‘Philip? Uh, no, actually, not really,’ I mumbled somewhat truthfully.
‘Oh, really? Does that mean he still hasn’t called? How sad. I know what it’s like, Bette. Don’t take it personally – he obviously just has very strange tastes.’
I had spent three weeks dodging Elisa’s questions, trying to appear nonchalant about Philip Weston. I was about to repeat that I couldn’t care less that he hadn’t called, that I hadn’t even left my number as instructed, but I figured it wasn’t worth it. This was clearly a sensitive point and best left alone. Besides, I didn’t exactly adore the fact that I hadn’t heard from him, number or not.
Penelope and I followed Elisa over to a small circle of white suede couches – a phenomenally stupid idea for a place where people do nothing but eat, drink, and hook up – and said hello to Leo, Skye, Davide, and someone Elisa introduced as ‘the brains behind this entire production.’
‘Hi, I’m Bette, and this is my friend Penelope,’ I said, extending my hand to the Semitic-looking-yet-mullet-sporting guy Elisa had referenced.
‘Yo. Danny.’
‘Without Danny, we wouldn’t be here tonight.’ Elisa sighed, and everyone at the table nodded knowingly. ‘He came up with the whole concept that is Sanctuary and put the whole project together. … Isn’t that right, Danny?’
‘Word.’
I was wondering why this short Jewish guy from either Great Neck or Dix Hills was attempting to sound as though he’d grown up on the playgrounds and basketball courts of Cabrini Green.
‘Oh, so you were the one who hired that charming bouncer, huh?’ I asked, and Elisa shot me a warning look.
Danny apparently sensed nothing amiss. ‘Fag freak, but whatever. Gets his shit done. Keeps out the losers – all that matters to me.’
Mmm. Penelope nodded seriously in agreement and simultaneously nudged me, and I gnawed the inside of my cheeks to keep from laughing. Compared to two minutes ago, Danny was being downright verbose.
‘So, Danny, what gave you the idea for Sanctuary?’ Penelope asked, staring at him with wide, fascinated eyes.
He took a swig from his Stella Artois and peered at her as though he were trying to determine which language she’d just used, his eyes scrunched up in confusion, hand on his crinkled forehead, head shaking slightly from side to side. ‘Dude. Everywhere else is so fucking stressful. The line at Bungalow’s a nightmare and I can’t stand all those fuckin’ media types at Soho House. Figured we all need a place that could be, like, a y’know, what’s the word? A place to chill.’
‘A sanctuary?’ I supplied helpfully.
‘Right on.’ He nodded, obviously relieved. The amount of product in his hair was nothing short of astounding.
Unfortunately, before this fascinating conversation could see itself to its logical end – most likely the one where Danny eventually remembered the name of his own club – I spotted an exceedingly familiar tan.
‘Ohmigod, it’s him,’ I stage-whispered to our motley crew, immediately leaning my head in for both cover and consultation.
Heads turned.
‘Philip. Philip Weston is here. Just walked in with that, that, that model,’ I spat out, not even remotely aware of how insanely jealous I sounded. And looked.
‘Bette, is that jealousy I hear?’ Elisa asked, leaning in to whisper in my ear. ‘And here I thought you were immune to the Weston charms. Good to see you’re a red-blooded American girl after all. Of course, just because you’re interested doesn’t mean he is. …’
‘Dude! Philip! Over here,’ Danny was calling, and before I’d even realized what was happening, Philip was kissing me hello on the mouth.
‘Hi, love, I was hoping you’d be here. You can run, but you can’t hide. …’
‘Pardon?’ was about all I could manage, since at this point I was fairly certain he’d meant to direct both the kiss and comment elsewhere. Like toward the knockout who was patiently waiting about three feet behind him, not looking the least bit distressed about anything.
‘You didn’t leave your number with my doorman. What do you call that here? Playing hard to get. Well, I always fancy a good game, so I decided to play along and find you myself.’
I saw Elisa collapse into the couch behind him, her mouth hanging open quite unattractively, shock flashing across her face.
‘Play along?’ I asked him.
‘Girls don’t exactly flee from me, love, if you know what I’m saying. Hey, mate, may I get a Tanq and tonic?’ he said, addressing Danny as though he were our waiter.
‘Right on, dude, coming right up,’ Danny said, moving as quickly as one might expect only when the offer of drugs or girls was promised.
He turned around when Philip called, ‘And hey, something for Sonja here, too.’ He turned not to me but to the girl with infinite legs. ‘Sonja, doll baby, what can I get for you? Ginger ale? Vegetable juice? Talk to me, honey.’
She stared back, uncomprehending, and I was almost – almost – amused by the idea that Philip had brought along one girl for accompaniment as he pursued another. He was pursuing me, wasn’t he?
Elisa had returned to Davide’s lap, apparently recovered from Philip’s unexpected arrival. I saw her very discreetly remove a small packet of white powder from her seafoam green Balenciaga bag and slip it to Skye, who immediately bolted in the direction of the ladies’ room. Ever resourceful, Elisa then stuck a hand into the bag’s side pocket and distributed a few tablets among the table’s remaining people. Hands simultaneously found their way to mouths, and the mystery pills were quickly washed down with champagne and vodka and what Skye – our very own drink critic – had described as ‘the only decent cosmopolitan in this entire fucking city.’
‘Oh, Pheeeely, I think it will be nice to have the tom-ahto juices, oui?’ Sonja said, biting her lower lip seductively.
‘Hey, y’all, come and play. We’ve got more than enough to go around!’ Elisa called over the Hotel Costes CD that might’ve passed for relaxed lounge music had it not been pumped out at decibels capable of drowning out a 747.
Danny left to fetch drinks for Philip and Sonja, while Penelope tried gamely to make conversation with an ever more wasted Elisa. I just stood there, acutely aware that I looked awkward and dumb, but not really possessing the faculties to move.
‘So, Philip, introduce me to your, uh, your friend,’ I managed, wondering what the protocol was when the guy whose bed you’d recently shared made the effort to track you down with his girlfriend in tow.
‘Sure thing, love. Sonja, this is the smashing creature I was telling you about – the one who turned me down a few weeks ago, if you can believe it. She was completely blotto, of course; it’s the only feasible explanation.’ Sonja nodded, not necessarily comprehending anything. He rapidly switched to French and the only word I managed to catch was name, which I immediately assumed meant he was informing her he didn’t know what mine was.
‘Bette,’ I said, extending my hand to Sonja while ignoring Philip.
‘Son-yaaah.’ She giggled, revealing shiny teeth with absolutely no nicotine stains.
‘Sonja’s folks have entrusted her to me for the week while she interviews at all the agencies,’ he explained in his irritatingly