by Tia Williams
“When did he become a sociopath?” wondered Jenna.
“He’s not a sociopath,” said Billie, now sitting cross-legged on the plush rug. “Just the nightmare New York man.”
Elodie nodded. “The kind who makes so much money that he thinks you should ignore your bothersome needs and just be pleased as fuck to be in his orbit.”
“But Brian really did love you,” said Billie, who always hoped they’d make it through their rough patch. “He was so committed, for so long. But then he just…wasn’t.”
“And I lost it,” said Jenna. “Do you realize that this is my first social event since Le Petit Scandale? I basically had a meltdown in front of Manhattan. All those public fights Brian and I had. Then there was the bleak Dorothy Parker poem I posted on Facebook…”
“‘Guns aren’t lawful; nooses give; gas smells awful; might as well live.’” Elodie grimaced. “No wonder you swore off social media.”
Billie glared at her.
“And then Darling sent me on mental health leave, and promoted my number two the next day. I’m not even sure that’s legal. I left the Condé Nast building sobbing through the lobby during lunchtime, when the traffic’s highest. I’m pretty sure Anna Wintour did a double take.”
No one person’s bigger than Darling, her editor-in-chief had said. You were gone, and Bertie stepped up. Frankly, we needed some new energy, anyway.
“The gossip blogs were terrible,” she said. “Gawker, Page 6, the blind items. A disgrace. Seriously, I’ve spent the past two days psyching myself up to show my face at this party.”
“You’re talking like you were Amanda Bynes,” said Elodie. “It was low-level media gossip. Blew over in five minutes. Plus, it gave you an edge.”
“Agreed,” said Billie. “If you’re going to fall apart, make it interesting. Look at Elizabeth Taylor.” Billie adored La Liz. “When her life imploded, she binged on fried chicken, became a blowzy alcoholic, wore plus-size Halston and married a Republican. Divine.”
Jenna suddenly sat up on the bed, grabbing her glass of champagne from the nightstand. “You know what? No more Brian talk. I’m back, I have this fab new job, and I’m no longer a depressed Zoloftian! I need to get mega-drunk and forget that entire conversation.”
“Cheers to your comeback,” exclaimed Elodie, lifting up her glass. “Even if you have to work with fashion’s answer to Abbie Lee Miller.”
“Cheers,” said Billie, clinking her glass with the others. “Plus, you cannot waste a dress that good, weeping in a hotel room.”
For the first time in ages, Jenna was feeling kind of cute. She wore a clingy, knee-length, white dress with lingerie detailing, which she’d swiped from the fashion closet at work (“South Beach Goldigger”)—and sky-high orange stilettos, borrowed from Billie.
“You know what I’d love?” asked Jenna.
“Ombre highlights?” asked Billie, their resident beauty expert. “They’d be everything with your new hair.”
“Cute! But no. Sex. It’s been years. This morning I tried to masturbate and I swear my vagina laughed at me.”
“Oh sweetie,” said Billie, sadly.
“But I just got my first Brazilian wax in forever, and I’m feeling like this is a step in a lustier direction.”
“A bald vag is necessary to have a restorative one-night stand, which is what you need,” agreed Elodie.
“Am I ready, though? I doubt I even remember how to properly administer a blowjob.”
“Please, it’s like riding a bike.” Elodie tugged at her dress, exposing more of her F-cup cleavage. “Running to the event now. See you downstairs, Jenna. Tonight, I’m setting you up!”
“Find her a guy you haven’t slept with,” Billie called out to Elodie, as she swept out the door.
“In this crowd, that might be challenging!” hollered Elodie. Then, Billie climbed on the bed and handed a slightly worried-looking Jenna a siren-red lipstick. “Like Elizabeth Taylor said, ‘Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick, and pull yourself together.’ Now go. You can’t be late for your coming out party.”
CHAPTER 3
The Refectory had once been a dorm for monks, and looked it. Elodie had taken advantage of the gothic, cathedral-esque space by going for an “Eyes Wide Shut” vibe with the decor. Billowing, sheer white curtains sectioned off six separate areas—each with its own bar. Crimson candles dripped on to every surface, massive gold chandeliers hung from the arched ceilings; and overstuffed purple velvet chaises were arranged in darkened, sexy corners. As was custom with any event where models were the centerpiece, there were men everywhere.
