Best Buddies Gala, 156 Little Noyac Path (Water Mill), cocktails and silent auction at 6:30pm, dinner at 7:45pm, live auction at 9pm followed by dancing, tickets and information can be found at bestbuddieshamptonsgala.org; Authors Night, Gardiner Farm, 36 James Lane (East Hampton), reception at 5pm, dinner parties at 8pm, tickets and information can be found at authorsnight.org.

A Faustian bargain!

Becoming a socialite is a grueling slog even in the best of circumstances. And I’m not in the best of circumstances. I don’t really know anyone or have any money, and while I’ve gotten plenty of ink over the years, it’s not the kind on the society pages (it’s on my shoulders, calves, upper arms, forearms...).

But nobody does it alone. Cinderella had a Fairy Godmother and a bunch of little birds. I had an editor, a stylist and a photographer lending occasional advice, but it wasn’t enough. I needed a publicist. And I knew of only one man for the job: R. Couri Hay.

Mr. Hay is a press agent, but he’s more than that. He’s a fixer, a connector, a Park Avenue Tom Hagen. He has been navigating New York’s toniest social spheres since the last time they wiped down the banquettes at Studio. He’s represented Prada, Veuve Clicquot, the Sanctuary Hotel, and The Hamptons Players Club, along with movie stars, socialites, artists, and authors. Mr. Hay can trace his vast circle of New York “friends” (no one is referred to as a client unless they are in the middle of selling something, throwing a party, or beset by public scandal) back to Andy Warhol, a dozen of whose works—a Marilyn silkscreen, nude sketches of Mr. Hay and a particularly naughty phallic collage among them—are in his collection.

My first invitation to Mr. Hay’s opulent home was to celebrate the christening of his dog, Webster Westbrook Alexander Hay, a long-haired Cavalier King Charles. A few weeks later I emailed Mr. Hay and told him I needed to speak to him about a “proposal.”

“Drew,” he replied, “I wanted to extend an invite to an event that we are having tomorrow night with Janna Bullock and Jay McInerney. If you would like to stop by we can chat there.”
Now, there was no way Mr. Hay could have known that I had spent my recent vacation poring over the entire McInerney oeuvre, or that I was writing a work of fan-fiction combining Mr. McInerney’s Story of My Life with The Hunger Games. (It’s called “You Can’t Reap the Willing,” and it’s going to be huge on the Internet.)

The intimate dinner of 20 proved an awkward occasion for shop talk. I found myself seated across from the avant-garde theater director Robert Wilson. Mr. McInerney was sitting two seats away. Nicole Miller was close by. Patricia Duff was one seat to my left.

Drew Grant, Kim Taipale at Janna Bullock's "Allegories & Experiences"

"So...what did you want to talk to me about?” Mr. Hay asked, leaning over conspiratorially, as the appetizer was served.
“Well, you know that I do this column, about um, trying to become a socialite...”

“Don’t say ‘socialite,’” Mr. Hay gently corrected. “It’s got a bad connotation to it.”

“Okay, I’m trying to become...a person...of...social standing,” I faltered, desperately trying to the think of suitable synonyms for whatever Byrdie Bell is. “I was kind of hoping you would be my publicist?”

Mr. Hay speared a piece of lobster, and smiled at a guest. “So how would that work?” he replied nonchalantly. “How would you pay me? What would I be representing you as? What would you like to learn from me?”

This guy was good.

“I can’t pay you in money,” I said, “but I can pay you in press.”

Well, that felt sleazy, but I’d finally gotten it out in the open. Mr. Hay kept eating.

“While you’re helping me advance my social career, I’ll be writing about it in The Observer. You and your clients would wind up in the column. It’s mutually beneficial.”

I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw Mr. McInerney snickering.

Mr. Hay smiled, and then promptly changed the subject.
The next day, the phone rang. “Drew!” a voice chided me from across the line. “It was very obvious that you did not know who Robert Wilson was. If I’m going to be helping you with these columns, you can’t be making mistakes like that!”

