It’s a warm spring evening, and on the invitation of G, a professionally social friend, I’m lounging on the roofdeck of Soho House, pretending to gaze at the skyline to avoid making eye contact with anyone outside my small group of women. The tanned faces, toned arms, jeweled hands, waxed legs and stiletto-ed heels of the surrounding crowd seem to shout a message in my direction: “You do not belong here among the gorgeous and entitled. Take your Canal Street purse and return to your tiny one-bedroom and paltry, insignificant life.” A voice rouses me from my stupor of vodka-padded insecurity; it belongs to a woman joining our party. She’s dark and striking, with long, slightly brittle hair that’s seen too much styling and a body that clearly hasn’t missed a personal training session in weeks. Her perfect legs are wrapped in a skirt that seems tailored to her figure, and her face holds just the right amount of makeup - not caked or garish, but layered, blushed and lined with the precision of an expert hand given unlimited time. But it’s on her eyes, mournful and hypnotic, where my attention finally rests.
“Darlings!” she cries with a flourish. “I’m here at last, and ready to end it all. This fucking world is too cruel, I can’t take it. All of you, start cheering me up right now.” She gestures wildly and flings herself onto the cushion beside me. I turn to G, my question written on my face.
“That’s R, she’s a socialite,” G whispers to me. “She’s been making her party rounds, and drinking at all of them, it looks like.”
“Where’s that gorgeous waiter. Over there! Tackle him! Stunning man, I’ll be your slave for a margarita.” R rises unsteadily to her knees. “Come here you sexy creature. Steven, isn’t it? Your name? I know all the staff here, or at least the men anyway.”
Steven, a well-muscled blend of carbon, oxygen and testosterone, approaches us. “Good evening R. You look amazing as always. What can I get for you?” he asks, flashing the indulgent smile given by everyone in the service industry to an obviously wealthy customer.
“One margarita.” She turns, acknowledging me for the first time. “And another martini for this little thing. She looks like she needs it.” Her voice floats in and out of a British accent. “Oh and take your pants off when you bring the drinks. I think I may be in love with you.” She blows him a kiss and reaches for a cigarette. I stare, marveling at the freedom bestowed by obscene wealth. Create a personality that slashes every rule of social interaction, and still you’re assured adoration. At least until the money runs out.
“I’m R. We haven’t met, are you a friend of G?” She lays down on her side, props her head on her hand and stares at me. I’m won over, drawn into the world of her magnetic gaze. With this woman talking to me, suddenly I’m not such an impostor in this place.
“Yes, G brought me. I’m Melissa.”
“You’re beautiful,” she responds. It’s a flat statement, spoken with no agenda. I melt at the flattery.
“As are you.” It’s true, not to mention the best way to respond to a compliment when the speaker is another woman.
“Not really. It’s just the good lighting up here, and plenty of maintenance.” She waves off my insistence on her beauty and takes a huge drag on her cigarette, tapping the ashes into my empty martini glass. “I’m sorry to be acting like this, but I’ve had a miserable night.” Her eyes brim with tears. “In fact, I think the time has come to end it all.” She lurches to her feet, balancing expertly on her four-inch heels despite her drunkenness, and leans over the glass balcony. “Enough of this life! I can’t take this horrid shit anymore.”
A man leaps to her side. He’s tall, slender, speaking with an aristocratic British accent, and dressed far too well to be straight. R dissolves into a puddle in his arms and he lowers her into a chair, demanding a glass of water.
“Hey G, is that guy her husband?” I ask.
“No, that’s her walker.”
“Her what? As in he walks her dog or something?”
“No no, her walker. It’s a socialite term. He’s the gay friend who escorts her to her nightly party schedule.”
“Jesus. What a riot. Good thing I’m now up on my socialite-speak.” I lean back onto a pillow and shake my head. “So let me see if I get this: The woman has never had a job in her life, she just goes to parties every night, has fun, gets her picture taken and wears beautiful clothes?”
G laughs ruefully. “Yup. That’s what it means to be a socialite. Plus you need the name, the family fortune and the incredible apartment. All of which she has.”
My brain almost short circuits trying to imagine what her life must be like, and I wonder if the old adage is true, and if it’s possible to physically turn green from envy. “Wow. After hearing that, I think I may have to be the one ending it all off the balcony.”
G shakes her head. “Be careful what you wish for, as they say.” She points across the deck at a table in the restaurant section. “You see that man over there?”
“Which one?”
R, recovering from her breakdown, overhears my question. “That one over there, the bastard with the incredible eyes!” she cries, throwing herself back onto the cushion and spilling my fresh martini in the process. “That’s my husband. With his whore of the week. I want to corner her in the elevator and warn her. He’ll rip your heart apart darling! Run!”
Her words are pure cliche, but her eyes show an agony that’s hopelessly appealing. I’ll say anything to comfort her.
“God, I’m so sorry. What happened?”
“Love of my life, he left me a year ago. And now he brings his women here.” Her voice breaks. “I can’t even have a drink in this town without seeing him. A full year, and I cry every day. How pathetic. I really should jump, just so I’ll stop being such amiserable cliche.”
I shut my mouth, realizing there’s nothing I can say. I think about Boyfriend, the expression on his face when he looks at me, how we’ll both get home later that night, share some ice cream, turn on South Park and crack up as we relay stories from our evenings. I think about how deeply I’m loved. And I realize that no possible amount of glamour or wealth could convince me to trade places with this woman. Not even for a second.