Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (115 page)

‘Let's give the girl a break,' Leigh said, looking to Adriana. ‘I think nationality or location should count. My god, it's amazing enough that she's even going to attempt this.'

‘I'm fine with that,' Adriana agreed. ‘And in a demonstration of goodwill, I think you should have a free pass as well.'

‘Meaning?'

‘Meaning that you should get to skip one continent. Otherwise, I think you're just setting yourself up for failure.'

‘Which one?' Emmy asked, appearing slightly relieved.

‘What if Swiss guys counted as a wild card?' Leigh asked. ‘It's a neutral country. I think if you sleep with a Swiss guy he can count for anywhere.'

The girls laughed and laughed, the kind of laughter that happens all too rarely after college.

Adriana pulled a blue tin tub from the front pocket of her yoga bag and rubbed a bit of clear salve on her lips, aware that both her friends and nearly every patron at every surrounding table appeared transfixed by her little ritual. It made her feel a little bit better. She'd had trouble ridding herself of the thoughts that had been plaguing her lately, namely that her looks wouldn't last forever. She had known this intellectually, of course – the way a teenager knows death is inevitable – but she was completely unable to comprehend the reality. Her mother had been reminding her of this very fact since the day Adriana had, at the age of fourteen, agreed to two dates with two different boys on the same night. When asked which one she would choose to see that night, Adriana gazed at her still-beautiful mother with uncomprehending eyes.

‘Why would I break plans with either one, Mama?' Adriana had asked. ‘There's time enough for both of them.'

Her mother had smiled and cupped Adriana's cheek in a cool, open palm. ‘Enjoy it now,
querida.
It will not be like this always.'

Of course she was right, but Adriana hadn't counted on ‘always' coming so soon. It was time to utilize her beauty for something more important than attracting a steady stream of lovers. Her pledge to find a boyfriend was a step in the right direction, but it wasn't far-reaching enough.

With great flourish, Adriana held her left hand up and sighed dramatically. ‘Do you see this hand, girls?' Both nodded. ‘By this time next year, there will be a diamond on it. An extraordinarily large diamond. I hereby declare that I will be engaged to
the
perfect man within twelve months.'

‘Adriana!' Emmy shrieked. ‘You're just trying to outdo me.'

Leigh choked on a piece of cantaloupe. ‘Engaged? To whom? Are you seeing someone?'

‘No, not currently. But Emmy's commitment to making a change has inspired me. Plus, it's time to face facts, girls. We are not getting any younger, and I think we can all acknowledge that there are only a limited number of rich, handsome, successful men between the ages of thirty and forty. If we don't claim ours now' – she cupped both hands around her firm breasts and pushed them upward – ‘then we may as well forget it.'

‘Well, thank god you figured it out,' Emmy said with amusement. ‘I'll just point to one of the dozens – no, hundreds – of successful, handsome, single men in their thirties I know and just make him mine. Yes, that's the plan.'

Adriana smiled and tapped Emmy's hand patronizingly. ‘Don't forget rich,
querida.
Now, I'm not saying that's what we
all
should be doing. Clearly, you need to play a bit first, and I think your little upcoming foray into promiscuity is just what the doctor ordered. But being that I've, well,
forayed
there already –'

‘If by
forayed
you mean “completely conquered,” then I guess I'd agree,' Leigh added.

‘Laugh if you must,' Adriana said, feeling slightly irritated that, as usual, she wasn't being taken seriously. ‘But there's nothing funny about a five-plus-carat round stone in a micropave setting from Harry Winston. Nothing funny at all.'

‘Yeah, but it's pretty funny now,' Emmy said while Leigh dissolved into laughter. ‘Adriana engaged? It's impossible to imagine.'

‘No more impossible to imagine than the serial monogamist putting out for every foreign stranger who crosses her path,' Adriana shot back.

Leigh wiped away a tear, taking care not to pull the delicate skin beneath her eye, skin that was probably already doomed anyway from her smoking days. She wasn't sure if it was the endorphins from a particularly strenuous yoga class or the semi-dread of having dinner with Russell's parents later that night, or just the desire to share in her friends' fun, but before she could stop it – almost before she even knew it was happening – Leigh started to talk without any forethought or awareness.

