The crowd is eclectic, very Elon Musk and Grimes. Many suits with hair transplants, a lot of lithe women with tiny tattoos covering their arms. There are people occupying every inch of every surface, atop mirrored tables, meant to hold unread coffee table books, on the laps of other people’s husbands. As we head farther inside, I spot the book club crew sitting in a corner on giant yellow floor cushions that could be called beanbags if they weren’t made of upholstered ostrich hide.

I feel eyes on me, a few titters from people who have recognized me. So I slink away and go to the beanbags, Jackson and Page having made a beeline for the bar. “Hi!” Ruthie says and leans over to greet me, dressed in some pseudo-bohemian pants and top ensemble, stacked heels, her voice so chipper it makes my teeth ache. “My boyfriend couldn’t make it, so I wanted to go with Joanie and Colin, but then they couldn’t make it since she’s pregnant and all. Thankfully, I found Shirley and Layla.” She gestures to Shirley, who is deep in conversation with another guest. “Clarissa and her husband are outside smoking with Layla, Shirley’s wife, but they’ll be coming back in soon. There are a lot of cool people here. At last year’s party, my friend hooked up with this dude who owns five Hockney pool paintings, and so he commissioned Hockney to paint the bottom of his pool! Everyone has a story like that. Apparently, that acquisition of Tiffany by LVMH happened because of a conversation at this party. And you know about all the sexcapades, I’m sure.” She prattles on and I survey the scene.

“The sexcapades. Can you explain that to me?” I say, even though Ruthie is three topics ahead. I wonder if that has anything to do with what Brandon Newburn mentioned, about Tom’s sexual predilections.

Ruthie bites her lips, looks off to the side and then moves closer to me. “Well, I’ve never partaken in anything. But the rumor is that the Benningtons were quite busy back in the day. I mean, lots of upstairs shenanigans. It’s calmed down in the last few years, as they’ve gotten older. But you still see people heading home together, sometimes spouse swapping.” I’m about to ask further, see if I can somehow finagle a Tom anecdote out of her, but she’s quickly distracted by another woman, a tall redhead in vintage McQueen, who yanks her out of the ostrich beanbag and into the heart of the party.