My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [28]
“Oh, I get it. Like on Bosom Buddies.”
That’s when the disappointingly dressed doorman turns to me, curls his lip, and hisses, “Not like on Bosom Buddies. Not at all. This is a private club, not the YWCA.”
Seriously? Nice attitude, jackass. Okay, not to be all classist or anything, but you’re the one carrying my suitcase, and I’d appreciate a little less condescension. I’m already uncomfortable enough as it is. I’m ready to tear into the guy when Poppy gives me a circumspect head shake.
Oh. Okay. No fistfights in her fancy club. Got it. Shame Rattle averted.
I glower at the back of the doorman’s neck and pursue a different line of questioning. “How’d you become a member of a New York club?”
“My club at home has reciprocal privileges.” Poppy lives in the tony North Shore suburbs, fifteen miles and one entire world away from me.
Fletch and I belonged to a private club once, but all it had was a dining room with mediocre food and a stunning view. There were no fancy sister outfits in other cities. As I mull things over, pieces of Poppy’s puzzle begin to fall into place. Over the few years we’ve known each other, she’s had more than her fair share of black-tie benefits and box seats at the opera and . . . it finally dawns on me. “Wait a minute. . . . You’re . . . you’re . . . a socialite, aren’t you?”
Poppy says nothing, but instead offers me a slight, embarrassed grin.
I guess the first rule about WASP Fight Club is you don’t talk about WASP Fight Club. 56
How did I not figure this out earlier? I mean, the husband and the houses and the Hermès scarves were all clues, but then she spends most of her time doing charity work, which threw me off. I guess I’ve watched too many shows starring bimbos from Orange County and members of the Hilton family to realize sometimes socialites use their resources for good.
My head’s still reeling when we drop Poppy off at her room. My friend’s a socialite. That’s like suddenly finding out I’ve been hanging out with Batman. If I were a socialite, it’d be the first thing out of my mouth whenever I met someone new . . . probably one of the myriad reasons why I’ll never be a socialite.
Then the doorman takes me to my room. Surliness radiates off this guy as we go down the hall and around the corner. I’m not sure if he’s hostile because he knows I have no business here or if the heat’s gotten to him, too. Grudgingly he unlocks my door and begins to beat a hasty retreat as soon as I’m in.
“Hey, wait!” I say, chasing after him with a crumpled ten-dollar bill. “Here you go.” I’ve been clutching it in my sweaty palm ever since we got out of the car, so the bill is a bit limp. One might even call it flaccid. But still, ten bucks AND you insulted me for referencing an old Tom Hanks sitcom? YOU’RE WELCOME.
The sneer I’m given in return takes me by surprise. “We don’t accept gratuities.”
“I’m sorry?”
“No tipping.”
“Oh, come on,” I say conspiratorially. “It’s freaking hot out there. You carried my bag, you’re working hard, and it’s not like there’s anyone who’ll see. Go on.” I gesture toward him with the bill. “Please. Get an iced coffee or something. I want to say thank you.”
The doorman clenches his jaw. “We do not accept gratuities, and I do not want to have to repeat myself.”
Wait, what? “But . . .”
He rolls his eyes heavenward and, with more than a little contempt, says, “If you’re so anxious to reward my service, then you’re welcome to contribute to the employee Christmas fund.” Then he spins on his heel and stalks away.
Which is why I can’t be held responsible for then muttering, “Oh, yeah? Well, I’m not going to be here at Christmas, motherfucker!”
There goes that damn Shame Rattle again.
“How’d it go?”
We’re having dinner at Park Avenue Summer, which is so trendy and swank that I’m sure we only got in because every resident had the good sense to get the hell out of this city