Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (60 page)

So she did what every good girl knows is completely wrong – for the reputation, the self-esteem, and the strategy of making him call the next day – and slept with him then and there, mere minutes after he leaned over to kiss her for the very first time. (‘I just couldn't help it,' she'd said a million times while retelling the story. ‘I couldn't believe that Avery Wainwright was interested in me!') But unlike all the other girls I knew who'd had sex within hours of meeting some guy and never heard from him again, Penelope and Avery proceeded to attach themselves to each other, and their engagement was little more than a much approved and applauded formality.

‘Are they being worse than usual?'

She sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘‘Worse than usual.' An interesting phrase. I would've thought it was impossible, but yes, my mother has managed to become even more unbearable lately. Our last knock-down brawl was over whether or not you could rightfully call something a wedding dress if it wasn't designed by Vera Wang or Carolina Herrera. I said yes. She obviously disagreed. Vehemently.'

‘Who won?'

‘I caved on that because, really, I don't care who makes the dress as long as I like it. I figure I have to pick my battles very, very carefully, and the one I will not be compromising on is the wedding announcement.'

‘Define “wedding announcement.”'

‘Don't make me.' She grinned and took a swig of Dr Pepper.

‘Say it.'

‘Please, Bette, this sucks enough. Don't make me say it.'

‘C'mon, Pen. Own up. Go on, it'll get easier after the first time. Just say it.' I nudged her chair with my foot and leaned in to relish the information.

She covered her perfect, pale forehead with her long, thin hands and shook her head.
‘New York Times.'

‘I knew it! Will and I will be gentle, I promise. She's not kidding around, is she?'

‘Of course she's not!' Penelope wailed. ‘And naturally, Avery's mother's dying for it also.'

‘Oh, Pen, it's perfect! You guys make such a cute couple, and now everyone else can see it, too!' I cackled.

‘You should hear them, Bette, it's hideous. Both of them are already fantasizing about all those fancy private schools they can list between them. Do you know I overheard my mother on the phone the other day with the Weddings editor, saying that she'd like to include all the siblings' schools as well? The woman told her that they won't even discuss it until six weeks before, but that hasn't discouraged anyone: Avery's mom already made an appointment for the photo shoot and has all sorts of ideas about how we can pose so that our eyebrows are level, which is one of the published suggestions. The wedding is still a year away!'

‘Yes, but these things require lots of advance planning and research.'

‘That's what they said!' she cried.

‘What about eloping?' But before she could answer, Aaron made a big show of knocking on my cubicle wall and waving his arms to imitate regret at breaking up our ‘little powwow,' as he irritatingly called our lunches.

‘Don't mean to break up your little powwow, folks,' he said, as both Penelope and I silently mouthed the words along with him. ‘Bette, may I have a word with you?'

‘No worries, I was just leaving,' Penelope breathed, obviously grateful for the chance to flee without talking to Aaron. ‘Bette, we'll talk more later.' And before I could say anything, she was gone.

‘Saaaaaaaay, Bette?'

‘Yes, Aaron?' He sounded so much like Lumbergh from
Office Space
that it would have been funny had I not been on the receiving end of his ‘suggestions.'

‘Weeeeell, I was just wondering if you had a chance to read today's quote of the day?' He gave a loud, phlegmy cough and raised his eyebrows at me.

‘Of course, Aaron, I have it right here. “Individual commitment to a group effort – that is what makes a team work, a company work, a society work, a civilization work.” Yeah, I have to say, that one really spoke to me.'

‘It did?' He looked pleased. ‘That was yesterday's, but I'm glad it had such impact.'

‘Sure. It was really appropriate. I learn a lot from all of them. Why? Is something wrong?' I asked in my most ingratiatingly concerned tone.

‘Nothing's wrong,
per se,
it's just that I couldn't find you for nearly ten minutes before, and while that doesn't sound like much, I'm sure to Mrs Kaufman – who was waiting on an update – it feels like an eternity.'

‘An eternity?'

