All the Demons Are Here by Jake Tapper

Author:Jake Tapper
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2023-07-10T16:00:00+00:00

We climbed aboard Max’s business jet, a swanky new Cessna Citation II, the most gorgeous aircraft I’d ever laid eyes on and a long way from coach on Continental. We were dressed to the nines. I wore a gold lamé dress, and Danielle, who had finally returned from Mexico, wore a black satin Halston. Stunning. Ashley joined us, looking as if she’d walked off the cover of Cosmo. Then Harry came aboard, late but effortlessly cool in a dark blue suit straight out of The Spy Who Loved Me, and he was all I saw. The flight was boozy and fun, and we landed in Teterboro, a private airport across the Hudson River from Manhattan, and climbed into limos. There was one set aside for only Harry and me.

On our way, Harry looked at me after pouring his third glass of champagne and my second. Impish. Bad-boy scamp. Rakish. I wished the Connecticut snoots at Yale, the gals who didn’t understand why I worked so hard at school, could see me now. I would have loved to take a photograph of Harry—or, better yet, some Super 8 film!—and send it to the reunion committee.

“What are you thinking, my love?”

I lifted my champagne glass. “To all the mean girls. I wish they could see me now.”

“Oh, no, darling,” he said, low and seductive. “This is a private party of two. You and me. Don’t admit any goblins.”

We drank. Harry boldly talked about joie de vivre and carpe diem; I told him these were great tenth-grade conversation topics but what was he driving at, and then a small glass container with white powder and a tiny spoon appeared. “Oh, I don’t know, Harry.”

“You’ve never done this? But you’re the American princess.”

“Hardly, Harry.”

“Trust me,” he said, so I did.

Music in the car turned up, Rolling Stones “Shattered”—Shmatta, shmatta, shmatta, I can’t give it away on Seventh Avenue! Then we got to the actual Eighth Avenue, and at Fifty-Fourth Street, Harry helped me out of the limo, and there stood Max and Ashley and Danielle and Ivan, and everything around us was bright and wild, moving fast, oh so fast; fashionable crowds spilled off the sidewalk, super-skinny girls I’d seen modeling in Vogue and sweaty faces of all ages surged forward to the entrance, the sounds around me of French, German, and Arabic. I met the kind and ingratiating owners, Steve and Ian, Jewish guys with Brooklyn accents who came right over to the door and greeted each of the Lyons by name. I introduced myself, but they assumed I was just some piece of ass Harry had brought with him.

“Oh, you know them?” I asked Harry when they left.

“No, never met them before.”

And a tall, lean doorman with feathered blond hair lifted the theater rope, and…

“Remember, polyester melts under the lights,” Steve or Ian reminded a hulking bouncer. He meant the couple at the door in cheap clothes, shoes, and jewelry. To him, they were trash, the bridge-and-tunnel crowd. I caught the sad expression on the woman’s face; she was crestfallen.

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