Lauren Weisberger 3-Book Collection: Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont. Lauren Weisberger
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less friendly lately, but I figured it was just because we were all really busy at work, planning individual events in addition to laying all the groundwork for the Playboy party. All I wanted to do was call Penelope, explain that I hadn’t lied to get out of her dinner so I could run off into the night with this sad excuse for a boyfriend. Philip had already strolled past the doorman and was waiting impatiently for me to join him, and as soon as we stepped into the elevator, true to form, he attacked me.
‘Bette, I simply cannot wait to take you home later and shag you all night,’ he crooned into my hair, his hands running all over my body and sliding under my shirt. ‘Even in that silly getup you’re hot.’
I pushed his grabby hands away and sighed. ‘Let’s just get through this, okay?’
‘Why do you get your knickers in such a twist, love? Oh, I see now, you’d like it if I tried a touch harder. I am most willing to accommodate. …’ And with that, he thrusted his entire lower half into mine with minimal skill and his characteristic tongue lashing. Had Gwyneth really endured such treatment? Was it actually possible he’d slept with so many girls only once that none had bothered to tell him that he had no idea what he was doing? It was sickening, as was the sudden realization that Philip only pursued me with this passion when he knew we couldn’t go through with it. Tonight was no different; there was no risk of me tearing off my clothes and pleading for sex when the elevator doors would swing open at any moment. Which they did, directly into Caleb’s penthouse apartment. A quick and subtle backhanded wipe across my face and neck removed most of the saliva, and I was as ready as I’d ever be.
‘Philip, baby, come on over!’ a lanky guy with long hair called from the couch, where he was hunched over a mirror, rolled-up bill in hand. What appeared to be a naked girl was draped across his lap. She stared up at him with a look that surpassed admiration and approached worship. He snorted quickly, effortlessly, handed the girl the bill, and then pulled his mask back over his face.
‘Cally, Cal-man, this is Bette. Bette, Caleb, the thrower of this most fabulous party, and as of today, a gentleman no longer in his twenties.’
‘Hi, Caleb, nice to meet you,’ I said to the mask. ‘Thanks for inviting me.’
All three of them looked at each other and then at me and started laughing. ‘Bette, why don’t you come join us here for a little taste, and then we’ll head upstairs? Everyone’s on the roof.’
‘Uh, I’m good, thanks,’ I said, unable to take my eyes off the girl. She finished the two small lines Caleb had left for her and rolled onto her back. Technically, she wasn’t completely naked, if you counted the swatch of fuchsia silk that hung low on her hips and covered only the front of her pelvis, leaving her entire backside bare. The thong I thought she’d been wearing when I first saw her turned out to be nothing more than a tan line, and her breasts had long since broken free from their own silk constraints, a contraption shaped something like a bra but with no actual hooks, straps, or shape. She curled up in a ball with a happy smile and sipped her champagne, announcing that she was just going to party downstairs a little longer before joining everyone else.
‘Suit yourself, babe,’ Caleb said, motioning for us to follow him. We stepped back in the elevator, where he used a special key that allowed us to select the Terrace button. I almost passed out when the doors opened again. I don’t know what exactly I’d been expecting, but this sure wasn’t it. Perhaps I’d thought it was going to be like Michael’s Halloween party, when a bunch of his friends from UBS and college had gathered in his fourth-floor walk-up. The kitchen table had held bottles of cheap booze and mixers and a few cereal bowls of candy corn, pretzels, and salsa. Some guy in drag announced that pizza was on the way to the assorted costumed revelers, who sat around talking about college, who had gotten engaged or promoted, and how badly President Bush was fucking up in Iraq.
This scene was very, very different. The rooftop itself looked like an exact replica of Skybar in LA, all sleek and chic and streamlined, with low-rider lounging beds and heat lamps and geometrical candelabras casting a soft glow over everything. A frosted-glass bar peeked out from behind some sort of intimidating vegetation, and a DJ booth had been installed in another corner, mostly out of sight so as not to block one inch of the incredible city views that spanned below us. Nobody seemed much interested in the Hudson right then, though, and I immediately understood why: the flesh on display was far more compelling than some river, and far more expansive.
There are parties and there are costume parties, and then there’s what was unfolding on Caleb’s rooftop, something that by definition would technically qualify as a costume party but what in reality looked more like a revival of Hair – plus La Perla lingerie, minus tacky sixties updos. I felt an immediate desire to strip off my shoes and suit and roam around in nothing but my bra and underwear, if for no other reason than an intense desire to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Even then I’d surely be wearing more clothing than any other woman here, but at least I wouldn’t stand out quite so much.
Caleb had disappeared briefly and returned with a glass of champagne for me and a tumbler of something amber-colored for Philip. I downed it in one long gulp and gaped openly at the girl he’d brought over to meet us. The introduction was preceded by a long and very visual kiss during which both Caleb and the girl opened their mouths so wide and with such tongue enthusiasm that I almost felt like an equal participant.
‘Mmm,’ he murmured, playfully biting her neck after reclaiming his tongue from the depths of her face. ‘Guys, this is … the most gorgeous girl at the party. How hot is she? Seriously, have you seen anything so stunning in your lives?’
‘Gorgeous,’ I concurred, as though she weren’t there. ‘You’re absolutely right.’ The girl apparently wasn’t bothered that Caleb appeared to have forgotten – or never discovered – her name. Not so weird, I figured; it seemed like lots of people hung out together but didn’t really know one another’s names. The music was always too loud and everyone was usually wasted, but mostly it was because no one cared. ‘I’ll remember her name when I read it on Page Six,’ I’d heard Elisa announce on the subject. This girl didn’t seem to mind much, perhaps because she didn’t appear to comprehend a single word we were exchanging. She just giggled and occasionally adjusted her outfit and concentrated very hard on touching Caleb as often and as suggestively as possible. Yet another guy in drag (this one sporting a full-body mask with bare breasts, shimmery eyeliner, and a black-and-white-checked headdress à la Yasir Arafat) came over to announce that the cars would arrive in just a few minutes to take us to Bungalow 8 for Caleb’s ‘real’ party.
‘It will hopefully be an improvement over my rubbish birthday party last year,’ Philip replied.
‘Why rubbish?’ I asked, not caring but trying to appear involved so my staring wouldn’t be quite so obvious.
‘The fuckwits at the door let everyone in, and within an hour it was overrun with B&T. Bad times.’
‘Was,’ agreed the she-male Arafat. ‘Bad times all around. Tonight will be better. That big one, what’s his name, Sammy’s at the door. He’s no genius, but he’s not a complete fucking idiot, either.’
Sammy! I wanted to sing out his name, hug the guy who’d just uttered it, dance in little circles at the thought of seeing him. But first I had to get through this.
‘So, what are you?’ the turbaned guy asked me.
‘She’s going as an uptight bi … businesswoman,’ Philip kindly answered on my behalf. And as I looked around, I wondered what it was about costume parties that always made guys dress like girls and girls dress like sluts. Regardless of the coolness of the party or the price of the alcohol served, it happened each and every time, without fail. I looked around for the scantily clad kittens, nurses, princesses, singers, French maids, cheerleaders, Catholic schoolgirls, devils, angels, or dancers, but these girls didn’t bother with such repressive titles. None of their outfits were technically costumes, just an amalgamation of shiny fabrics and sparkly accessories designed to showcase some of the best bodies God had ever created.
A brunette reclining on one of the beds was wearing a pair of flowing