lingerie store next door charged $150 for a pair of cotton underpants. Or maybe it was the reality that being in the Hamptons wasn’t really getting away from New York, and at any moment one might run into an unwelcome acquaintance.
And that, of course, is exactly what happened. Patty’s thoughts were interrupted by a disembodied high-pitched staccato voice, screaming into a cell phone:
“But I told you not to let him in! The client is furious!” and in a moment, the somewhat stumpy figure of Roditzy Deardrum emerged from behind a tree.
Roditzy was one of those public relations girls whose photograph had recently appeared on the cover of New York magazine; she was exactly Patty’s age—twenty-eight—and, thanks to her mother’s money, headed her own PR company called Ditzy Productions. Roditzy would later end up in a French jail due to a freak boat-ing accident in the South of France, in which several of her friends would lose arms and legs during an Ecstasy fest arranged by Roditzy herself, but at the moment, nothing bad had happened to her and she was considered the party queen of New York, the girl who was responsible for arranging the most outrageous events and 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 36
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producing the best guests. Her last event had been some ridiculous extravaganza involving dogs dressed up in one-of-a-kind designer dog clothes, and she had managed to convince several unwitting movie stars to attend. Patty knew that if Roditzy spotted her, she was a goner, but in a second it was too late because she heard Roditzy say, “Okay, I’ve just seen Patty Wilcox so I have to go,” and then Roditzy was upon her.
“Pa-a-a-a-a-tty!” she screamed, causing passersby to swivel their heads. “How a-a-a-a-re you?”
“I’m doing fine,” Patty said, as Roditzy did the kiss-kiss thing on both cheeks.
“I haven’t seen you for a-a-a-a-ges,” Roditzy said. “What are you doing now?” This was just the question Patty was hoping to avoid, but as it was now inevitable, she said, “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Roditzy asked, as if unable to comprehend such an answer.
“That’s right. Nothing,” Patty said. “I’m a housewife now.” Roditzy’s expression indicated the very opposite, but she said, “Ohmigod. That is sooooo retro. Cool.”
Patty crossed her arms and nodded, but inside she was convinced Roditzy was looking at her like she was some kind of freak.
“So, like, what do you do all day?” Roditzy asked.
“Oh, stuff . . . ,” Patty said. She certainly wasn’t going to tell Roditzy that for the last year she’d been trying to get pregnant but hadn’t been able to, that she longed to have a child more than anything because she loved her husband with a crying ache that seemed to dictate that they had to deepen their relationship by producing a child—because what could a girl like Roditzy understand about the magical mystery of being young, in love, and heartbreakingly committed to a man?
Roditzy leaned in, attempting to create a bond of intimacy that didn’t exist between them, and lowering her voice, asked, “How is Digger? I mean, with the stuff about . . .”
“Peter Cannon?” Patty said, stiffening. “He’s fine.”
“Good,” Roditzy said. “I don’t understand what happened to Peter Cannon, do you? I mean, everybody thought he was such a great guy. He was best friends with everybody . . . Remember those wild parties at his loft? I mean, if we’d only known that he was paying for that Cristal Champagne with our money . . .”
“Whatever,” Patty said.
“Whatever,” Roditzy agreed. And then demanded, “Are you guys around next weekend? I need you to come to this party I’m having for . . .”
“Digger’s going on tour,” Patty said firmly, cutting her off. “He’ll be gone for two months.”
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“Well, then, you have to come,” Roditzy insisted.
And that, of course, is exactly what happened. Patty’s thoughts were interrupted by a disembodied high-pitched staccato voice, screaming into a cell phone:
“But I told you not to let him in! The client is furious!” and in a moment, the somewhat stumpy figure of Roditzy Deardrum emerged from behind a tree.
Roditzy was one of those public relations girls whose photograph had recently appeared on the cover of New York magazine; she was exactly Patty’s age—twenty-eight—and, thanks to her mother’s money, headed her own PR company called Ditzy Productions. Roditzy would later end up in a French jail due to a freak boat-ing accident in the South of France, in which several of her friends would lose arms and legs during an Ecstasy fest arranged by Roditzy herself, but at the moment, nothing bad had happened to her and she was considered the party queen of New York, the girl who was responsible for arranging the most outrageous events and 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 36
36
c a n d a c e b u s h n e l l
producing the best guests. Her last event had been some ridiculous extravaganza involving dogs dressed up in one-of-a-kind designer dog clothes, and she had managed to convince several unwitting movie stars to attend. Patty knew that if Roditzy spotted her, she was a goner, but in a second it was too late because she heard Roditzy say, “Okay, I’ve just seen Patty Wilcox so I have to go,” and then Roditzy was upon her.
“Pa-a-a-a-a-tty!” she screamed, causing passersby to swivel their heads. “How a-a-a-a-re you?”
“I’m doing fine,” Patty said, as Roditzy did the kiss-kiss thing on both cheeks.
“I haven’t seen you for a-a-a-a-ges,” Roditzy said. “What are you doing now?” This was just the question Patty was hoping to avoid, but as it was now inevitable, she said, “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Roditzy asked, as if unable to comprehend such an answer.
“That’s right. Nothing,” Patty said. “I’m a housewife now.” Roditzy’s expression indicated the very opposite, but she said, “Ohmigod. That is sooooo retro. Cool.”
Patty crossed her arms and nodded, but inside she was convinced Roditzy was looking at her like she was some kind of freak.
“So, like, what do you do all day?” Roditzy asked.
“Oh, stuff . . . ,” Patty said. She certainly wasn’t going to tell Roditzy that for the last year she’d been trying to get pregnant but hadn’t been able to, that she longed to have a child more than anything because she loved her husband with a crying ache that seemed to dictate that they had to deepen their relationship by producing a child—because what could a girl like Roditzy understand about the magical mystery of being young, in love, and heartbreakingly committed to a man?
Roditzy leaned in, attempting to create a bond of intimacy that didn’t exist between them, and lowering her voice, asked, “How is Digger? I mean, with the stuff about . . .”
“Peter Cannon?” Patty said, stiffening. “He’s fine.”
“Good,” Roditzy said. “I don’t understand what happened to Peter Cannon, do you? I mean, everybody thought he was such a great guy. He was best friends with everybody . . . Remember those wild parties at his loft? I mean, if we’d only known that he was paying for that Cristal Champagne with our money . . .”
“Whatever,” Patty said.
“Whatever,” Roditzy agreed. And then demanded, “Are you guys around next weekend? I need you to come to this party I’m having for . . .”
“Digger’s going on tour,” Patty said firmly, cutting her off. “He’ll be gone for two months.”
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“Well, then, you have to come,” Roditzy insisted.
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