The crowd was a sampling from every scene, a perfect storm of NYC nightlife. The Weeknd and Drake were blaring—but no one was dancing, except for the guest of honor’s fellow Victoria’s Secret models. Posed in clusters throughout were their boy-model counterparts, dressed in lumberjack shirts and reeking of Parliaments and Bushwick boredom. Holding court at the bar were the ever-important Suits, who always kept the scene going by financing most of Elodie’s celebrity pet projects. Hovering above the crowd was a handful of gorgeous NBA and NFL stars, who were a must at these things, because both the models and the Suits appreciated them. And then there were a few scorchingly chic, high-priced hookers (these were for the Suits too charmless to score a model). Weaving throughout were bespectacled, indie-cute journalists on the arts/lifestyle beat, and young fashion girls, who were as sexy as the models, but short and poor.
Jenna hadn’t been in the room for two seconds before her best friend grabbed her arm.
“I found you a man,” said Elodie, who’d spent the last twenty minutes shirking her event-planning duties to play matchmaker for Jenna. “All I know is he went to Yale and he’s a radiologist. He’s walking toward us now.”’
“Wait! I’m not ready…”
“You haven’t had sex since the Bush administration. You’re ready.” She shoved a glass of champagne at Jenna. “Dialo Banin! This is Jenna Jones. Jenna, this good man has been dying to meet you. Talk amongst yourselves, while I go bounce a few VH1 reality show whores.”
With that rushed introduction, Elodie dashed off into the crowd. Dialo stood in front of Jenna, affixing her with a brilliant white smile. He was wearing an achingly expensive suit, a tangerine day scarf arranged just so, and aviators. Indoors. At night.
“So…what were your other two wishes?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Where’s your sense of humor, hon?” he asked, smiling. “It was an ice-breaker.”
“Oh! Well, ice broken.” Coming from this man, with his florid accent, in that getup, the “wishes” line sounded like a come-on that Truman Capote would’ve delivered at a dude disco in Vegas.
“Would you like to sit down?”
“I’d love to,” she said, making a mental note to destroy Elodie for this. Dialo touched her elbow and led her over to an itty-bitty reserved cocktail table flanked by two high-backed, wrought iron chairs. He sat back in his chair, stretching out his legs. There was now no room for her under the table, so she wrapped her ankles around her chair legs, like a schoolgirl. Nervous, she folded her hands in her lap, and then accidentally lasered-in on Dialo’s burgundy velvet YSL slippers.
Jenna understood exactly who Dialo was. He was one of those fake-flashy Euro neo-dandies who hung “WC” signs on the bathroom doors in their Murray Hill rentals.
“I have to admit, I’m not a book enthusiast. But I’m glad I came,” he said, stroking his chin. “You’re lucky to be here.”
“I know, it’s a great party.”
“No, I mean you’re lucky to be here. With me. I don’t usually date black women. But when I Googled you on my phone, I had to make an exception.”
“Huh. But you’re black. Why don’t you…” She stopped talking, because she noticed that Dialo wasn’t even looking at her. He peered over her shoulder. She darted her eyes in that direction, and saw a group of twenty-year-olds in tiny dresses—the knockoff version of hers.
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An hour before, Jenna had felt a degree of excitement while getting dressed for her first night out since returning to New York. She’d almost felt like a dewy-eyed recent college grad, heading out for a naughty night of club-hopping and hopefully getting pawed by a baby Leo DiCaprio in VIP. But her options were no longer limitless. She was decades older, and being ignored by a fancy-pants douche she wasn’t even attracted to.
“I’m black,” he continued, “but not American black like you. I’m from Ghana via London. And relax, I just find white women to be more easygoing.”
“Ohhh, you’re one of those.” Jenna swirled her straw in her drink, trying to figure out how to lose this bozo. “But I’m clearly black, so why are you here?”
“I do enjoy some biracial women, which is what I figured you were from your pictures. So you get a pass, love.” He guffawed.
“Nope, not biracial. I’m one hundred percent all-American black. So black that my middle name is Keisha.”