“Oh, good,” I began.

“And I was reading your write-up of the event last night...look, you can’t just feature whoever was the most chatty at dinner on the top of the page. It’s an insult to the bigger names.”

“Oh, but I didn’t really talk to—”

“I’m having one of my assistants send you over the guest list right now. Then I want you to change the order, and then send it back. She can print it out for me, and we’ll go from there.”

“Okay, but—”

“Don’t worry,” he continued. “I know that there is a line you can’t cross. This is just how I would write it, if I wanted people to pay attention. People love reading about themselves, but it has to be the right people. Also, more pictures: people want to see photos!”

“I think that’s doable,” I said, glad to have gotten a whole sentence in.

“Great. And I have you down for the Hale event on Monday, Tuesday we have the Harboring Hearts Spring Gala and the National Lung Association thing, and then we’ll see about the rest of the week. I’ll try to get you on some boards, but these people have to like you...which means that you can’t just write mean things about them.”

Mr. Hay, who has written some columns himself, would know.
“At least, not until you’re established,” he added, thoughtfully. “And look, if I’m ever overstepping boundaries just tell me.”

Maybe a little. But did I want a pushover or a publicist? If he was half this aggressive on my behalf, I’d be golden.
Still, I felt like a sell-out, imagining myself writing glowing items about self-important people in order to maintain my precarious social standing. It would be like having two editors.
Over the next week, every day, sometimes every hour, Mr. Hay would call and check up on me, give me my schedule for the evening, and walk me through the guest list.

“What should I tell the Times about our relationship?” he asked during one call. “They’re doing a profile on me, and it could be good press for you. Also, I got you a gig as a style expert on this fashion website, so just send them your headshots, and they’ll be in touch.”

But Mr. Hay wasn’t totally a task-masker with a whip. When I balked at double-booking two galas on a Tuesday for fear of exhaustion, he took pity on me: I only had to attend one—my choice! And those spreadsheets of attendees, listed in order of importance, actually made my job that much easier. (As to which were also his clients, I tried to remain innocent.) Whereas previously I had shown up at parties and simply talked to anyone who seemed friendly, now I zeroed in on the social fixtures.

“You’re young, and you’re beautiful...you’ll be easy,” Mr. Hay had pronounced when he’d agreed to represent me. I’m still not sure if that was a promise or a threat.
dgrant@observer.com

Over bites of fried sage and copious amounts of vodka, we mingled with some of New York's artistic jet-setters, surrounding the two hosts of the evening, Ms. Bullock and Jay McInerney.

"I've been up at 7 a.m. every morning, preparing for my ice-skating routine," Nicole Miller told us, never removing her iconic dark sunglasses. The stylist was performing for Ice Theater's Celebrity Skate at the Chelsea Piers this morning; an event we unfortunately had to miss out on.

Common Good's Patricia Duff's extended an invitation for a small gathering with Mark Ruffalo, also this evening. Artist and director Robert Wilson had us save the date for the opening exhibition for his Waterfall Laboratory's Summer Program on Long Island. Real estate agent Paola Bacchini, looking like the quintessential Italian beauty in a leopard print dress, extended an invite to El Museo's annual gala this evening. We've never felt so popular!

JANNA BULLOCK and JAY MCINERNEY

Once the guests made their ways upstairs, publicist R. Couri Hay introduced the two hosts (both to the guests, and previously to each other), whose satirical exhibit adorned the walls behind the dinner table. Giant prints of news stories about Vladmir Putin's tyranny were overlayed with a scrim featuring famous titles: "Shrek," "The Hounds of Baskerville," and "Alina in Wonderland" (a reference to Alina Kabaeva, the gymnast once rumored to marry President Putin). A small area toward the front of the room served as an impromptu dance floor, as Charles Askegard and Michelle Wiles of BalletNext performed a paux de deux from Swan Lake.

