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He let out an annoyed, resigned sigh. “One drink. Lest the night mimic those insane movies were people hop all over the city from party to party, getting into zany mishaps.”
“That’s the spirit, grumpy man!” I laughed as Tony knocked on the window.
Neil rolled it down just a hair. “I’m sorry, Tony, we’ve changed our plans. Sophie wants to go in. Can you circle the block a few times? We won’t be long.”
“Certainly, sir,” he replied, and when I looked over my shoulder at him, he winked.
Hey, you can’t keep secrets from the domestic staff. They find out everything eventually.
“There’s no line,” Neil said, looking uncertainly up and down the street. “That’s very odd, isn’t it?”
The doorman didn’t ask for our names and ushered us in without a glance to his clipboard. Neil looked down at me as we walked down the hallway. “Sophie…what’s going on?”
The muffled throb of loud music penetrated the gold-script scrawled black walls, and with every step, it was harder to contain my grin. In the warm yellow light, it was difficult to gauge his facial expression. At the end of the hall, we stepped through the curtained entryway and into the club proper. At the sight of two-hundred people all turned out for him, Neil froze, and in that moment, all of the guests who’d been standing there, patiently waiting for us to arrive, shouted a gleeful, unison, “Surprise!”
The DJ switched the music, and The Beatles “Birthday” blasted over the speakers. Emma, Michael, Rudy, and Valerie were all amongst the front lines, and they swarmed over him now.
“Happy birthday, Daddy!” Emma shouted, jumping up to put her arms around his shoulders. “Are you surprised?”
“I may be in clinical shock.” He laughed, squeezing her tight. He looked to Rudy and Valerie. “Were you in on this?”
“It was all Sophie and me,” Emma gushed.
“You have no idea how difficult it was to not totally ruin it.” I rose on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Happy birthday, baby.”
“So when should we expect the midlife crisis?” Rudy quipped. “Will it be an earring, or another expensive car?”
“Both.” Valerie laughed. She hugged Neil, and I distanced myself from them, to avoid feeling like I was trapped in an awkward three-way embrace.
Rudy raised a perfect eyebrow in my direction. I just smiled back at him. Even though he was Neil’s best friend, he had an antagonistic streak when it came to me. Probably because he was Neil’s best friend; he didn’t want to see him get hurt.
“You know,” I said, stepping away from Neil’s side as he spoke with Valerie and another party guest whom I didn’t recognize. “Tonight is Neil’s birthday. Do you think you and I could get along, just for a few hours?”
It was hard to stare down someone as handsome as Rudy. He had flawless dark skin and sleepy eyes that still somehow laser focused on his target. He dressed like a man who’d been born in Louis Vuitton, and no matter how cool he might act toward me, I had to admire the aesthetics he worked so hard to maintain.
He pursed his lips and pushed up his thick, black-framed glasses with an elegantly pointed middle finger.
“Oh, very mature, Rudy.” Neil’s voice surprised me as he slid his arm around my waist. He didn’t sound annoyed at us, partially, I think, because he liked being fought over. His hand closed possessively over my hip, and he motioned toward the bar. “I have been at my own birthday party for five minutes, and there is not a drink in my hand.”
We made our way to the bar, Neil stopping to chat with and hug the guests we passed. Others were already on the dance floor, where the DJ was impressively mixing “Where Did Our Love Go” by The Supremes with a house beat.
When I’d told Neil I’d never been inside 1 OAK, I hadn’t been lying. Only the coolest people in New York got in, and while I thought I was pretty awesome, I knew I wasn’t Beyoncé awesome. While Neil laughed and talked with his friends, I scoped out the surroundings. The ceiling was wood, the same as the facade of the building. Exposed brick peeked between huge black and white photos and decadent curtain panels of subtly metallic fabric. The floor was a white and black zig-zag of tile that I was certain would be dizzying if it weren’t broken up by the shoes of the guests walking over it.
When we stepped up to the bar, Neil asked me, “Now, what kind of depressing, middle-aged-man-desperately-trying-to-recapture-his-youth drink should I have?”
“Jagerbomb,” I said with a forceful nod. “Two of them.”
The bartender—one of five—served up two Red Bull Jagerbombs and passed them across the bar.
“You take the shot glass and drop it in—” I began, and he cut me off.
“This is my fiftieth birthday party, Sophie, not my twentieth. I have done shots before.” He lifted both glasses. “On the count of three?”
We counted together, then dropped our shot glasses in and tossed back our drinks.
“Good lord,” he sputtered, smacking his palm on the bar. “That is the worst thing I have ever done to myself.” To the bartender, he called, “Can I get a bottle of Reyka?”
“Emma and I made sure you would have the best table in the house.” I pointed to the VIP tables, in the narrow u-shaped bend at the end of the room. Emma and Michael already sat there with a bottle of something of their own.
