‘I go by Abigail now, actually,’ she immediately corrected. ‘So crazy, isn’t it? Of course, I’d heard you work at Kelly, so I knew I’d run into you here sooner or later.’
‘Huh? What do you mean? How long have you been living in the city?’
She stared at me, slightly horrified, and pulled me by the wrist onto a couch. I tried to shake loose, but she maintained her death grip and leaned in much too close. ‘Are you, like, serious? Have you not heard? I’m at the vortex of the media world!’
I had to use my left hand to cover my mouth while pretending to cough so she wouldn’t see me laughing uncontrollably. Since our days at Emory, Abby had loved declaring how she was ‘at the vortex’ of something or other – sorority rush or the men’s basketball team or the college newspaper. No one really knew what it meant – it was the wrong usage, actually – but for some reason she’d latched onto the phrase and refused to let go. We’d lived on the same floor our freshman year. I’d noticed right away that she seemed to have an uncanny knack for sensing people’s insecurities. She was always grilling me on what boy I liked, only to ‘coincidentally’ be seen throwing herself on whoever I named within twelve hours of my admission. I’d overheard her once in the dorm bathroom grilling an Asian girl for tips on how to get that ‘sexy, slant-eyed look’ using an eye pencil. She’d once ‘borrowed’ one of her classmates’ history papers and turned it in as her own, only admitting to the ‘mix-up’ once the professor threatened to fail both of them. Penelope and I met Abby around the same time, in freshman writing seminar, and we immediately agreed that Abby was to be avoided. She’d been creepy from the beginning, the kind of girl who would make subtle but mean comments about your hair or boyfriend or outfit and then feign horror and regret when you inevitably took offense. We ditched her often and regularly, and she never seemed to get it. Instead, she’d purposefully make contact in order to put us down. Not surprisingly, she’d never had any real girlfriends, but she kept herself quite busy working her way through nearly every fraternity house and athletic team at Emory.
‘“Vortex of the media world,” huh? No, I didn’t know that. Where are you these days?’ I asked in the most bored tone I could muster. I vowed not to let her get under my skin.
‘Well, let’s see. I started at Elle and then made the jump to Slate – so much smarter, you know? Had a brief stint at Vanity Fair, but the office politics were so intense. Now I’m freelancing – my byline’s everywhere!’
I thought about that for a moment and couldn’t remember seeing her name … anywhere.
‘And you, missy, how’s the new job?’ she screeched.
‘Um, yeah, it’s been about a week, I guess, and it’s pretty cool so far. I’m not sure if it’s at the vortex of the public-relations world, but I like it.’
She sensed no sarcasm whatsoever, or she ignored it. ‘It’s such a hot firm; they’re repping all the best clients these days. Ohmigod, I absolutely love your shirt – it’s the absolute best call ever if you’re looking to hide a little tummy, you know? I wear mine all the time!’
I involuntarily sucked in my gut.
Before I could point out something nasty, like how five pounds on her frame would look like twenty, she said, ‘Hey, so tell me, have you spoken to Cameron recently? That was your boyfriend’s name, right? I heard something about him leaving you for a model, but of course I didn’t believe it.’
So much for not sinking to her level.
‘Cameron? I didn’t think you knew him. Then again, he is a guy who’s breathing and living in New York City, so …’
‘Oh, Bette, it’s really so great to see you,’ she said, ignoring my comment. ‘Let me take you to lunch, okay? We have so much to catch up on. I’ve been meaning to call you forever, but you just vanished since college! Who do you hang out with? Still that quiet girl? She was so sweet. What was her name?’
‘Oh, you mean Penelope? She’s gorgeous and engaged and, yes, I still see her. I’ll be sure to tell her you said hello.’
‘Yes, yes, definitely do that. So, I’ll call you at work next week and we’ll go somewhere fab for lunch, ’kay? Congratulations on finally leaving that dreadful bank and joining the real world. … I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone. There are just, like, so many people you need to meet!’
I was preparing what would surely be an even wittier response when Elisa materialized beside us. I never thought I’d be so happy to see her.
‘Elisa, this is Abby,’ I said, waving my arm at her listlessly.
‘It’s Abigail, actually,’ Abby interjected.
‘Right, uh-huh. And, Abby’ – I looked at her pointedly and continued— ‘this is my coworker Elisa.’
‘Hey, we’ve met before, haven’t we?’ Elisa mumbled, her front teeth clamped around a cigarette as she dug in her bag for a lighter.
‘Totally,’ Abby said. She plucked a matchbook off the nearest table and gallantly lit Elisa’s cigarette. ‘Do you have another ciggie for me?’
They made the exchange and began chattering about some new gossip roundup called New York Scoop. I’d heard it discussed in the office. Apparently, even though it had been published for years, nobody had cared about it until the arrival of a saucy new column written by someone using the unclever pseudonym Ellie Insider. It was published twice a week in both the online and print versions, although Ellie’s column – unlike similar Page Six columns by Cindy Adams or Liz Smith – did not have an accompanying photo of the writer. Now Abby was insisting that it was the hottest thing to hit media circles in years, but Elisa was saying that, according to her sources, only select groups from the fashion and entertainment world were reading it obsessively – although she predicted others would soon catch on. This conversation topic remained interesting for a solid minute and a half, before I had the blessed realization that I could simply excuse myself and leave.
It wasn’t until then that I realized I was standing alone in a swarm of gorgeous people who all just happened to have amazing rhythm, and I couldn’t move. Dancing had never been my thing. I’d somehow managed to shuffle my way through a few painful slow songs at high-school dances (always trying desperately to avoid the eight-minute rendition of ‘Stairway to Heaven’) and hop drunkenly along to the jukeboxes at our college dive bars, but this was truly intimidating. Before I could even manage to sway, I was overwhelmed with the same sixth-grade fears. It happened in a fraction of a second, but the feeling that everyone was staring at my baby fat and braces came rushing back. I needed to leave, or at the very least get back to the table and avoid the hell of dancing, but just as I made up my mind to escape, I felt a hand on the small of my back.
‘Hi there,’ said a tall guy with a British accent and a tan so perfect it could have only come from the great indoors. ‘Dance?’
I had to consciously keep from turning around to see if he might be talking to someone else, and before I could even worry about my smoky breath or my shirt, which was damp with perspiration, he had pulled me toward him and started moving. Dancing? We were dancing! I hadn’t been this close to someone since the last time a pervert on the subway had pressed up against me on the morning commute. Re-lax, have fun, re-lax, have fun, I chanted silently, hoping to remain calm and cool. But I didn’t need to do much self-convincing at all; my brain checked out as my body snuggled closer to the golden-skinned god who was offering me another glass of champagne. I sipped that one and then downed the next, and before I knew what was happening, I was perched on his lap, laughing with the table about some