Among those clapping were jeweler Prince Dimitri of Yugoslavia, Cristina Cuomo, Somers Farkas, former ballerina Angela Ho, CNN's Felicia Taylor, style icons Tim Schifter and Helen Schifter, interior designer Milly de Cabrol,  financier George Farias,  yoga priestess Robin Coffer, and Ms. Bullock's daughter Zoe Remmel. Helping to produce the evening was publicist Alison Mazzola.

"There's a long history in Russia of using satirical fables to explain current issues," Ms. Bullock, whose family had their assets stolen by Russian corporate raiders in 2010, told us. Mr. McInernery, who introduced himself to us by reiterating the baffling performance at McKittrick this weekend, the consummate dinner guest, was as comfortable discussing Russian politics as the recent John Edwards trial and the tweets of his friend Bret Easton Ellis.

"It was the 80s, I'm sure there were times when things almost happened with Rielle and Bret and me," Mr. McInerney said, rolling his eyes. "But what does 'almost' mean? Anything can 'almost' happen."

We asked Mr. McInerney, who just released his latest book on wine, The Juice: Vinous Veritas, and is working on a new novel about the Hamptons, based on themes on Great Gatsby. if we'd be seeing another story about Alison Poole, Ms. Hunter's alter-ego in Mr. McInerney and Mr. Ellis's fiction. (Penelope on the Pond, a 2004 short story by Mr. McInerney, revisited the heroine of his 1988 novel Story of My Life as she hid out in a lake house to avoid a scandal with a married Southern politician running for president.)

"Ha, possibly!" Mr. McInerney told us. "You know, I wrote that story before the National Enquirer got wind of the whole affair. She [Ms. Hunter] called me up the day after she first met John, and I just had this image of Alison Poole coming back as Penelope from the Odyssey, waiting for her husband to come home."

"It's probably a good thing the defense rested without calling her to the stand," he mused about the Edwards trial.

As the night wore down, we found ourselves discussing one of our favorite subjects--cults-- with former reporter Charles Krause, owner of the sociopolitical art gallery Reporting Fine Art in D.C. His current exhibition, "Lest We Forget," also deals with Soviet art and President Putin's controversial third term. Mr. Krause, then a Washington Post reporter, had been on the Port Kaitum tarmac with Congressman Leo Ryan when they were shot by members of Jonestown cult.

"I'm the person who brought 'drinking the Kool-Aid,' into America" he said, somewhat proudly. "I'm that guy."

Piper Perabo reads from "Solace." (Christopher Gabello/Interview Magazine)

The first sign that something strange was going on at The Forgotten, a new salon series literary doyenne Brooke Geahan kicked off Sunday night, was the ratio of hostesses to attendees.

We had come to hear a reading of "Solace," a new short story by Jay McInerney put out by Ms. Geahan’s soundtrack-augmented e-book house, Booktrack. But the number of pretty, young female attendants on hand made it feel more gentlemen’s club than book club.

Two by the door of the McKittrick Hotel (the venue of the live, interactive Shakespeare interpretation Sleep No More) tied a white ribbon around The Observer’s wrist. Another pair stood sentry outside a small cabaret, where a half-dozen more floated among the art- and publishing-heavy crowd. All wearing pink slip dresses, all blondes.

We barely had time to grab a drink when one such anonymous publicity nymph approached. As we mumbled an introduction and reached for a business card she clasped our wrist, checking under our sleeve for the white ribbon.

“Would you like to come with me?” she purred.

“Ooookay,” we replied, reaching for our champagne cocktail.

She shook her head. “Down the hatch, darling.”

The founder of Accompanied Literary Society, Ms. Geahan is well known for her interdisciplinary gatherings, so perhaps we should have known The Forgotten would not be merely a reading. Emursive (the theater company behind Sleep No More) creative director Sophie Hunter had created a supplementary “experience” based on Mr. McInerney’s story.

There were no drinks allowed in the "experience," another hostess told the slightly panicked Mr. McInerney as she herded him into the hall.