‘I just don't think that when you're away from your desk for such long periods of time that you can adequately be providing our clients, like Mrs Kaufman, with the kind of attention we pride ourselves on here at UBS. Just a little something to think about for next time, okay?'

‘I'm really sorry. I was just picking up lunch.'

‘I know that, Bette. But I don't have to remind you that company policy says employees shouldn't be taking time out to pick it up. I have a whole drawer full of delivery menus if you'd care to look at them.'

I remained silent.

‘Oh, and Bette? I'm sure Penelope's supervisor needs her just as much as I need you, so let's try to keep those powwows to a minimum, okay?' He flashed me the most patronizing smile imaginable, revealing thirty-seven years' worth of splotchy, stained teeth, and I thought I'd vomit if he didn't stop immediately. Ever since watching
Girls Just Want to Have Fun
for the first time when I was twelve, I've never been able to get Lynne Stone's rumination out of my mind. She's escorting Janey home after Janey skips choir practice to rehearse with Jeff (and of course gets caught by the evil, rotating-closet-owning bitch, Natalie), and she says, ‘Whenever I'm in a room with a guy, no matter who it is – a date, my dentist, anybody – I think, “If we were the last two people on earth, would I puke if he kissed me?”' Well, thanks to Lynne, I can't help wondering it, either; the unfortunate outcome, though, is that I envisioned myself kissing Aaron and felt ill.

‘Okay? How does that sound?' He shifted nervously from foot to foot and I wondered how this anxious, socially inept man had managed to climb at least three levels above me in the corporate hierarchy. I'd watched clients physically recoil when he went to shake their hands, and yet he glided up the ladder like it was lubricated in the very oil he used to slick back his few remaining strands of hair.

All I wanted was for him to disappear, but I made a crucial miscalculation. Rather than just agreeing and going back to my lunch, I said, ‘Are you unhappy with my performance, Aaron? I try really hard, but you always seem displeased.'

‘I wouldn't say I'm
unhappy
with your performance, Bette. I think you're doing, well, um, just fine around here. But we all seek to self-improve now, don't we? As Winston Churchill once said—'

‘Just fine? That's like describing someone as “interesting” or saying a date was “nice.” I work eighty-hour weeks, Aaron. I give my entire life to UBS.' It was useless to try to highlight my dedication in an hours-worked formula since Aaron beat me by at least fifteen hours every single week, but it was true: I worked damn hard when I wasn't shopping online, talking to Will on the phone, or sneaking out to meet Penelope for lunch.

‘Bette, don't be so sensitive. With a little more willingness to learn and perhaps a bit more attention paid to your clients, I think you've got the potential to get promoted. Just keep the powwows to a minimum and really throw your heart into your work and the results will be immeasurable.'

I watched the spittle form on his thin lips as he mouthed his favorite phrase, and something inside me snapped. There was no angel on one shoulder or devil on the other, no mental list of pros and cons or quick scans of potential consequences, ramifications, or backup plans. No solid thoughts of any sort whatsoever – just an all-pervasive sense of calm and determination, coupled with a deep understanding that I simply could not tolerate one additional second of the present situation.

‘All right, Aaron. No more powwows for me – ever. I quit.'

He looked confused for a minute before he realized I was completely serious. ‘You what?'

‘Please consider this my two weeks' notice,' I said with a confidence that was beginning to waver slightly.

Appearing to consider this for a minute, he wiped his sweaty brow and furrowed it a few times. ‘That won't be necessary,' he said quietly.

It was my turn to be confused. ‘I appreciate it, Aaron, but I really do have to leave.'

‘I meant that the two weeks won't be necessary. We shouldn't have much trouble finding someone, Bette. There are loads of qualified people out there who actually want to work here, if you can imagine that. Please discuss the details of your departure with HR and have your things packed by the end of the day. And good luck with whatever you'll be doing next.' He forced a tight smile and walked away, seeming self-assured for the first time in the five years I'd worked for him.

