Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (106 page)

I was just sitting there, drinking it all in, when Will pulled a chair up next to mine. ‘Pretty special night, no?' he asked the moment he sat. ‘Were you surprised?'

‘Totally surprised! Will, how could you not have told me that you and Simon were the ones behind this whole project? I'm not sure I know how to thank you.'

‘You don't have to thank me, darling. We didn't do it for you, or even really for Sammy, although I am quite fond of him. You'd mentioned that he cooked brunch every Sunday at Gramercy Tavern, and it piqued our curiosity. Simon and I paid him a visit there months ago, and I have to say, we were absolutely blown away. The boy is a genius! Not only that, but he must listen when you talk because the entire meal was utter perfection: the Bloody Mary was served exactly how I like it, with an extra dash of Tabasco and two limes. A copy of
The New York Times
was on the table and already open to the Sunday Styles section. And there were no potatoes to be seen. None! I've been brunching at the Essex House for decades now, and they still can't get it quite right. We couldn't stop talking about it, and we decided we'd better snap him up before someone else did. Looks like we were right, doesn't it?'

‘You went to brunch at Gramercy Tavern? Just to see Sammy?'

Will folded his hands and raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Darling, you were clearly smitten with this boy in a very substantial manner – that much was obvious. Simon and I were curious! We certainly weren't expecting to be so impressed with his skills – that was a bonus. When I asked him that day about his future plans and he began rambling on about something called a “Houston's,” I knew we had to step in and save him from himself.'

‘Yeah, he'd mentioned in Turkey that he and a few guys from culinary school were thinking about opening something like it on the Upper East Side,' I said.

Will gasped audibly and nodded. ‘I know. How dreadful! That boy is not meant for franchise work. I told the lawyer that I'd put up all the money, but Sammy would do all the work. Except for a standing table, I wanted to be consulted
not at all.
Better than the goddamn government getting it, don't you agree? Besides, I was looking for something different to throw myself into; I've decided to retire the column.'

Well, that one shook me. In a night of surprises, this might have been the most shocking of them all. ‘You're what? Are you serious? Why now? How many years has it been, a hundred? The entire world reads your column, Will! What'll happen to it?'

He sipped his martini and looked thoughtful. ‘So many questions, darling, so many questions. It's not that fascinating a story, really. It's simply time. I don't need New York Scoop to tell me that my column is a relic at this point. I had a great run for many, many years, but it's time to try something new.'

‘I can understand that,' I said finally. Somehow I knew it was the right decision. But Will had been writing that column since before I was born, and it was disconcerting to think that it would simply cease to exist.

‘However, I'll have you know that I've spoken with my editor – mere child that he is – and have received assurances that there will always be a place for you there, should you choose to pursue it. Now, I don't want to harp on this, Bette, but I think it's something you should consider. You're a wonderful writer, and I don't know why you haven't done anything with it. Just say the word and we can have you in there, first as a researcher and then, hopefully, in a sort of apprentice reporting position.'

‘I've actually thought about that, too,' I said, saying what I'd sworn to keep to myself until I'd had a chance to think it through a bit longer. ‘I do want to try some writing. …'

‘Excellent! I was hoping you'd say that. Frankly, I think it's long overdue, but certainly better late than never. I'll call him tonight and …'

‘No, not like that, Will. You're going to hate this—'

‘Oh, dear God, please don't tell me that you want to cover weddings for the Sunday Styles section or some such nonsense. Please.'

‘Worse,' I said, more for effect than because I believed it. ‘I want to write a romance novel. In fact, I've already got an outline, and I don't think it's half bad.' I braced myself for the verbal barrage, but surprisingly, it never came.

Instead he peered at me as though he were searching my face for some answer and just nodded. ‘Maybe it's all these Will martinis, but I think that makes perfect sense, darling.' He leaned in and kissed my cheek.

Romance novels – it was true. Since Turkey and the luxe world Kelly & Company had introduced me to, I'd been imagining a star-crossed pair of characters and the events that would bring them together. One could say I was drawing from experience, or from fantasy, but it felt good either way. And it was the first thing I'd felt good about in a long time. Until tonight.

I was preparing to tell my parents my plans when my cell phone rang.
How odd,
I thought.
Every single person I know is sitting in this room.
I reached into my bag to switch it off, but I couldn't help noticing that it was Elisa calling from her cell phone. Elisa, who I hadn't seen or spoken to since the
Playboy
party, the very same person who, for whatever reason – a malnourished brain, some weird obsession with Philip, or perhaps just for sport – had spoon-fed information about me to Abby for months. I was simply
too
curious. I walked into the kitchen.

‘Hello? Elisa?' I said into the phone.

‘Bette, are you there? Listen, I've got the greatest news!'

‘Really? What's that?' I asked, pleased to hear that I sounded cool and aloof and supremely disinterested, exactly as I intended.

‘Well, I remember you had some, uh, some connection to that Bungalow bouncer who opened Sevi, right?'

She was pretending not to remember Sammy's name, as usual, but I was no longer interested in correcting her. ‘Yeah, that's right. I'm actually at Sevi right now,' I said.

