I had torn the first sheet from the stapled packet, balled it up, and thrown it as hard as I could manage across the room. Relationship trouble? Detox? Rejection? Even more offensive than the implication that Philip and I were dating was the suggestion that we weren’t. And detox? It was bad enough being portrayed as an out-of-control party girl, but it was almost more embarrassing to be the person who couldn’t handle it. The whole thing was becoming too ridiculous to comprehend. It took three straight days to reassure Kelly (and Elisa, who seemed particularly concerned) that Philip and I were not fighting, that I was not in Poughkeepsie scouting potential rehab clinics, and that I had no intention of ‘dumping’ Philip for any reason anytime soon.
I’d now spent most of December attending as many events as possible, mugging with Philip and generally inviting nasty commentary from Abby (who was only too happy to oblige), and everything had returned to some twisted version of normal. Kelly had placed us on a rotating holiday schedule; since we all couldn’t take off at the same time, I’d agreed to work a cocktail party for Jewish professionals on Christmas Eve in exchange for having New Year’s Eve off. I was looking forward to spending New Year’s with Penelope in Los Angeles, finally taking her up on her offer to visit and buying my ticket the moment I learned my work schedule. Christmas was two weeks away, and our Monday-morning staff meeting was more frantic than ever. I was daydreaming about how Pen and I would soon be catching up over Bloody Marys in shorts and flip-flops, beachside, in the middle of winter, when Kelly’s voice broke into my thoughts.
‘We’ve accepted a new client I’m really excited about,’ Kelly announced with a huge smile. ‘As of today we officially represent the Association of Istanbul Nightclub Owners.’
‘There’s nightlife in Istanbul?’ Leo asked, examining what appeared to be a flawless cuticle.
‘I didn’t know they allowed clubs in Syria!’ Elisa exclaimed, looking shocked. ‘I mean, Muslims don’t even drink, right?’
‘Istanbul’s in Turkey, Elisa,’ Leo said, looking pleased with himself. ‘And even though it’s a Muslim country, it’s really, really westernized and there’s, like, total separation of church and state. Or mosque and state, I guess I should say.’
Kelly grinned. ‘Exactly, Leo, that’s exactly right. As you all know, we’re ready to expand to international clients, and I think this will be a perfect start. The association is made up of nearly thirty club owners in greater Istanbul, and they’re looking for someone to promote the city’s active night scene. And they’ve chosen us.’
‘I didn’t know people went to Turkey to party,’ Elisa sniffed. ‘I mean, it’s not exactly Ibiza, is it?’
‘Well, that’s precisely why they need our assistance,’ Kelly said. ‘It’s my understanding that Istanbul is a cosmopolitan city, really very chic, and they have no problem drawing all sorts of fabulous Europeans who love the beaches and clubs and cheap shopping. But tourism has suffered since nine-eleven and they want to reach out to Americans – especially young ones – and show them that partying in Istanbul is just as accessible as going to Europe, more affordable and exotic. It’s our job to make them the destination.’
‘And how, exactly, are we going to do that?’ Leo asked, studying the buckle on his Gucci belt and looking supremely bored.
‘Well, for starters, you’ll have to get acquainted with what we’re trying to promote. Which is why you’ll all be spending New Year’s in Istanbul. Skye will stay behind with me to keep things running here. You leave December twenty-eighth.’
‘What?’ I almost shouted. ‘We’re going to Turkey? In two weeks?’ I felt a combination of horror at telling Penelope I wouldn’t be coming to LA and excitement at the prospect of going somewhere so amazing.
‘Kelly, I agree with Bette. I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. I, like, don’t make it a habit to visit war-torn countries,’ Elisa said.
‘I wasn’t saying that I didn’t want to go,’ I whispered meekly.
‘War-torn? Are you stupid?’ Skye asked.
‘I don’t mind war-torn, I just don’t think it sounds all that appealing to go to some third-world country where the food’s dangerous, the water’s unsafe, and you can’t get decent room service. For New Year’s? Really?’ Leo said, looking at Kelly.
‘See, this is part of the problem,’ Kelly said, keeping her cool far better than I would have in her position. ‘Turkey is a Western democracy. They’re trying to join the EU. There’s a Four Seasons and a Ritz and a Kempinski right in town. There’s a Versace boutique, for chrissake. I have the utmost confidence that you’ll all be perfectly comfortable. Your only requirement while you’re there is to check out as many clubs and lounges and restaurants as humanly possible. Take cute clothes. Drink the champagne they’ll give you. Shop. Lay out. Party as often and as much as you can manage. Ring in the new year together. And, of course, entertain your guests.’
‘Guests? The nightclub owners, you mean? I am not fucking whoring myself out to some Turkish club owners, Kelly! Not even for you,’ Elisa said, folding her arms across her chest in a show of moral fortitude.
Kelly grinned. ‘That’s funny.’ She paused for emphasis. ‘But fear not, young Elisa. The guests to which I’m referring are a carefully selected group of tastemakers from right here in Manhattan.’
Elisa’s head snapped to attention. ‘Who? Who’s coming? What do you mean? We’ll have fabulous people with us?’ she asked.
