Lauren Weisberger 3-Book Collection: Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont. Lauren Weisberger
Hoboken.’ Elisa had provided explicit instructions to make our way directly to the VIP lounge, apparently the only place to find some ‘real action.’ Jagger and Bowie partied in Studio 54’s legendary private rooms. Today Leo, Colin, and Lindsay hold court, unmolested by prying eyes. And everyone else clamors to get in.
I’d grown accustomed to being a non-VIP quite some time ago – it hadn’t occurred to me that VIP was even a possibility for me. It had taken the opening of a VIP room outside of the confines of the nightclub arena to really stir my righteous indignation. In what I could only interpret as the first sign of the apocalypse, my dentist, Dr Quinn, had opened a VIP waiting room in his office. ‘So the doctor’s high-profile, important clients will have a place where they feel comfortable,’ the assistant had explained. ‘You can have a seat in our regular lounge.’ I sat in Dr Powell’s very uncool and very public waiting room, thumbing through a two-year-old issue of Redbook and silently willing the overweight gentleman next to me to cease cracking his gum. I gazed longingly at the door marked VIP and fantasized about the plush dental wonderland that surely lay beyond. I resigned myself to the fact that I would always be one of those people on the outside looking in. But there I was, a mere few months later, standing outside Sanctuary in my cool new clothes with a gaggle of fabulous friends waiting inside. It felt like my luck was changing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a girl who looked exactly like Abby kiss the bouncer and make her way into the lounge, but I couldn’t positively identify her from where I stood. ‘Hey, you’ll never guess who I saw the other night. I can’t believe I forgot to tell you! Abby was at Bungalow that night you left after dinner.’
Penelope’s head snapped toward mine. She hated Abby more than I did, if that was possible. She’d refused to acknowledge her presence since Abby had cornered her in an empty classroom sophomore year and told her not to take it personally that Penelope’s father was sleeping with his secretary, that it was certainly no reflection on his love for her. Penelope had been so shocked she’d merely asked, ‘How do you know?’ and Abby had smirked in return. ‘Are you serious?’ she’d asked. ‘Who doesn’t know?’
‘You saw that midget and didn’t tell me? What’d she have to say for herself?’
‘Her usual. She’s now at the vortex of the media world, you’ll be happy to know. Goes by Abigail now, not Abby, so of course I said “Abby” as many times as I possibly could. Had her boobs done and half her face rearranged, but she’s still exactly the same.’
‘Girl would walk over her own mother in spike heels if it helped her get ahead,’ Penelope mumbled.
‘Sure would,’ I confirmed cheerfully. ‘And you just might have the pleasure of seeing her here tonight. I think she just walked in.’
‘Great. That’s just great. Lucky us.’
I linked arms with Penelope and boldly walked to the front of the line, hopefully projecting some level of confidence. A highly manorexic black guy sporting a giant, fake Afro wig and a long-sleeved mesh T-shirt over hot pink Lycra tights peered at us through sparkle-encrusted eyelashes.
‘Are you on the list?’ he asked in a voice that was surprisingly gruff for someone who cross-dressed so expertly.
‘Yep, sure are,’ I said casually. Silence. ‘Um, yes, we are on the list. We’re here with Kelly & Company.’
No response. He held the clipboard but didn’t consult it, and I decided he hadn’t heard me.
‘I spoke with the manager earlier today to arrange a visit? We’re actually here to check out the venue for a potential—’
‘Name!’ he barked, wholly disinterested in my explanation. But as I spelled out my last name, four guys in seventies leisure suits and a girl in something that looked an awful lot like a flapper outfit walked directly in front of me.
‘Romero, darling, move that silly rope aside so we can get out of the cold,’ the girl ordered, placing a hand gingerly on the bouncer’s cheek.
‘Of course, Sofia, come right in,’ he cooed deferentially, and I realized that the flapper was Sofia Coppola. The entourage followed her lead and nodded their respects to the bouncer, who was glowing with pride and happiness. It took him a full three minutes to regain his composure and another two to remember that we were still there.
‘Robinson,’ I said, sounding definitely more irritated. ‘R-O-B-I –’
‘I can spell it,’ he snapped, apparently now in a full-fledged snit. ‘Yes, fortunately for you, I have you on the list. Absolutely no one is getting in tonight otherwise.’
‘Mmm’ was about all I could manage in reply to this fascinating piece of information.
He placed his hand on the velvet rope but didn’t lift it. He leaned over and addressed Penelope directly, and none too quietly: ‘Just FYI for next time, girls: you’re really a bit more casual than we like to see here.’
Penelope giggled, obviously unaware that our new transvestite friend was not kidding.
‘Hey, I’m just giving it to you straight,’ he continued, his voice getting louder every second. A sort of silence had overtaken the previously fidgety and excited crowd, and I could feel fifty pairs of eyes staring at us from behind. ‘We prefer to see a little more style, a little more effort.’
My mind began to race, in search of a snappy retort, but of course I managed to say nothing. Before I knew what was happening, a girl so young, so tall, and with breasts so enormous they’d only ever work in LA, came over and volunteered a brief but highly informative lecture on the current fashion situation.
‘We especially like to see forties looks lately.’ She smiled warmly.
‘Huh?’ Penelope said, verbalizing exactly what I was thinking.
‘Well, it’s just one option, of course, but it’s quite effective. Black and white with bright red lipstick, you know? Perhaps some vintage Prada heels or something even chunkier. It’s all about distinguishing yourself.’ I heard a few people laughing appreciatively in the background.
It was at this point that I noticed that she looked like something out of I Want a Famous Face gone horribly awry.
What did I say? What did I do? Absolutely nothing. Instead of maintaining one iota, one tiny shred of self-respect, we proffered our left hands for the obligatory stamp and sort of shuffled shamefully past the velvet rope that had finally been lifted. The final indignity came just as the door was shutting behind us, when the cosmetically enhanced giraffe announced to the circus freak, ‘It wouldn’t be quite so bad if they just minded their labels.’
‘Did that just happen?’ Penelope asked, looking as dumbfounded as I felt.
‘I think so. Just how pathetic were we? I’m almost afraid to ask.’
‘There are actually no words for that level of pathetic-ness. It was like watching Jeopardy! – I knew all the answers, just ten seconds too late.’
I was about to suggest that we medicate ourselves with as much undiluted vodka as we could locate, but Elisa found us first.
‘This place is so hot,’ she breathed into my ear while waving hello to Penelope. ‘Check it out. Far right, back corner, Kristin Davis. Far right, just in front of her, Suzanne Somers. Random, I acknowledge, but celeb nonetheless. Far left, not quite in the corner, more like twelve o’clock, Sting and Trudie Styler, making out. At the round leather couch in the middle, Heidi Klum and Seal, and Davide heard them say that Zac Posen is on his way.’
‘Wow,’ Penelope said, making an admirable effort to sound impressed, ‘there are a lot of people here tonight. Bette? What do you say about getting a drink?’
‘I’m not finished,’ Elisa hissed, pulling my arm tighter toward hers and continuing to scan the room. ‘Flirting with the waitress, by the side door, Ethan Hawke. Made significantly more awkward by the presence of Andre Balazs, Uma’s