‘In honor of your acts of bravery,' she was saying, the words feeling as though they emerged entirely of their own volition, ‘I, too, would like to propose a goal. By the end of this year, I will …' Her words faded. She'd begun speaking without knowing what to say, assuming something would come, but she had nothing to offer. She found her job mostly rewarding, if a tad boring at times; she was perfectly comfortable with the number of men she'd slept with so far; she'd already snagged herself a boyfriend fitting all of Adriana's criteria – not just any man but a famous one, a man half of the country and the entire female population of Manhattan clamored to date; and she had finally saved enough to buy her own apartment. She was doing exactly what was expected of her. What was she supposed to change?

‘Get knocked up?' Emmy offered helpfully.

‘Have plastic surgery?' Adriana countered.

‘Make your first million?'

‘Have a threesome?'

‘Get hooked on booze or drugs?'

‘Learn to love the subway?' asked Adriana with a wicked smile.

Leigh shuddered. ‘God, no. Not
that
.' She grinned.

Emmy patted her hand. ‘We know, honey. The dirt, the noise, the unpredictable schedule …'

‘All those people!' Adriana added. After twelve years of friendship, she felt like she knew Leigh better than she knew herself. If there was one thing that drove the poor girl mad – even more than mess or loud, repetitive sounds or surprise – it was crowds. The girl was an anxious wreck these days, and Adriana and Emmy discussed it every chance they got.

Emmy broke the moment of silence. ‘Take it as a good sign that you don't have an area of your life that requires massive restructuring. I mean, how many people can really say that?'

Adriana nibbled a leftover piece of toast. ‘Seriously,
querida
, all you have to do is appreciate your perfect life.' She held up her coffee mug. ‘To changes.'

Emmy reached for her nearly empty glass of grapefruit juice and turned to Leigh. ‘And to recognizing perfection when it's present.'

Leigh rolled her eyes and forced a smile. ‘To gorgeous foreigners and boulder-sized diamonds,' she said.

Two glasses met hers and made a wonderful clinking sound. ‘Cheers!' they all called in unison. ‘Cheers to that.'

If all of her irritatingly verbose colleagues didn't shut the hell up in the next seven minutes, there was no way Leigh could make it from West Midtown to the Upper East Side by one. Didn't these people ever get sick of hearing themselves talk? Didn't they get
hungry
? Her stomach rumbled audibly as if to remind the room that it was lunch hour, but no one seemed to notice. They were discussing the upcoming publication of
The Life and Leadership of Pope John Paul II
with an intensity worthy of a presidential debate.

‘Summer is a tough time for a religious biography – we knew that going in,' one of the associate editors commented with some trepidation, still unaccustomed to speaking at meetings.

Someone from the sales team, a sweet-faced woman who looked far younger than her thirty-some years and whose name Leigh could never remember, addressed the table. ‘Of course summer isn't ideal for anything other than beach reads, but the season alone doesn't account for these disappointing numbers. Orders from everyone – B&N, Borders, the independents – are all significantly lower than forecasted. Perhaps if we could generate a little more buzz …'

‘Buzz?'
Patrick, the queeny head of publicity, sneered. ‘Just how do you propose generating ‘buzz' for a book about the
pope
? Give us something even remotely appealing and maybe we could work something out. But Britney Spears could tattoo the entire contents of this book on her bare breasts and people
still
wouldn't talk about it.'

Jason, the only other editor who had been promoted as quickly as Leigh and whose existence at Brook Harris was the only thing that kept her sane, sighed and looked at his watch. Leigh caught his eye and nodded. She couldn't wait any longer.

‘Please excuse me,' Leigh interrupted. ‘But I have a lunch appointment I can't miss. A business lunch, of course,' she added quickly, although of course no one cared. She quietly gathered her papers and shoved everything into the monogrammed leather folder that accompanied her everywhere and tiptoed out of the conference room.

She had just swung by her office to grab her purse when her phone rang and she saw her publisher's extension on her caller ID. Leigh had just decided to screen him when she heard her assistant's voice call out, ‘Henry, line one. He says it's urgent.'

‘He always says it's urgent,' Leigh muttered to herself. She took a calming breath and picked up the receiver.

‘Henry! Are you calling to apologize for missing the sales meeting?' she joked. ‘I'm willing to overlook it this time, but don't let it happen again.'

‘Ha-ha, I'm cracking up on the inside, I promise,' he said. ‘I'm not keeping you from a lunchtime manicure or a quick jaunt to Barneys, am I?'

