Just as he was beginning a small soliloquy on the far-reaching benefits of owning a Chanel suit, the maid knocked on the study door to inform us that dinner was on the table. We collected our drinks and made our way to the formal dining room.
‘Productive day?’ Simon asked Will, kissing him on the cheek in greeting. He had showered and changed into a pair of Hefesque linen pajamas and was holding a glass of champagne.
‘Of course not,’ Will responded, setting aside his dirty martini and pouring two more glasses of champagne. He handed one to me. ‘Deadline’s not until midnight; why would I do a damn thing until ten o’clock tonight? What are we celebrating?’
I dug into my Gorgonzola salad, grateful to be eating something that hadn’t originated in a street cart, and took a gulp of champagne. If I could have somehow finagled eating there every night without appearing to be the biggest loser on earth, I would’ve done it in a second. But even I had enough dignity to know that being available for the same people – even if they were your uncle and his partner – more than once a week for dinner and once for brunch was truly pathetic.
‘What, we need to be celebrating something to drink a little champagne?’ Simon asked, helping himself to a few pieces of the sliced steak their housekeeper had made for the main course. ‘Just thought it would be a nice change. Bette, what are your plans for the rest of the evening?’
‘Penelope’s engagement party. I’m going to have to head there soon, actually. The mothers put the whole thing together before either Avery or Penelope could veto it. At least it’s at some club in Chelsea, though, rather than somewhere on the Upper East Side – I think that was their one concession to their children actually enjoying themselves.’
‘What’s the name of the club?’ Will asked, although there was little chance he knew anything about it if it wasn’t dark, wood-paneled, and filled with cigar smoke.
‘She mentioned it, but I can’t remember. Begins with a B, I think. Here,’ I said, pulling a torn slip of paper from my bag. ‘It’s on Twenty-seventh between Tenth and Eleventh. It’s called –’
‘Bungalow 8,’ they replied in unison.
‘How did you both know that?’
‘Honey, it’s mentioned so often in Page Six that you’d think Richard Johnson owned the damn place,’ Will said.
‘I read somewhere that it was originally modeled after the bungalows at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and that the service is just as good. It’s just a nightclub, but this article described a concierge who will cater to any whim, from ordering in a special kind of rare sushi to arranging for helicopters. There are places that are hot for a few months and then vanish, but everyone agrees that Bungalow 8 has staying power,’ Simon said.
‘I guess sitting at the Black Door on my nights out isn’t really helping my social life,’ I said and pushed my plate away. ‘Do you guys mind if I bail early tonight? Penelope wanted me there before the hordes of Avery’s friends and her family arrive.’
‘Run, Bette, run. Stop only to reapply your lipstick and then run! And it wouldn’t hurt a damn if you found yourself a dashing young gentleman to date,’ Simon declared, as though there would be roomfuls of gorgeous, eligible guys who were just waiting for me to walk into their lives.
‘Or even better, a dashing young bastard to play with for one evening.’ Will winked, only half-kidding.
‘You guys are the best,’ I said, kissing each one’s cheek before gathering my bag and cardigan. ‘You have no compunction whoring out your only niece, do you?’
‘Absolutely none,’ Will announced while Simon shook his head gravely. ‘Go be a good tart and have some fun, for Christ’s sake, will you?’
There was a crowd – three deep and a block long – when the cab pulled up in front of the club, and if it hadn’t been Penelope’s party, I would’ve had the cabbie keep driving. Instead, I plastered on a smile and strolled to the front of the forty-person line, where a giant guy wearing a Secret Service earpiece stood, holding a clipboard.
‘Hi, my name is Bette and I’m with Penelope’s party,’ I said, surveying the line and not recognizing a single face.
He gazed at me blankly. ‘Great, nice to meet you, Penelope. If you could just wait in line like everyone else, we’ll get you inside as quickly as possible.’
‘No, this is Penelope’s party, and I’m her friend. She asked me to be here early, so it’d really be better if I could go in right now.’
‘Uh-huh, that’s great. Listen, just step aside and—’ He placed a hand over his earpiece and appeared to listen intently, nodding his head a few times and studying the line that now looped around the corner.
‘Okay, everyone,’ he announced, his voice causing immediate silence among the barely dressed would-be partiers. ‘We’re already at capacity right now, as determined by the FDNY. We’ll only be letting people in as others leave, so either get comfortable or come back later.’
Groans all around. Well, this simply isn’t going to work, I thought. He must not understand the situation.
‘Excuse me? Sir?’ He peered at me once again, now visibly annoyed. ‘You’ve obviously got a lot of people waiting to go in, but it’s my friend’s engagement party, and she really needs me there. If you only knew her mother, then you’d understand how imperative it is that I get inside.’
‘Mmm. Interesting. Look, I don’t care if your friend Penelope’s marrying Prince William. There’s no way I can let anyone else in right now. We’d be in violation of the fire code, and you certainly don’t want that.’ He backed off a bit. ‘Just hang out in line and we’ll get you in as soon as possible, okay?’ I think he was aiming for soothing, but it only served to incense me more. He looked vaguely familiar, although I wasn’t sure why. His faded green T-shirt was tight enough to show that he was quite capable of keeping people out if he so desired, but the slightly baggy, faded jeans that hung low on his hips suggested he didn’t take himself too seriously. Just as I was conceding that he had the best hair I’d ever seen on a guy – longish, dark, thick, and annoyingly shiny – he shrugged on a gray corduroy jacket and managed to look even cuter still.
Definitely a model. I restrained myself from announcing something super-snotty about what a power trip this must be for someone who most likely hadn’t made it past seventh grade, and skulked to the back of the line. As repeated attempts to call both Penelope’s and Avery’s cell phones went straight to voice mail, and the front-door goon was only allowing in an average of two people every ten minutes, I stood there for the better part of an hour. I was fantasizing about the many ways I could humiliate or otherwise harm the bouncer when Michael and his girlfriend slinked outside and lit cigarettes a few feet from the door.
‘Michael!’ I shrieked, aware of how absolutely pathetic I sounded, but not really caring. ‘Michael, Megu, over here!’
They both looked over the hordes of people and spotted me, which probably wasn’t hard considering I was screaming and waving with zero dignity. They waved me over, and I practically ran to them.
‘I need to get inside already. I’ve been standing outside this goddamn hellhole forever, and that guy won’t let me in. Penelope’s going to kill me!’
‘Hey, Bette, great to see you, too,’ Michael said, leaning over to kiss my cheek.
‘Sorry,’ I said, hugging first him and then his girlfriend, Megu, the sweet Japanese med student with whom he now shared an apartment. ‘How are you guys? How on earth did you both get out for this?’
‘It