Mr. McInerney sat down beside another, slumped over at a café table with her blonde hair in her eyes.

The only non-blonde—an elegant, elderly woman in a pillbox hat—beckoned The Observer sit next to her on a sofa.

“People tell me I look like Carol Channing,” she us. “but my name’s Theresa."

Theresa handed us a brushed copper compact, advising us to open it in private.

The Observer picked at a stick of cotton candy, allowing ourselves to be led back to the party, where we debriefed with Mr. McInerney.

“I recognized elements of my story,” he told us, “but it was disorienting.”

“Solace” is about a twenty-something novelist and society girl who, in the days after 9/11, seeks distraction in a Greenwich Village mobster den based on Marylou’s.

The novelist meets an old woman in a pill box hat, sure, but the cotton candy stuff? That was inspired by painter Will Cotton’s cover art for the e-book, he explained. The Katy Perry collaborator and longtime friend of Mr. McInerney paints nudes lying in clouds of cotton candy and wearing candy crowns. Coincidentally, the “Solace” art was a study for a painting of his Mr. McInerney recently picked up at auction.

“It’s hanging in my kitchen,” he said.

“But what about the pill?” we asked.

“I didn’t get any pill, just this thing,” Mr. McInerney said, pulling an identical compact out of his pocket. We showed him how to open it, revealing a white capsule stamped with a heart.

Any pills in "Solace"?

“A girly barbiturate,” Mr. McInerney confessed. “All the famous girls I know are really into downs. Not to point any fingers.” Behind us, Brooke Shields—a little wobbly from a knee injury—gushed to Courtney Love that they were new neighbors.

Taking the stage for a brief Q&A, Interview editor Christopher Bollen told Mr. McInerney that his writing had inspired him to move to New York when he was young.

He'd heard that one before.

“I think I should get a tax break from the city,” Mr. McInerney said.

He went on to explain that this story was about the curiously manic coupling that he perceived in New York immediately after the towers fell.

Mr. McInerney told The Observer he was worried Coyote Ugly star Piper Perabo hadn't known what she was getting into when she agreed to read it Sunday night.

“I said, ‘Piper, are you sure you want to read this?’ There’s some kinky stuff in there.”

But Ms. Perabo, looking girlish in a cap-sleeve yellow sundress and messy bun, gamely portrayed all three accents in the story’s threesome scene, flicking along on an iPad. The only bar chatter came from the soundtrack provided by Booktrack.

Jay McInerney (Getty Images)

It’s Mother’s Day! But, sorry Mom, we love you, but we’ve gotta bolt as soon as brunch is over. We have an engagement in the city: specifically, the launch of Jay McInerney’s Booktrack, entitled “Solace.” A Booktrack is an e-book short story with an ambient-noise soundtrack—while we haven’t heard “Solace” yet, we imagine the ambient sounds of late-period McInerney as the gentle swishing of Merlot in the glass and the quiet rings, far off, of cash registers. The party is to be hosted by literary lights including Candace Bushnell, Christopher Bollen and Courtney Love. (Hey, Courtney’s a mom, so we’ll ask her if our mother would prefer a “Solace” download or a copy of the new Nora Roberts!)

Invitation only, West Side.

At a party hosted by Jay and Anne McInerney at the 21 Club, younger and older generations of the big names-- Rockefellers, the Bushes (not the Texas bunch, though), Koonings-- raised a glass of champagne that could only taste like Madison and 5th Avenue champagne could and toasted Randy Harris.

Mr. Harris is tied up in the world of Hearsts, Kings, Shaws, and McInerneys, which makes him automatically interesting enough to dedicate a whole book about. Mr. Harris has taken the "Hearst" part out of his name, though his mother, Anne Randolph Hearst McInerney, kept it and passed it down to her daughter Amanda, who was also in attendance. We're still not how close Mr. McInerney's relation is to his stepson..but apparently enough so to throw him a lavish party.

(Photos via Patrick McMullan)