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like that, with a guy like that . . . Nibbling absentmindedly at an imaginary hangnail, she consoled herself with the fact that she was sure the driver had instantly fallen in love with her—and that he might be exactly the sort of man she was looking for. And expertly sliding the clutch into third gear, she mused about how much fun it would be to take him away from Pippi Maus.

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    mimi kilroy ’s memor ial Day weekend party was legendary and strictly A list; and as it was covered by every newspaper and magazine in town, it was impossible to pretend that it didn’t exist—which was the only option if you weren’t invited. Janey had never been asked before, and every summer it had been a thorn in her side to know that one hundred of the coolest, most talented, and most important people in New York had been invited, and that she was most specifically not among them. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how many times she said in a scoffing tone of voice, “It’s only a stupid party, please, ” she could never get over the distinct feeling that Mimi had cruelly and deliberately passed her over.
    And this feeling was not mediated by logic—after all, Mimi didn’t really know her. Nevertheless, in years past, Janey had done everything possible to finagle her way into the party, from giving a blow job to a man she hardly knew in the hope that he would take her as his guest, to reconnoitering the beach behind Mimi’s house to see if she could sneak in the back. But the real blow had come four years ago, when she was dating Peter Cannon and he had been invited to Mimi’s party.
    “Why would she invite you ?” she’d asked in disbelief, and he’d just looked at her and said snidely, “Why wouldn’t she invite me?”
    “Because,” Janey said stubbornly. She longed to say, “Because you’re a nobody,” but she didn’t, because how would it make her look that she was dating a nobody?
    And besides, she wanted him to take her to the party.
    Peter wasn’t averse to taking her (every now and again, Janey noticed, he was capable of behaving like a human being), but Mimi prevented him. He RSVPed for two, then Mimi’s assistant had called and asked for the name of his guest.

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    “Janey Wilcox,” he’d said.
    She called back two hours later. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but who is your guest?”
    “Janey Wilcox.”
    “Yes, but who is she?”
    “She’s a girl, ” he’d said.
    “But who is she? What does she do ?”
    “She’s a sort of . . . model ?” Peter said.
    “I’ll have to get back to you.”
    Janey had yelled at him: “Why didn’t you tell her that I was an actress ?”
    “I dunno,” Peter said. “Because you really haven’t been one for five years?”
    “That’s because I’m waiting for the right part,” Janey screamed.
    Then the assistant had called back. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “but I talked to Mimi, and it turns out we’re overbooked this year. No one is allowed to bring a guest.”
    This was a lie, and they all knew it.
    At that moment, Janey’s feelings about Mimi crystallized into hate. She didn’t really know Mimi, but she hated her anyway—the way one might hate a movie star or a politician: She hated what she represented.
    Unlike most people, Janey thought bitterly, Mimi had never wanted for anything. She’d never had to struggle; she’d never had to worry about how she was going to pay her rent. Technically, she’d had “careers” (as a model for Ralph Lauren, a VJ for VH1, a jewelry designer, and, most recently, an importer of pashminas, which she sold to her friends), but in Janey’s mind, Mimi had never really done anything, and was nothing more than a useless socialite who was always swaddled in designer clothes and whose photograph appeared in the party pages of various magazines each month.
    But for Janey, the bitterest pill