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

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 magenta gypsy pants that billowed out from a low-slung belt and were gathered together at her ankles, the transparent material allowing us to view her diamond-studded thong, which was tucked between perfectly firm butt cheeks. On top she wore a diamond-studded bra that created cleavage in that flawless way that said, ‘Look at me’ but not ‘I’m an aspiring Pamela Anderson.’ Her friend, looking all of sixteen and lying next to her, playing with her hair, wore a pair of silver fishnets that stretched so far across her infinite legs that they looked partially shredded. She had pulled on a pair of red leather boy shorts over them, which dipped so low at the hips and so high at the thigh that she’d definitely needed to make a special request at the waxer’s. The only accompaniment to the ‘costume’ were the silver fringe tassels hanging from the nipples of her apple-sized breasts and a giant tiara of multicolored feathers and fur that cascaded down her back. I’ve never had a single sexual impulse toward another woman in all my twenty-seven years, and yet I thought I would sleep with either one of them right then.

      ‘They look like lingerie models, for chrissake,’ I muttered under my breath to no one in particular.

      ‘They are,’ Philip responded, staring with what can only be described as lust. ‘Don’t you recognize Raquel and Maria Thereza here? They’re Victoria’s biggest girls this year, the youngest Brazilian crop ever.’

      I was devastated to see that they don’t airbrush nearly as much as I’d always convinced myself they did. We roamed around the glass-enclosed roof – only the ceiling was open to the sky – as Philip handed out high fives to Jimmy Fallon and Derek Jeter in quick succession and cheek kisses (always just missing the lips) to a long line of fashion-magazine editors, sitcom actresses, and Hollywood starlets. I was checking my cell to see if Elisa or Kelly had called when I spotted Philip massaging the back of the titty-tasseled girl, who I now recognized as the one who’d modeled the cotton bikini panties I’d recently ordered from the VS catalog and who I’d mentally blamed for misrepresentation when I’d put them on and looked in the mirror. The Hotel Costes soundtrack thumped out of some flattened, plasma-like unit that hung from one of the outdoor walls while people alternately danced, smoked, did drugs, munched sushi, and ogled each other. I kept checking the door for Elisa, worried they wouldn’t find us on the terrace, and eventually sent her a text message with elevator instructions. At some point I accepted a drink from a gorgeous, shirtless waiter wearing a loincloth and heels, but I remained rooted near the door, making sure I could see everyone who arrived and left. There was a brief break in the fun when Caleb announced that a fleet of cars was waiting downstairs to transport everyone to the club, but then the partying continued straight through the elevators and into the two dozen Town Cars that lined the block as far as I could see.

      ‘Philip, we can’t leave this party!’ I hiss-whispered as he tried to hustle me into the elevator. ‘We’re waiting for the BlackBerry people.’

      ‘Stop fretting, love. Elisa rang to tell me that your boss rang to tell her that the meeting is canceled for tonight.’

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