I decided then and there that there was something going on between Elisa and Davide – there was a vibe between them that just screamed ‘dating,’ and I congratulated myself on being perceptive enough to figure it out. But before I finished marveling at my own cleverness, Elisa fell into Davide’s lap, wrapped her arms around his neck like a little girl would with her daddy, and then kissed him full on the mouth in a most undaughterlike manner.
‘Seriously, Elisa, spare us the office PDA, will you, please?’ Skye whined, her eyes rolled back quite far in her head. ‘It’s bad enough we all have to envision you guys having sex on your own time – don’t make it a reality for us, okay?’
Elisa just sighed and stood up, but not before Davide managed to grab her left breast and squeeze. I tried to imagine two coworkers at UBS sharing the same interaction in the conference room and nearly laughed out loud.
‘So, yeah,’ she continued as though the mini in-office grope session hadn’t occurred. ‘Skye, Leo, and Davide are the senior people. Those three over there’ – she pointed to three pretty young girls, two blonds and a brunette, who sat hunched over PowerBook laptops – ‘they’re the List Girls. Responsible for making sure we have all the information for everyone we’d ever want or need to attend an event. You know how someone once said that there are only a few people worth knowing in the world? Well, they know them.’
‘Mmm, I see,’ I mumbled, although I had no idea what she was saying. ‘Totally.’
Three hours later I felt like I’d worked there three months. I observed a staff meeting where everyone lounged casually around the loft drinking bottles of Diet Coke and Fiji water and talking about the party they were throwing for Candace Bushnell’s new book. Skye ran through a checklist as various people updated her on the venue, invitation status, menu, sponsors, photographer placement, and press access. When she was finished, Kelly hushed the room and had one of the List Girls read the most recently updated RSVP list as if it were the word of God. Each name elicited a nod, a sigh, a smile, a mutter, a head shake, or an eye-roll, although I recognized only a handful of them. Nicole Richie. Karenna Gore Schiff. Natalie Portman. Gisele Bundchen. Kate and Andy Spade. Bret Easton Ellis. Rande Gerber. The entire cast and crew of Sex and the City. Nod, sigh, smile, mutter, shake, roll. It went on for nearly three hours, and by the time they’d finished debating the merits and pitfalls of every single individual – what each might add to the party and, therefore, the coverage or, worse, what they might take away – I was more exhausted than I would have been had I just hung up on Mrs Kaufman. By two o’clock, when Elisa asked if I wanted to grab a coffee with her, I couldn’t say yes fast enough.
We each smoked a cigarette on the walk over and I was struck by the sudden and overwhelming desire to be sharing a plate of falafel on the bench outside UBS with Penelope. Elisa was providing some sort of running commentary on office politics, who really ran the show (her), and who really wanted to (everyone else). I called upon my valuable can-talk-to-anyone-about-anything skill and kept asking her questions while tuning out her answers entirely. It wasn’t until we were settled into a corner table with our coffees – Elisa’s was skim, decaf, and dark – that I actually heard something she said.
‘Oh. My. God. Will you fucking look at that?’ she hissed.
I followed her gaze to a tall, lanky woman who was wearing a very unremarkable pair of jeans and a basic black blazer. She had sort of drab, brownish hair and a fairly mediocre body, and everything about her seemed to say ‘average in every way.’ Elisa’s excitement seemed to indicate the woman was a celebrity, but she didn’t look the least bit familiar to me.
‘Who is it?’ I asked, leaning in conspiratorially. I didn’t really care, but thought I should.
‘Not “who,” “what”!’ she practically scream-whispered. She hadn’t yet moved her eyes from the woman.
‘What?’ I asked, still clueless.
‘What do you mean, “what”? Are you kidding? Do you not see it? Do you need glasses?’ I thought she was mocking me, but she reached into her oversized tote bag and pulled out a pair of wire-rims. ‘Here, put these on and check that out.’
I continued to stare, clueless, until Elisa leaned in closer and said, ‘Look. At. Her. Bag. Just try and tell me it’s not the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen.’
My eyes went to the large leather bag the woman had nesting in the crook of her elbow while she ordered her coffee. When it came time to pay, she rested it on the counter, rooted through it, and pulled out her wallet before returning the bag to her arm. Elisa groaned audibly. It looked like any other bag to me, just bigger.
‘Ohmigod, I can barely stand it, it’s so amazing. It’s the crocodile Birkin. Rarest of them all.’
‘A what?’ I asked. I briefly considered pretending to know what she was talking about, but it felt like too much effort at that point in the day.
She peered at me, examining my face as though she’d just remembered that I was there. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’
I shook my head.
She took a deep breath, sipped her coffee for strength, and placed her hand on my forearm as if to say, Now listen closely because I’m telling you the only piece of information you’ll ever need to know. ‘You’ve heard of Hermès, right?’
I nodded and saw a wave of relief wash over her face. ‘Sure. My uncle wears their ties all the time.’
‘Yes, well, much more important than their ties are their bags. The first huge hit was the Kelly bag, named for Grace Kelly when she began carrying it. But the really big one – about a thousand times more prestigious – is the Birkin.’
She looked at me expectantly and I murmured, ‘Mmm, it looks lovely. Very nice bag.’
Elisa sighed. ‘It sure is. That one’s probably in the twenty-grand range. It’s so worth it.’
I inhaled so quickly that I swallowed wrong and actually choked. ‘It’s how much? You’re joking. That’s impossible! It’s a purse.’
‘It’s not a purse, Bette, it’s a way of life. I would pay that in a heartbeat if I could just get my hands on one.’
‘I can’t imagine people are lining up to spend that much on a bag,’ I pointed out. Which, in my defense, sounded eminently logical at that moment. I couldn’t have known just how stupid I sounded, but luckily Elisa was prepared to inform me.
‘Christ, Bette, you really have no clue, do you? I didn’t think there was anyone left on the planet who wasn’t at least on the list for a Birkin. Put yourself on immediately and maybe – just maybe – you’ll get one in time to give your daughter one someday.’
‘My daughter? Twenty thousand dollars for a bag? You’re kidding.’
At this point Elisa collapsed in frustration and put her head down on the table. ‘No, no, no,’ she moaned, as though in great pain. ‘You just don’t get it. It’s not just a bag. It’s a lifestyle. It’s a statement. It summarizes who you are as a person. It’s a reason for living.’
I laughed at her melodrama. She bolted upright in her seat again and began talking at a rapid-fire pace.
‘I had a friend who fell into a horrible depression after her favorite grandmother died and her boyfriend of three years broke up with her. She couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t drag herself out of bed. She got fired because she never showed up for work. Huge bags under her eyes. Refused to see anyone. Never answered her phone. When I finally showed up at her apartment after months of this, she confided that she was considering suicide.’
‘How awful,’ I murmured, still racing to keep up with the rapid subject change.
‘Yeah, it was awful. But you know what got