Lauren Weisberger 3-Book Collection: Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont

‘I don’t know too much except that it opened last night and is supposed to be the ultimate exclusive place, sort of a VIP room on steroids. Kelly wanted us to check it out in case it actually does live up to the hype. If it becomes the new place, we’ll already have it booked for the Playboy party.’

Kelly & Company had been commissioned by Playboy over a year ago to put on the Manhattan portion of their never-ending Fiftieth Anniversary celebration, which would start in Chicago in January and eventually end in a blowout at the mansion in Los Angeles in March, making stops in Vegas, Miami, and New York along the way. It was going to be a massive undertaking – definitely our biggest project to date, and it pretty much dominated every workday. Kelly had gathered us around the day before to change the number on the countdown board to 164 and then asked for updates. The List Girls were already running simultaneous searches on all A- and B-list celebs, preparing to construct a final winning group. Meanwhile, the rest of us spent half of each day fielding calls from every imaginable person in every sector of the city looking to wrangle invitations and request invites for themselves, or clients, or both. Combine all the anticipation with Hef’s paranoid insistence that all details (including – but not limited to – location, date, time, and attendees) be kept lockbox-quiet, and we had the recipe for total chaos.

‘I looked it up on Citysearch today. They quoted the manager as saying they expected the clientele to be “upscale creative,” which I sort of thought applied more to menus than people, but what do I know?’ Penelope sighed.

I’d recently begun to understand that the concept of exclusivity was an organizing principle of life in Manhattan. Part of this was undoubtedly due to the sheer concentration of people on such a tiny island. New Yorkers instinctively compete for everything from taxis at rush hour to seats on the subway to Hermès Birkin bags to Knicks season tickets. Impenetrable co-op boards take years to navigate. Icy hostesses at the city’s most desirable restaurants haughtily demand reservations six months in advance. ‘If they let you in without a hassle,’ people say, ‘it’s probably not worth going.’ Since the days of Studio 54, and probably long before (if there even were nightclubs before then), club-goers have made getting into trendy nightclubs a competitive sport. And at the chicest places, like tonight, there are levels of access. Getting in the front door is just the beginning – any NYU sophomore in a tube top can manage that. ‘The main bar?’ I’d heard someone say in reference to Sanctuary. ‘I’d rather be at TGI Friday’s in 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 new man, sitting with business associates at first banquette on the right. And look! That ugly little lesbian troll blogger who can’t stop writing about how much blow she does every night is sort of lurking in the back there, watching them all. Tomorrow she’ll have everything plastered all over her blog, making it sound like she was partying with everyone rather than spying all night long. Oh, and look! Right behind her, an assistant from Rush & Molloy. They rotate them constantly so no one ever knows who they are, but we have a source there who faxes over pictures and bios of the new ones right away. … Hmm, it doesn’t look like Philip is here tonight. Shame. I bet you were wanting to see him, no?’

‘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.’