doesn’t answer; Jenni and Nikki have just arrived. She and Cyndi are waving their hands like baby dolphin flippers high above the bobbing heads. There’s squealing. There’s air kissing all around. There’re little bleats and beeps.
“It’s so crowded down here,” says Nikki. “Where’s our section?”
The girls lure the boys and their cronies back to the VIP and soon we’re a saturnalia a few steps above the throng. We sit on silk pillows or toss them on the floor. We pop a new cork and spill as we pour. Arty assembles a bouquet of red toes between his paws. Lance finds the ear of the blonde and creeps back inside. Paul’s brunette gets at home between his thighs. Tammi, Nikki, Jenni, and Cyndi form a honeycomb and buzz.
In walks Demi, a genuine celeb. She’s Tammi, Nikki, and Jenni’s new friend. She’s trailing a posse and half a dozen shutterbugs who’ve weaseled their way in the door. We carve out a central spot for her in the VIP and the paparazzi start to swarm.
But she doesn’t sit with us; she drops her faux-fur fox on our sofa and stands there in a tube top and terry short shorts. The shooters get some snaps. Then Demi bounds out into the thick of it, her hands above her head, her tube top sinking. Murmurs in the crowd so loud we can hear them in the VIP. I dig in my purse for my pen, and all I get are nails full of tobacco.
I should follow her for comment, call in a scoop to Rewriteand make the early edition. It should be easy. She’s hankering for ink. Anyone in the room can read it. She’s sweating out her pores for print. All I have to do is walk over and oblige.
Tammi runs back. “Someone saw her nip,” she says. “Did you see that, Valerie?”
“Her nip?” says Nikki.
“Yep, nip,” says Jenni.
“Left or right?” says Cyndi.
“Goooood question,” says Tammi, pointing at Cyndi and jotting something down on a notepad. “You’re going to be so goooood at this. You’re going to be really, really goooood!”
I ogle Tammi’s notepad. I could borrow her pen, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s okay. I’ve got a colorful memory. I don’t need a pen. I ask Tammi, “When’s your deliveryman coming?”
“Should be here by now,” she says.
“You called Ken?” says Nikki in a conspiratorial whisper.
“Yeah, I called Ken.”
“Oh, you called Ken?” says Jenni. “Great. When’s he getting here?”
“He should be here by now.”
They all look toward the door, then look back at one another and shrug.
Demi and her flock fly back and perch, downing our bubbly. I should stand up and talk to Demi, get a comment. But I’m deep in my silk cushions with two men on my mind: Jeremiah and Ken. Standing up could take an hour. Sitting back down could be another month. I could get sidetracked; I might miss Ken. I should see Ken before Jeremiah. Not that I need Ken, but Ken would cheer me up. And before I see Jeremiah, I should be cheery. Maybe this morning I was cranky. That’s it. Though I’m not sure why. Sniff, sniff. Everything’s swell. Sniff. I’m a bona fide big deal. I’m on top of the top. I’m going to be a Golden. Though no one knows but me. Can’t we just wait?
Demi leans over to grab her faux fox. She smiles at me faintly, maybe because Tammi told her she could milk me for ink. I know I’ll wake up to see her smack in the New York Post, even though Richard’s not in the room. Buzz will say, “Weren’t you there ?” And I’ll say, “Of course I was there. But she didn’t show me her tits.” Or maybe I’ll write it; maybe I’ll call it in quoteless. Once Ken comes. I’ll get up my gusto and work the room. Someone sighted a nip. Then I’ll have done my share.
But already Demi and her entourage have departed. I am relieved. The room wants less of me. Tammi’s cell rings. She puts it daintily to her ear. “You’re outside? Great. I’ll be right there.” Tammi snaps her phone and grins. “Anyone want to come meet Ken?”
Obviously,
“It’s so crowded down here,” says Nikki. “Where’s our section?”
The girls lure the boys and their cronies back to the VIP and soon we’re a saturnalia a few steps above the throng. We sit on silk pillows or toss them on the floor. We pop a new cork and spill as we pour. Arty assembles a bouquet of red toes between his paws. Lance finds the ear of the blonde and creeps back inside. Paul’s brunette gets at home between his thighs. Tammi, Nikki, Jenni, and Cyndi form a honeycomb and buzz.
In walks Demi, a genuine celeb. She’s Tammi, Nikki, and Jenni’s new friend. She’s trailing a posse and half a dozen shutterbugs who’ve weaseled their way in the door. We carve out a central spot for her in the VIP and the paparazzi start to swarm.
But she doesn’t sit with us; she drops her faux-fur fox on our sofa and stands there in a tube top and terry short shorts. The shooters get some snaps. Then Demi bounds out into the thick of it, her hands above her head, her tube top sinking. Murmurs in the crowd so loud we can hear them in the VIP. I dig in my purse for my pen, and all I get are nails full of tobacco.
I should follow her for comment, call in a scoop to Rewriteand make the early edition. It should be easy. She’s hankering for ink. Anyone in the room can read it. She’s sweating out her pores for print. All I have to do is walk over and oblige.
Tammi runs back. “Someone saw her nip,” she says. “Did you see that, Valerie?”
“Her nip?” says Nikki.
“Yep, nip,” says Jenni.
“Left or right?” says Cyndi.
“Goooood question,” says Tammi, pointing at Cyndi and jotting something down on a notepad. “You’re going to be so goooood at this. You’re going to be really, really goooood!”
I ogle Tammi’s notepad. I could borrow her pen, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s okay. I’ve got a colorful memory. I don’t need a pen. I ask Tammi, “When’s your deliveryman coming?”
“Should be here by now,” she says.
“You called Ken?” says Nikki in a conspiratorial whisper.
“Yeah, I called Ken.”
“Oh, you called Ken?” says Jenni. “Great. When’s he getting here?”
“He should be here by now.”
They all look toward the door, then look back at one another and shrug.
Demi and her flock fly back and perch, downing our bubbly. I should stand up and talk to Demi, get a comment. But I’m deep in my silk cushions with two men on my mind: Jeremiah and Ken. Standing up could take an hour. Sitting back down could be another month. I could get sidetracked; I might miss Ken. I should see Ken before Jeremiah. Not that I need Ken, but Ken would cheer me up. And before I see Jeremiah, I should be cheery. Maybe this morning I was cranky. That’s it. Though I’m not sure why. Sniff, sniff. Everything’s swell. Sniff. I’m a bona fide big deal. I’m on top of the top. I’m going to be a Golden. Though no one knows but me. Can’t we just wait?
Demi leans over to grab her faux fox. She smiles at me faintly, maybe because Tammi told her she could milk me for ink. I know I’ll wake up to see her smack in the New York Post, even though Richard’s not in the room. Buzz will say, “Weren’t you there ?” And I’ll say, “Of course I was there. But she didn’t show me her tits.” Or maybe I’ll write it; maybe I’ll call it in quoteless. Once Ken comes. I’ll get up my gusto and work the room. Someone sighted a nip. Then I’ll have done my share.
But already Demi and her entourage have departed. I am relieved. The room wants less of me. Tammi’s cell rings. She puts it daintily to her ear. “You’re outside? Great. I’ll be right there.” Tammi snaps her phone and grins. “Anyone want to come meet Ken?”
Obviously,
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