Thoughts swirled in my head, coming too fast and from too many directions for me to actually process them. Aaron had balls – who knew! I'd just quit my job. Quit it. With no forethought or planning. Must tell Penelope. Penelope engaged. How would I get all my stuff home? Could I still charge a car to the company? Could I collect unemployment? Would I still come to midtown just for the kebabs? Should I burn all my skirt suits in a ceremonial living-room bonfire? Millington will be so happy to hit the dog run in the middle of the day! Middle of the day. I would get to watch
The Price Is Right
all the time if I wanted. Why hadn't I thought of this before?

I stared at the screen a while longer, until the gravity of what had just happened settled in, and then I headed straight to the rest-room to freak out in the relative privacy of a stall. There was laid-back and there was plain fucking stupid, and this was quickly beginning to resemble the latter. I breathed a few times and tried uttering – coolly and casually – my new mantra, but
whatever
came out sounding like a choked cry as I wondered what the hell I'd done.

‘Christ, Bette, it's not like you maimed someone. You quit your job. Congratulations! Welcome to the wonderful world of adult irresponsibility. Things don't always go according to plan, you know?' Simon was trying his best to soothe me while we waited for Will to get home because he couldn't tell that I was already completely relaxed.

The last time I'd felt this zen, I thought, might have been the ashram retreat. ‘It's just kind of eerie, not having any idea what to do next.' It was that same involuntary calm-cum-paralysis.

Though I knew I should be more panicked, the last month had actually been pretty great. I'd intended to tell everyone about quitting, but when it came time to actually make the calls, I was overtaken by an all-consuming combination of ennui, laziness, and inertia. It's not like I couldn't tell people I quit – it was just a matter of dialing and announcing – but the effort of explaining my reasons for leaving (none) and discussing my game plan (nonexistent) seemed utterly overwhelming each time I picked up the phone. So instead, in what I'm sure was some sort of psychologically distressed/avoidance/denial state, I slept until one every day, spent most of the afternoon alternately watching TV and walking Millington, shopped for things I didn't need in an obvious effort to fill the voids in my life, and made a conscious decision to start smoking again in earnest so I'd have something to do once
Conan
was over. It sounds comprehensively depressing, but it had been my best month in recent memory and might have gone on indefinitely had Will not called my work number and spoken to my replacement.

Interestingly, I had lost ten pounds without trying. I hadn't exercised at all save for the treks to hunt and gather my food, but I felt better than ever, or certainly better than I had working sixteen-hour days. I'd been thin all through college but had packed on the pounds quite efficiently as soon as I'd started work, having no time to exercise, choosing instead to down a particularly disgusting daily diet of kebabs, doughnuts, vending-machine candy bars, and coffee so sugar-heavy my teeth felt permanently coated. My parents and friends had politely ignored my weight gain, but I knew I looked terrible. Annually I'd declare my New Year's resolution of more dedicated gym-going; it usually lasted a solid four days before I'd kick my alarm clock and claim the extra hour for sleep. Only Will repeatedly reminded me that I looked like hell. ‘But, darling, don't you remember how scouts would stop you on the street and ask you to model? That's not happening anymore, is it?' Or ‘Bette, honey, you had that no-makeup, fresh-faced, all-natural girl thing working so well a few years ago – why don't you spend a little time trying to revisit that?' I heard him and knew he was right – when the button on the single pair of Sevens I owned nestled so far into my fleshy stomach that it was sometimes difficult to locate, it was hard to deny the extra poundage. That unemployment made me thinner was telling. My skin was clearer, my eyes brighter, and for the first time in five years the weight had melted off my hips and thighs but stayed squarely put in my chest – surely a sign from God that I wasn't supposed to work. But of course I wasn't supposed to enjoy being shiftless and lazy, so I was trying to demonstrate the appropriate combination of chagrin, regret, and distress. Simon was buying it.

‘I think a cocktail is exactly what's in order right now. What can I make you to drink, Bette?'

Little did he know that I'd taken to drinking alone. Not in that desperate, solitary, ‘I must drink to deal, and if I happen to have no company, well then, so be it' sort of way, but in the liberated ‘I'm an adult and if I'd like a glass of wine or a sip of champagne or four shots of vodka straight up' way, well then, why the hell not? I pretended to consider his offer before saying, ‘How about a martini?'