Dialo grimaced. “Anyway, when I found out you used to be a famous fashion editor, I was impressed. I have a superb publicist, should you need one. He’s so stylish. He hooked me up with this Matthew Williamson scarf.”
“That’s a woman’s piece, you know.”
“But it works with a strong seamed jacket.”
“Indeed.” Jenna vowed to kill Elodie. “So, should a radiologist have a publicist? Isn’t that breaking some sort of Hippocratic oath?”
“I mostly have A-list clients, so…” he trailed off. “I must say, you look just like a girl I went to Yale with. But surely you’re a good ten years younger than me, little lady.”
Jenna grinned, deciding to fuck with him a little.
“Doubt it. I’m forty-five.” She added on five years, just to watch his head explode. “How old are you?”
“Forty-five? I’m forty-three!”
“So, we’re contemporaries.”
“But I thought…wow, forty-five? I wouldn’t have guessed.”
His entire body language changed. He shook his head, as if rejecting the entire notion. And then actually looked at his watch. She signaled a waitress. “Sweetie, could we get some napkins?”
“Why do you need napkins?” Then Dialo lowered his voice and asked Jenna, “Am I making you wet?”
Jenna finished the rest of her champagne and then stood up, slowly rearranging her dress. As she did, she allowed her bag to tip the remaining splash of his cocktail onto one of his velvet slippers.
As Dialo squealed like Babe, she hurried away, grabbing two glasses of champagne from a cater waiter’s tray. He was vile. But the worst part? He wasn’t at all unique. He was the classic New York mover-and-shaker. A doctor with a publicist. Straight, but so fey you could smell the Kiehl’s eye cream.
Jenna stormed through the party, looking everywhere for Elodie. Since she was nowhere to be found, she planted herself next to a bar and downed both glasses. Just then a group of guys swept by her, all Suits. She’d known them peripherally for years—and tonight, they were surrounded by six hotties in their twenties (in outfits Jenna would later describe as being a cross between “Atlanta Prom” and “Who Gives a Fuck”). The guys gave Jenna air-kisses, and the May-December group went on their way.
“What is this?” she murmured out loud to no one, shaking her head in frustration. The room swayed a little bit. Steadying herself by grabbing the edge of the bar, she asked the willowy bartender, “If you have a Brazilian and no one sees it, does it exist? You know, like the tree in the forest thing?”
The girl giggled. “What’s wrong, doll?”
“Can I get another glass of Prosecco?” The chick slid her one, Jenna’s fourth, and she threw it back. She was well on the road to sloshed. “What’s up with the twenty-year-old girls? These men are my age. The guys get older, the girls get younger, and where does that leave me? I was with one man my whole life. I’m forty and basically dating for the first time. I have no idea how to naviglate… nafligate…navigate this world.”
Finishing her drink, she saw one of her Suit friends catch her eye and then point at his model’s ass behind her back. He leered. Jenna shot him her middle finger.
“Honey,” said the waitress, “why don’t you go sit down for a little bit?”
“Speshtacular idea.”
Jenna spotted an empty chaise in a dark corner, half-hidden by one of the swaying curtains. She managed to weave her way through the crowd and plunk herself down on the little couch. She must’ve dozed off, because the next thing she knew, someone tapped her shoulder.
“You okay?’
Jenna sat up straight, jerking her head up so fast that her hair got caught in her lip gloss. A man sat next to her. A kid, really—he looked barely out of his teens, wearing Jordans, distressed jeans and a black tee that shouted “Blame Society” in red typeface. A busy swirl of tattoos erupted from his shirtsleeve and covered his arm, stopping at his wrist. His look was effortlessly crisp, in a Red Hook hipster-meets-hip hop way. Lanky and tall with I-play-basketball-all-weekend biceps, he looked like a person who was well aware that he was, by far, the coolest sophomore at NYU.
He eyed her with furrowed concentration. “You okay?” he repeated.
“Yes! I’m fine. I’m great great great.”
“Yeah, you sound it.” He smiled. “How many drinks?”
“Four. No, five. Are you as drunk as me?”
He nodded, lifting up his glass. “And high. On too many things.”