‘You're there? You're at the restaurant now? Ohmigod, that's just too perfect! Listen, I just got word that Lindsay Lohan has a layover in New York for one night on her way from LA to London – you know we're repping Von Dutch now, and she's their new spokeswoman, right? – and guess what? She wants to eat at Sevi tonight! Insisted on it, actually. I'm picking her up from the Mandarin Oriental now. I'm not sure how many she has with her, but it shouldn't be more than a half-dozen. We'll be there in thirty minutes, maybe an hour. Tell your chef friend to go VIP all the way with tonight's menu, okay? Bette, this will be such great press for him!' She was breathless with excitement.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't consider telling Sammy. It
would
be great press – the fastest way to guarantee mentions in the few remaining national magazines that hadn't yet discovered him. But I peeked through the window in the kitchen door and saw Sammy placing a cake in the center of the table. It was a huge, rectangular thing with giant gobs of whipped cream and colored icing, and when I leaned in to get a better look, I saw that the cover of
Tall, Dark, and Cajun
had been airbrushed on in perfect detail. Everyone was laughing and pointing and asking Will where I'd gone.

The split-second window of Lindsay Lohan potential slammed shut and I said, ‘Thanks but no thanks, Elisa. He's closed for a private event tonight.'

I hung up before she could protest and rejoined the table.
It wasn't even a lie,
I thought to myself as I looked around.
This just
had
to be the party of the season.

Three people in particular must be thanked for sticking with me on this project:

The only editor worth knowing, Marysue Rucci, who is the master of a hundred elegant and subtle ways of saying ‘this sucks.'

David Rosenthal, my publisher, whose Rolodex and dinner parties keep me from ordering in seven nights a week.

Deborah Schneider, my amazing agent. She handles the logistical details of my career so I'm free to write the important literature of our time.

Tremendous thanks also to Hanley Baxter, Aileen Boyle, Gretchen Braun, Britt Carlson, Jane Cha, Deborah Darrock, Nick Dewar, Lynne Drew, Wendy Finerman, Cathy Gleason, Tracey Guest, Maxine Hitchcock, Helen Johnstone, Juan Carlos Maciques, Diana Mackay, Victoria Meyer, Tara Parsons, Carolyn Reidy, Jack Romanos, Charles Salzberg, Vivienne Schuster, Jackie Seow, Peggy Siegal, Shari Smiley, Ludmilla Suvorova, and Kyle White.

And of course, a huge thanks to my parents, Cheryl and Steve, and my sister, Dana. I could have never written such a masterpiece without you.

*** While all of the characters in this book are imaginary, the inspiration for Millington the Yorkshire Terrier is actually Mitzy the Maltese.

for Mike, with love

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

panties is a vile word

if you think it's too big, you don't deserve it

once they're in, they're real

mommy drinks because i cry

all cocky confidence and killer smile

count him as south america

friendly really means available and desperate

three men do not a femme fatale make

the perfect-for-right-now relationship

may her huge, perky boobs give her back pain by thirty

it'd be nauseating if it weren't so goddamn cute

Acknowledgments

When Leigh's doorbell rang unexpectedly at nine on a Monday night, she did not think,
Gee, I wonder who that could be.
She thought,
Shit. Go away.
Were there people who actually welcomed unannounced visitors when they just stopped by to ‘say hello' or ‘check in'? Recluses, probably. Or those friendly Midwestern folks she'd seen depicted in
Big Love
but had never actually met – yes, they probably didn't mind. But this! This was an affront. Monday nights were sacred and completely off-limits to the rest of the world, a time of No Human Contact when Leigh could veg out in sweats and watch episode after beautiful TiVo'd episode of
Project Runway.
It was her only time alone all week, and after some intensive training on her part, her friends, her family, and her boyfriend, Russell, finally abided by it.

The girls had stopped asking for Monday-night plans at the end of the nineties; Russell, who in the beginning of their relationship had openly balked, now quietly contained his resentment (and in football season relished having his own Monday nights free); her mother struggled through one night a week without picking up the phone to call, finally accepting after all these years that she wouldn't hear from Leigh until Tuesday morning no matter how many times she hit Redial. Even Leigh's publisher knew better than to assign her Monday-night reading … or, god forbid, knew not to log an interrupting phone call. Which is precisely why it was so incredible that her doorbell had just rung – incredible and panic-inducing.

Figuring it was her super, there to change the air-conditioning filter; or one of the delivery guys from Hot Enchiladas, leaving a menu; or, most likely of all, someone just confusing her door with one of her neighbors', she hit Mute on the TV remote and did not move a muscle. She cocked her head to the side like a Labrador, straining for any confirmation that the intruder had left, but the only thing she heard was the dull, constant thudding from above. Suffering from what her old shrink called ‘noise sensitivity' and everyone else described as ‘fucking neurotic,' Leigh had, of course, thoroughly scoped out her upstairs neighbor before signing over her life savings: The apartment might have been the most perfect she'd seen in a year and a half of looking, but she hadn't wanted to take any chances.