Everyone Worth Knowing (52 page)

"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!" Flisa 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.

"Yeah, you don't muck around with the Turks and drugs,"

Philip said agreeably. "The concierge'll take care of us when we

get there, but I wouldn't advise bringing in anything yourself."

"I'll take a couple Valium," Leo announced.

"Xanax for me."

"Do you have any Ambien? If I take two and a drink, I should

be good."

"How about Percocet? Can you hook that up?"

Everyone patiently waited their turn as Elisa went around the

cabin, providing each person with a custom order, managing to

produce every brand and dosage that had been requested. Only

Sammy and I passed, but no one seemed to notice. I lit a cigarette

in an effort not to appear too angelic, but that didn't exactly pass

for imbibing with this crowd. Sammy excused himself, saying he

had a headache, and asked Philip if it was okay for him to lie

down in the bedroom.

"Not my plane, man, so help yourself. Just don't mind if I ask

you to leave in a little," Philip said affably while managing to leer

lecherously in my direction.

I cringed but made myself raise my footrest and focus for a few

minutes on
Pulp Fiction,
which had begun playing on a wall-sized

plasma screen. Just as I was getting into it, managing to put Sammy

out of my mind for solid thirty-second increments, Elisa scampered

over.

"Okay, so I'm, like, still pretty unclear," she said, ripping the

foil off a new pack of Marlboro Lights. "Who
is
that guy?"

"What guy? Sammy?"

"Isabelle's guy. What does he mean, he
works
at Bungalow?"

"He's the bouncer there, Elisa. You've seen him probably a

thousand times."

"The bouncer? What's the
bouncer
doing on our trip?" she

hissed. Almost immediately, her expression changed from disgust

to understanding. "Oh, I get it. He's one of the Downtown Boys.

Yes, that makes perfect sense."

"I don't think he lives downtown," I said, trying to remember if

I even knew where Sammy lived.

She stared at me disdainfully. "Bette, you
know
Downtown

Boys. They're the company that hires out gorgeous guys as bartenders

or security or waitstaff at private parties and events. You

ordered all those pretty boys to work the BlackBerry party, right?

Well, Downtown is
way
more exclusive. And it's an open secret

that they're available to their clientele for
whatever
needs they may

have."

I looked at her. "What are you saying?"

"Just that I wouldn't be surprised if Isabelle keeps Sammy on

some sort of retainer to escort her to events, work her parties,
keep

her company.
Things like that. Her husband isn't exactly interested

in her social obligations."

"She's married?" This was the best news I'd heard all day.

"Are you serious?" Elisa asked, stunned. "Do you think she's

the most seen socialite in Manhattan because she's charming? Her

husband is some sort of Austrian viscount—not that Austrian royal

titles are so hard to come by—one of the
Forbes
Top 100 Richest

People eveiy year since the early eighties. Hell, probably forever.

What, did you think that bouncer was her boyfriend?"

My silence said everything.

"Ohmigod, you did. That's so cute, Bette! You honestly think

someone like Isabelle Vandemark dates bouncers?" She was laughing

so hard she almost choked. "That is such a great visual! She

may be fucking him, but she sure isn't
dating
him!"

I briefly considered burning her with my cigarette, but I was

too elated by what I'd just learned to hate Elisa that much. She

grew bored after a few minutes and went back to drape herself

across Davide, who couldn't seem to divert his eyes from Isabelle's

chest, and she tried to flirt with Philip, who was deep in conversation

with Leo about the merits and pitfalls of having the pedicurist

razor your dead foot-skin instead of merely scrubbing it with a

pumice stone. The photographers and reporters were mostly keeping

to themselves, playing Texas Hold 'Em at the large dinner table

and throwing back tumblers of bourbon. Everyone else was unconscious,

or close, and before I'd even gotten to the scene where Travolta

plunges the needle into Uma Thurman's chest, I was fast

asleep as well.

24

It wasn't until almost two o'clock the next afternoon that I had

my first second alone. We flew through the night, landed at eleven

o'clock Thursday morning, and immediately climbed from the cool

leather plushness of the Gulfstream to the cool leather plushness of

a fleet of limousines, sent courtesy of the Association of Nightclub

Owners—or ANO, as Mr. Kamal Avigdor neatly abbreviated it. Mr.

Avigdor had obviously received the memo regarding the appearance

qualifications of our little group and was beautiful in the most

classic way. He waited with two strikingly pretty girls—his assistants,

he claimed, but each had probably done a round or two in

the role of girlfriend—on the red carpet that had been laid on the

tarmac, a warm smile lighting up his welcoming face. His black

suit was tight and fitted in the way only European guys can get

away with, and his monochromatic green shirt-and-tie combo only

illuminated his dark skin, dark hair, and green eyes. Naturally, he'd

accessorized everything perfectly, with Ferragamo loafers, a Patek

Philippe watch, and some sort of buttery soft man-purse that

would have made any normal man sob with humiliation but somehow

managed to make him look even more masculine. I estimated

him to be somewhere in the thirty to thirty-five range, but I

wouldn't have been the least bit surprised to learn he was ten

years older or younger. Most impressive of all, he'd greeted each

person by name as we'd disembarked.