me at the front door, then dashed there just as they were stepping out of the Bentley we had sent to fetch them.
‘Hi, guys,’ I said, rather ungracefully. ‘We’re all so glad you could make it. Come on in, and I’ll show you around.’ I guided them down the red carpet, squinting through the flashbulbs.
They posed like pros for their required fifteen minutes, jutting out their hips and putting their arms around each other and walking jauntily in their matching five-inch silver heels before following me past Sammy (who winked) and straight to the VIP section. I beckoned to the gorgeous guy we’d hired to attend to their every need and bolted off to find Philip, who had, as of yet, remained elusive.
Although I radioed out numerous SOS messages and patrolled the room myself a number of times, I couldn’t seem to find him anywhere. I was just getting ready to send someone into the men’s room to see if he was inside doing God knows what when I glanced at my watch. It was five minutes to twelve, and the show would be starting any minute. I raced upstairs and signaled the DJ, who cut off ‘Dancing Queen’ halfway through and played an electronic drumroll. This was the signal. Hef extricated himself from his gaggle of girlfriends and climbed slowly to the second tier of the stage, tapping once on the microphone before booming, ‘Thank you all for coming.’ He was cut off by the frantic, screaming cheers of the crowd, who clapped and yelled and chanted, ‘Hef, Hef, Hef!’
‘Yes, thank you. Thank you all so much for coming to celebrate with me and my crew’ – he paused briefly to wink at the crowd, which invited all-out hooting – ‘fifty years of important stories, celebrated writers, and, of course, beautiful girls!’ The crowd continued to holler throughout the speech, reaching an almost deafening level when he thanked everyone for a final time and made his way back to the front-and-center tables where his women awaited. A few people thought it was over and started to head back to the bar or the dance floor, but they froze in place when the DJ began to play ‘Happy Birthday to You.’ Before anyone realized what was happening, a tiny, circular stage – just big enough for one person to stand on – began to rise from the center of the cake. It moved upward until the shadow of a woman could be seen behind the sheer curtain that covered it as everyone stood, rooted to the floor, their necks craning toward the ceiling. When the mini-platform stopped about three stories above the crowd, the gauzy white material simply melted away and
standing there in a tight, shimmering, beaded purple evening gown with a fur boa was Ashanti, looking ravishing. She proceeded to sing in a low, throaty voice the sexiest rendition of ‘Happy Birthday to You’ I’d ever heard. It was an obvious tribute to Marilyn Monroe’s famous performance for JFK, only Ashanti dedicated her performance to Hef, calling him ‘the president of pussyland,’ and when she finished, the room went wild. Gold glitter confetti rained down while the crowd cheered and every Bunny in the room – all eighty-five of them – kicked chorus line–style around the lower level of the stage. The DJ immediately segued into ‘Always on Time’ and the dancing immediately escalated from excited to frenzied. I heard a guy behind me scream into his cell phone, ‘Dude, this is the party of the fucking century!’ and more than a few newly formed couples began making out on the dance floor. Except for the ‘pussyland’ comment, everything had gone exactly as I’d planned – probably even better.
Elisa and Leo and Sammy had already reported into the headsets that it was a huge hit; even Kelly had managed to grab a headset and shriek her approval into it. The euphoria lasted another whole seven or ten minutes, until everything started barreling downhill at warp speed, threatening to take me with it. I was roaming through the VIP lounge looking for Philip when, tucked away in the darkest corners of the roped-off section, I spotted a very familiar blond head bobbing between a pair of Bunny-like breasts. I looked around frantically for a camera, hoping, praying that one would snap a picture of Philip nibbling this girl’s cleavage and plaster it across every paper in the city so I could finally, blessedly, be finished with him. It seemed strange to see him being this intimate with a girl so soon after seeing him being that intimate with a guy, but it was an easy out for me, and one I wanted. I realized this was my chance: I would gladly play the part of betrayed girlfriend if it meant having a reason to be done with him once and for all. I leaned over to tap him on the shoulder, eager to put on an indignant public performance, but I physically recoiled when the boy turned around and snapped, ‘What the fuck do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy here?’
Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know Page 77