“But you’re like, eighteen. Are you even legal? What are you doing here?”
“I’m twenty-two! I have a seriously elite college degree from USC Film School.”
“USC Film? Color me impressed! If I wasn’t in fashion, I’d be in film. In high school, I thought about being a film historian, but my mother was like, what the hell is a film historian, so I never…” Aware that she was rambling, she stopped herself. “She has a very strong personality. Anyway, that’s fantastic.”
“Not even. None of us can get jobs. The acceptance rate at USC Film is lower than Harvard Law. We worked our asses off for no reason. I’m here to pick up my boy, one of the waiters. Yo, this guy’s one of the illest cinematographers of my generation, and he’s serving moscato to a Basketball Wife.”
“Yikes, Elodie’s gonna be furious. She didn’t want any reality people in here.”
“They’re here. I was just over in the fake butt section.” He shuddered. “I haaate plastic surgery. Hard, balloon breasts. And what’s that thing women do when they suck the fat out of their thighs?”
“Liposuction.”
“Terrible. I like for women to have…” He paused, making grabby gestures in the air. “Smush.”
Jenna got comfy, curling up against the back of the couch. “I’ve always wanted smush, but I’m too skinny. I’ve had curve-envy my whole life.”
“You have smush somewhere. Besides, you’re not skinny, you’re… svelte. Sinuous.”
“You like S words.”
“Yeah, I had a lisp in kindergarten, so I like to stunt with my superior “S’ game.”
“Awww!”
“I’m cutting myself off.” He put his glass down on the cocktail table, shaking his head. “The lisp? Information not to disclose upon meeting a staggeringly pretty girl.”
“You think I’m staggeringly pretty?”
He nodded. “Absolutely. You’re, like, next-level fancy. Incapable of having a tacky moment. I was just at a party with girls filming twerk videos on Vine, so I can say this with authority.”
“Twerk videos on Vine?” Jenna paused, and then frowned. “Actually, I don’t even know what or where Vine is.”
“You’ve never heard of Vine?”
She shrugged apologetically. “I’ve been away.”
“See? I feel like you’re a different breed of woman. Like you’re from a planet of angelic goddesses who are, like, made of the sugary oozy stuff inside Cadbury eggs and speak in Ezra Pound stanzas. And own tiny condos inside of rainbows.”<
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Jenna’s mouth opened, and then she howled with unselfconscious laughter. “I’m what? You’re so weird!”
“I know,” he said, looking bashful. “I read too much science fiction.”
“So do I. And weird is good. I love it.”
“As long as you love it,” he said. And then he grinned at her. Jenna’s heart almost stopped. His smile tore through her like lightening. She felt it in her thighs.
Jesus, that mouth. Those puffy, bitable lips…
“You know what else you look like?”
“Tell me,” she said.
He folded his arms across his chest and studied her, long and indulgently. Jenna’s stomach flip-flopped—she was mesmerized. His eyes were arresting, almond-shaped and beyond black, like ink dipped in water. God, he was beautiful. Finally, his mouth curled into a secret smile, and Jenna smiled back, and then they were two strangers smiling giddily at each other, for no reason.
“You look like you need to be kissed. Badly.”
“Worse than you know. How could you tell?”
“’Cause you’re staring at my mouth with laser-like focus.”
“Cocky.”
“Self-aware.”
“Well, it’s true. Your mouth is really…good.” Was it the alcohol, or was he the most fuckable person she’d ever seen? Jenna bit her bottom lip, her mind racing. She could feel her cheeks getting hot. She wanted to rip this kid’s clothes off.
Was she drunk enough to do this?
“Do you want to kiss me?” she asked.
“Is that rhetorical?”
She shook her head, scooting a bit closer to him.
“If you knew what I wanted to do,” he said, “you’d call security.”
“Kiss me, then. We’re both wasted. That means we won’t muh-member…I mean, remember any of this tomorrow.”
“Oh, I’ll muh-member.”
They both peered over the back of the couch to see how conspicuous they were. They were facing a corner, and the almost-sheer panel billowing from the ceiling was half-shielding them. Everyone was busy doing whatever people do at parties for dog books. Plus, it was really dark.