Davide and Leo perked up, too. We all sat, leaning slightly forward, waiting for Kelly to give us the full scoop. ‘Well, we haven’t gotten final confirmations from everyone yet, but so far we have commitments from Marlena Bergeron, Emanuel de Silva, Monica Templeton, Oliver Montrachon, Alessandra Uribe Sandoval, and Camilla von Alburg. It helps that there’s nothing really major planned here for New Year’s Eve – everyone’s looking for something to do. You’ll all fly via private jet and stay at the Four Seasons. The client will take care of everything: cars, drinks, dinners, whatever you’ll need to show them – and the photographers – a good time.’
‘Private jet?’ I murmured.
‘Photographers? Please tell me you’re not sending us over there with a planeload of paparazzi,’ Elisa whined.
‘Just the usual; there won’t be more than three, and all are freelance, so they won’t be tied down to any one publication. Throw in three – maybe four – writers, and we should get some fantastic coverage.’
I considered this information. In less than two weeks, I’d be en route to Istanbul, Turkey, charged with drinking, dancing, and lounging by the pool of one of the world’s nicest hotels, my only real assignment having to keep a carefully selected handful of socialites and scenesters plied with enough alcohol and drugs to ensure that they were drunk enough to look happy in pictures but still coherent enough to say something remotely intelligible to the reporters. The party pictures would be splashed across all the weekly tabloids and papers when we got home, and the captions would all describe how everyone who was anyone partied in Istanbul, and no one would even realize that we’d been paid to bring the party there, complete with handpicked photogs to shoot it and writers to describe it. It was brilliant, and personified our industry’s motto – STAGE IT, THEN PAGE IT – to perfection.
But then an image of Penelope flashed in my mind and I almost choked: How could I do this to her again?
‘Bette, I took the liberty of asking the association to book you and Philip into the honeymoon suite. It’s the least I could do for my favorite darling couple!’ Kelly announced with obvious pride.
‘Philip’s going?’ I croaked. Ever since Sammy’s kiss, my faux relationship with Philip had felt even weirder.
‘Well, of course he’s going! Most of this was his idea! I was telling him about our new client at the BlackBerry event and he offered his services, said he’d be happy to take a group of his friends over to party if it would be helpful. He even volunteered his father’s jet, but the association had already planned to use their
own. Bette, you must be so happy!’
I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but Kelly had already moved to the conference-room door. ‘Okay, kids, we’ve got a lot of work to do over the next couple weeks. Elisa, I’m putting you in charge of liaising with the client and the guests to confirm and reconfirm all the travel details – make sure everyone knows where and when they’ll be going and what they need. Leo, you’re to focus on keeping in touch with writers and photogs and their editors; put together a quickie press release and a tip sheet and get them whatever stock photos of our guests you can scrounge up. Davide, start putting together folders on the group you’ll be hosting. They’re all in the database, of course, so pull their profiles and get the team their social histories, likes, and dislikes as quickly as possible, and then follow up with the Four Seasons so we can ensure they have the right waters and wines and snacks personalized in each room. I don’t think there are any major romantic conflicts, but make sure. Aside from the fact that Camilla used to fuck Oliver, and Oliver is supposedly sleeping with Monica now, I think it’s a fairly nonincestuous group of people, which should make it easier.’
Everyone was furiously taking notes, and the List Girls, who’d been permitted to sit in the back of the room to watch the meeting, were staring at us in wonderment.
‘Kelly, what should I do?’ I called as she turned to leave.
‘You? Why, Bette, the only thing you need to worry about is Philip. He’s the key to all of this, so you just concentrate on keeping him as happy as possible. Anything he wants, get it for him. Anything he needs, provide it. If Philip’s happy, his friends are, too, and this whole project will be a walk in the park.’ She winked just in case any of us weren’t exactly certain what she meant and then skipped back to her desk.
Leo and Skye and Elisa chattered happily and decided to lunch at Pastis to continue their planning, but I begged off. I couldn’t get a waking-nightmare image out of my head: Philip outstretched on the balcony of a lavish honeymoon suite wearing only silk boxers and performing all sorts of yogic contortions while a photographer snapped pictures from our shared bed and Penelope looked on from afar.
22
I finally got through to Penelope on Tuesday night. She seemed far away, both in the physical sense of the distance and in the time difference, but it went beyond that. She swore that she’d forgiven me for leaving the night of her going-away party, but it didn’t feel like she’d gotten over it. I still hadn’t told her about the Sammy kiss or the situation with my parents at the Harvest Festival, or even how Abby was behind the horrible New York Scoop articles. Three months ago, that would have all been incomprehensible, and now here I was, about to make it much, much worse. Possibly irreconcilable.
I’d been working up the nerve to call Penelope for the past three hours while simultaneously thinking about Sammy, wondering if he was home, preparing to break up with his girlfriend so he and I could be together. He always seemed so happy to see me at Bungalow that I knew he’d do the right thing – which was, of course, to end things with Isabelle and embark on what would surely be a long and happy love affair with me.
Finally my fingers followed my brain’s command to dial, and before I could hang up for the thousandth time, Penelope answered.
