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rathernasty vicious Park Avenue Princess—type gossip, which is that I stole the PH from directly beneath my best friend’s beautiful nose—which of course Julie doesn’t believe, on principle—I feel bound to recount the events of the evening as far as I can almost definitely remember them.
    We were an hour late for the party by the time we finally arrived at Muffy’s. It was almost impossible to find our table because Muffy had bunches of white lilies and candles so densely packed in the room you could barely see a yard in front of you. (Flower-wise, the Lily Jungle is absolutely it right now in Manhattan despite the inherent navigational difficulties.)
    There must have been 250 guests, with as many waiters, who were uniformed in white tuxes and gloves. The crowd was dazzling: Muffy always attracts the cream of Manhattan society to her soirees. Dress-wise, there was a major floral theme going on, which always happens at benefits for gardens. A lot of the girls were in Emanuel Ungaro because he does the best flowery dresses in the world, no argument. Jewel-wise, the younger girls had brought out their Asprey diamond daisies and the older women were weighed down with estate gems from the safe. Everyone was kissing everyone else hello and saying how thrilled they were to see one another, even if they weren’t.
    We were seated just as the starter of chilled mintsoup was being served. Our table was right at the center of the room. Everyone else had already sat down. The four PHs Muffy had selected for Julie were très ethnically diverse. Julie barely had a moment to take a spoonful of soup before the Italian princeling, who was on her left, declared, “You more beautiful than Empire State Building!”
    “You are charming,” said Julie. Her smile was so dazzling that I think the Italian was encouraged and continued, “ Non-non-non ! You prettier than Rock-a Fell-a Cent-a.”
    The WASPy, blond-haired real estate heir on Julie’s right interrupted to say, “Maurizio, forgive me, but I disagree. This woman is more beautiful than the Pentagon.”
    I’ve never heard a man compare a girl to a government building before. Julie must have been flattered because next she asked her key question.
    “Do you believe in drivers?” she said, smiling beautifully at him.
    It turned out everyone believed in drivers like they’re a religion, including the record producer opposite, who was originally Polish, and the Thirteenth Man, who was an actor from LA by way of Minnesota. (I guess Muffy had relented and let one in after all.) It also seemed that everyone had pilots as well as drivers, because they all had private planes, except for the actor who “borrowed” the WarnerBrothers jet “like totally like all the time. And you can totally like smoke Marlboro Reds on it, which is, like, genius.”
    The men started discussing altitudes and instruments and cigars and the Nasdaq, which must be much more fascinating subjects than they seem to an ignoramus like moi because men in New York seem to discuss almost nothing else. No one was talking to Julie, or yours truly, or any of the other girls at the table. Julie opened her gold clutch bag, pulled out a lip wand, and started glossing her mouth, a habit she always falls back on when she’s extraordinarily bored, and said, “Why can’t you guys be a bit more real?”
    I thought this was a peculiar thing for Julie to say since she often says the only real thing she understands is a diamond. The record producer patted her on the hand, and said, “You don’t get rich that way, babe.”
    “You’re so interesting,” said Julie sarcastically, but he didn’t notice because he was back discussing cigars with the real estate guy.
    Then the men carried on ignoring everyone but themselves and their jets and so Julie, who is very talented in the redirecting attention to herself department said, “I’ve got a hundred million dollars.” The PHs went quiet. So Julie added, “All to