Leigh forced a laugh. It was positively eerie how well he knew her. Although technically it was a
blowout
and a quick jaunt to Barneys. She couldn't particularly afford either one right now, but her flakiness in both the personal hygiene and gift departments today had mandated that she splurge. ‘Of course not. What can I do for you?'

‘There's someone in my office I'd like you to meet. Come on over here for a minute.'

Goddammit! The man had a gift for intuitively sensing the most inconvenient moments of her day and then asking for something. It was uncanny and she wondered, for the umpteenth time, if he bugged her office.

She took another calming breath and glanced at the clock. Her appointment was in fifteen minutes and the salon was a ten-minute walk away. ‘I'll be right there,' she said with enough cheer to fell a sequoia.

She speed-walked through the cubicles and winding hallways that separated her office from Henry's. He obviously wanted her to meet a potential author or someone new they'd just signed, since he was a big believer in demonstrating how Brook Harris was run like a family and insisted on personally introducing all the editors to all the new authors. It was one of the qualities that had most impressed her when she'd first started out – and one of the main reasons so many authors signed with Brook Harris and stayed for their entire careers – but today it was really fucking annoying. Anyone less than Tom Wolfe and she wasn't interested. She ran calculations as she rounded the corner and passed the elevator bank. Her congrats-on-joining-the-family-we're-so-happy-to-have-you or some similar we'd-be-thrilled-and-honored-to-have-you-join-the-family speech would take only a couple of minutes. Another minute or two to feign interest in the new/potential author's current work, plus one more to congratulate him on the success of his previous publication, and there was a chance she'd be out in under five. At least she'd better be.

She'd been up so late the night before trying to finish her notes on the last chapter of her newest memoir acquistion that she had slept straight through her alarm and had to race, unshowered, to make the sales meeting on time. It wasn't until Leigh found a toweringly tall pale purple orchid on her desk with a note that read, ‘I love you and can't wait to see you tonight. Happy First Year!' that she even remembered that Russell had made reservations at Daniel to celebrate their one-year anniversary. Typical. It was the single day in her entire career – possibly her entire life – that she'd overslept and left the house looking like a homeless person, and it was the only time it mattered. Thankfully Gilles had agreed to fit her in for a last-minute blowout (‘You can have Adriana's appointment at one if she doesn't mind,' he'd offered. ‘She doesn't mind!' Leigh had screamed into the phone. ‘I take full responsibility!') and she planned to swing by Barneys and pick up a bottle of cologne or a tie or a dopp kit – really, whatever was closest to the register and came prewrapped – on her way back to the office. There was absolutely no time for dawdling.

‘You can go right on in,' Henry's perky new assistant drawled. Her spiky, pink-streaked hair didn't fit with the Southern accent – or the conservative corporate culture – but she seemed able to spell and didn't appear overtly hostile, so it was overlooked.

Leigh nodded her thanks and barreled through the open door. ‘Hello!' she sang to Henry. She guessed the man sitting opposite him, facing away from her, was in his early forties. Despite the early summer weather, he wore a light blue shirt and an olive corduroy blazer with patches over the elbows. His dirty-blond hair – light brown, really, now that she looked more carefully – was the perfect amount of shaggy, just grazing the top of his collar and falling slightly over the tops of his ears. Before he even turned to look at her, she knew, intuited, that he would be attractive. Perhaps even gorgeous. Which was partly why she was so taken aback when their eyes finally met.

The surprise was twofold. Her first thought was that he wasn't nearly as good-looking as she had predicted. His eyes were not the piercing shade of blue or green she'd expected, but an unremarkable grayish hazel, and his nose managed to appear flattened and protuberant at the same time. But he did have flawless teeth, straight, white, gorgeous teeth, teeth that could star in their very own Crest commercial, and it was these teeth that captured her attention. It wasn't until the man smiled, revealing deeply engraved but somehow still very appealing laugh lines, that she realized she recognized him. Sitting here, gazing at her with an easy smile and a welcoming expression, was Jesse Chapman, a man whose talents had been compared to Updike, Roth, and Bellow; McInerney, Ford, and Franzen.
Disenchantment
, the first novel he'd published, at age twenty-three, had been one of those impossibly rare books that was both a commercial and literary success, and Jesse's reputation as a bad-boy genius had only increased with every additional party attended, model dated, and book written. He had disappeared six or seven years ago, after a rumored stint in rehab and spate of brutal reviews, but no one expected him to stay hidden forever. The fact that he was here, in their offices, could mean only one thing.