‘Hi! How are you?’ I asked, much too enthusiastically. I still didn’t have my exact wording down and was trying to buy as much time as possible.
‘Bette! Hi. What’s up?’ She sounded equally enthusiastic.
‘Not much. The usual, you know.’ I decided then to pull the Band-Aid off quickly: one rip instead of long, slow torture. ‘I’ve got something to tell you, Pen—’
She cut me off just as I was formulating my first words. ‘Bette, before you say anything, I have something awful to tell you.’ She took a deep breath and then said, ‘I can’t spend New Year’s Eve with you.’
What? How was this happening? Did she somehow already know about the Turkey situation? Was she so upset that she’d decided to cancel on me first? She must have interpreted my confused silence as anger because she rushed on.
‘Are you there? Bette, I’m so sorry, I can’t even begin to explain to you how sorry I am. My parents just called to tell us that they’ve rented a villa at Las Ventanas for the week between Christmas and New Year’s. I told them I already had plans for New Year’s, but then they said that they’d invited Avery’s parents and brother, too, so we all have to go, and I have no choice. As usual.’
This was too good to be true.
‘Really? You’re going to Mexico instead?’ I was asking just to make sure I had the story straight, but to Penelope I must have sounded very, very angry.
‘Oh, Bette, I’m so, so, so sorry. Of course I’ll reimburse you for the ticket you can’t use, and I’ll buy you another to come back as soon as you can. Just please forgive me. If it’s any comfort, my New Year’s is going to be an absolute nightmare. …’ She sounded so distraught that I wanted to hug her.
‘Pen, don’t worry about it—’
‘Really? You’re not mad?’
‘If we’re all being honest here, I was calling to tell you that I couldn’t come out there over New Year’s. Kelly wants to send us all to Turkey.’
‘Turkey?’ She sounded confused. ‘Why Turkey?’
‘Work, if you can believe it. We got a new client – some nightclub owners’ association – and they want us to promote the nightlife in Istanbul. We’re basically exporting the party to them and making sure it gets covered here. They figured New Year’s was the perfect time to start.’
She started laughing and said, ‘So you just made me go through that whole sob story when you were calling to cancel on me, anyway? You’re such a bitch!’
‘Um, excuse me, you just straight-up told me not to come visit you, so I don’t see where you get off calling me a bitch.’ We were both laughing, and I felt like a huge weight had been lifted.
‘In all seriousness, though, that sounds so cool,’ she said. ‘Are you going to have time to sightsee while you’re there? I’ve heard people describe the Hagia Sofia as a transcendent experience. And the Blue Mosque. The Grand Bazaar. A sightseeing boat ride down the Bosporus! My God, Bette, it sounds incredible. …’
I didn’t want to tell her that the only daytime activities I’d seen on the itinerary so far were hot-stone massages, or that the only boat ride scheduled was a booze cruise, so I just murmured along with her and tried to change the subject. ‘I know, it should be great. What’s going on with you?’
‘Oh, not much,’ she said. ‘This and that, you know?’
‘Penelope! You recently moved across the country, if I recall. How is it out there? What’s going on? Tell me everything!’ I lit a cigarette and pulled Millington onto my lap, all set to hear how fabulous sun-drenched LA was, but Penelope’s tone was clearly not thrilled.
‘Well, so far it’s okay,’ she said carefully.
‘You sound miserable. What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know.’ She sighed. ‘California’s fine. Nice, actually. Really nice. When you get past the whole wheatgrass smoothie garbage, it’s really not a bad place to live. We’ve got a great apartment in Santa Monica, a couple blocks from the beach, and it’s fantastic being so far away from our parents. I don’t know, it’s just …’
‘It’s just what?’
‘Well, I thought Avery would calm down a little when we got out here, but he immediately hooked up with a whole crew of Horace Mann kids who moved out here after college. I hardly see him anymore. Since he doesn’t start classes until mid-January, he’s got another whole month of nothing but time to go out all night, every night.’
I didn’t say what I was thinking: typical. ‘Oh, honey, I’m sure he’s just getting used to a new place. Things will slow down once he starts school.’
‘I guess. You’re right, I’m sure. It’s just that, well, he …’ She paused. ‘Never mind.’
‘Penelope! What were you about to say?’
?
??You’re going to think I’m the most evil person ever.’
‘Let me remind you, my friend, that you’re talking to someone who’s quote-unquote dating a guy for strictly professional reasons. I don’t think I’m exactly in a position to judge anyone right now.’
She sighed. ‘Well, I checked Avery’s Yahoo account the other night when he was at the Viceroy, and I found a few emails that are rather unsettling.’
‘You guys have access to each other’s email accounts?’ I asked, horrified.
‘Of course not. But his password was hardly difficult to figure out. I typed in the name of his bong, and voilà! Instant access.’
‘His bong? What did you find?’ I certainly didn’t think she was evil for hacking into his account. I tried for months to watch as Cameron typed in his password, but he was always too fast.
‘I know I’m probably overreacting, but there are some very cute emails to a girl he used to work with in New York.’
‘Define cute.’
‘He went on and on about how she could hold her liquor better than any other girl he’s ever met.’