Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (65 page)

We each smoked a cigarette on the walk over and I was struck by the sudden and overwhelming desire to be sharing a plate of falafel on the bench outside UBS with Penelope. Elisa was providing some sort of running commentary on office politics, who really ran the show (her), and who really wanted to (everyone else). I called upon my valuable can-talk-to-anyone-about-anything skill and kept asking her questions while tuning out her answers entirely. It wasn't until we were settled into a corner table with our coffees – Elisa's was skim, decaf, and dark – that I actually heard something she said.

‘Oh. My. God. Will you fucking
look at that
?' she hissed.

I followed her gaze to a tall, lanky woman who was wearing a very unremarkable pair of jeans and a basic black blazer. She had sort of drab, brownish hair and a fairly mediocre body, and everything about her seemed to say ‘average in every way.' Elisa's excitement seemed to indicate the woman was a celebrity, but she didn't look the least bit familiar to me.

‘Who is it?' I asked, leaning in conspiratorially. I didn't really care, but thought I should.

‘Not “who,” “what”!' she practically scream-whispered. She hadn't yet moved her eyes from the woman.

‘What?' I asked, still clueless.

‘What do you mean, “what”? Are you
kidding
? Do you not see it? Do you need glasses?' I thought she was mocking me, but she reached into her oversized tote bag and pulled out a pair of wire-rims. ‘Here, put these on and
check that out
.'

I continued to stare, clueless, until Elisa leaned in closer and said, ‘Look. At. Her. Bag. Just try and tell me it's not the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen.'

My eyes went to the large leather bag the woman had nesting in the crook of her elbow while she ordered her coffee. When it came time to pay, she rested it on the counter, rooted through it, and pulled out her wallet before returning the bag to her arm. Elisa groaned audibly. It looked like any other bag to me, just bigger.

‘Ohmigod, I can barely stand it, it's so amazing. It's the crocodile Birkin. Rarest of them all.'

‘A what?' I asked. I briefly considered pretending to know what she was talking about, but it felt like too much effort at that point in the day.

She peered at me, examining my face as though she'd just remembered that I was there. ‘You really don't know, do you?'

I shook my head.

She took a deep breath, sipped her coffee for strength, and placed her hand on my forearm as if to say,
Now listen closely because I'm telling you the only piece of information you'll ever need to know.
­‘You've heard of Hermès, right?'

I nodded and saw a wave of relief wash over her face. ‘Sure. My uncle wears their ties all the time.'

‘Yes, well, much more important than their ties are their bags. The first huge hit was the Kelly bag, named for Grace Kelly when she began carrying it. But the really big one – about a thousand times more prestigious – is the Birkin.'

She looked at me expectantly and I murmured, ‘Mmm, it looks lovely. Very nice bag.'

Elisa sighed. ‘It sure is. That one's probably in the twenty-grand range. It's so worth it.'

I inhaled so quickly that I swallowed wrong and actually choked. ­‘It's how much? You're joking. That's impossible! It's a
purse
.'

‘It's not a
purse,
Bette, it's a way of life. I would pay that in a heartbeat if I could just get my hands on one.'

‘I can't imagine people are lining up to spend that much on a bag,' I pointed out. Which, in my defense, sounded eminently logical at that moment. I couldn't have known just how stupid I sounded, but luckily Elisa was prepared to inform me.

‘Christ, Bette, you really have no clue, do you? I didn't think there was anyone left on the planet who wasn't at least on the
list
for a Birkin. Put yourself on immediately and maybe – just maybe – you'll get one in time to give your daughter one someday.'

‘My daughter? Twenty thousand dollars for a bag? You're kidding.'

At this point Elisa collapsed in frustration and put her head down on the table. ‘No, no, no,' she moaned, as though in great pain. ‘You just don't get it. It's not just a
bag.
It's a lifestyle. It's a statement. It summarizes who you are as a person. It's a
reason for living
.'

I laughed at her melodrama. She bolted upright in her seat again and began talking at a rapid-fire pace.

‘I had a friend who fell into a horrible depression after her favorite grandmother died and her boyfriend of three years broke up with her. She couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't drag herself out of bed. She got fired because she never showed up for work. Huge bags under her eyes. Refused to see anyone. Never answered her phone. When I finally showed up at her apartment after months of this, she confided that she was considering suicide.'

‘How awful,' I murmured, still racing to keep up with the rapid subject change.

‘Yeah, it was awful. But you know what got her through? I'd stopped at the Hermès store on the way over to her apartment, asked for an update … just in case. And you know what? I was able to tell her when I got there that she was only eighteen months away from her Birkin. Do you believe it? Eighteen months!'

‘What did she say?' I asked.

‘What do you think she said? She was ecstatic! The last time she'd checked it was going to be five years, but they'd trained a whole new crew of craftsmen and her name was due up in a year and a half. She got in the shower that very moment and agreed to go to lunch with me. That was six months ago. Since then she got her job back and has another boyfriend. Don't you see? That Birkin gave her a reason to live! You simply cannot kill yourself when you're that close … it's just not an option.'

It was my turn to examine her to see if she was joking. She was not. In fact, Elisa looked positively radiant from her retelling of the story, as though it had inspired her to live her own life to the fullest. I thanked her for educating me in the ways of the Birkin and wondered what, exactly, I had gotten myself into. This was a far cry from investment banking, and I clearly had a lot to learn.

It was seven-thirty in the evening on day four of my working at Kelly & Company as a party planner. The newsstand near my apartment had only a single copy of the New York
Daily News
with Will's column by the time I headed home after work. I'd been reading ‘Will of the People' nearly every week since the time I'd learned the alphabet, but for some reason I'd never managed to subscribe to any of the papers that ran it. Of course, I had never broached the subject of the column's gradual shift to a soapbox for Will's crotchety rants about every social ‘tragedy' that had befallen his beloved city, but it was becoming increasingly more difficult to keep my mouth shut.

‘Bette! Great column today, if I do say so myself!' my doorman, Seamus, howled boozily as he pulled open the door to my building and waved a copy of the paper. ‘That uncle of yours hits the nail on the head every time!'

‘Is it good? I haven't read it yet,' I said absently, walking and talking quickly, the way people do when they're trying desperately to avoid a conversation.

‘Good? It's fantastic! Now there's a man who gets it! Anyone who can poke a little fun at Hillary Clinton is a friend of mine! I thought I was the only person in this whole city who voted for George W., but your uncle assures me I'm not.'

‘Mmm. I suppose that's true.' I headed toward the elevator, but he was still going.

‘Any chance he'll be coming 'round to visit you anytime soon? Would just love to tell him in person how much—'

‘I'll definitely let you know,' I called as the elevator doors finally shut him out. I shook my head, remembering my uncle's one visit to my building and the way Seamus had fallen all over himself when he recognized Will's name. It was upsetting, to say the least, that Seamus personified my uncle's target demographic.

Millington nearly collapsed in paroxysms of joy when I opened the door, even more excited than usual now that I'd returned to working all day. Poor Millington.
No walk for you tonight,
I thought as I gave her a perfunctory scratch on the head and settled down to read Will's latest rants. She scampered off to use her Wee-Wee Pad, realizing immediately that she wasn't leaving the apartment today, either, and then jumped onto my chest to read with me.

Just as I was settling in with my folder of takeout menus, my cell phone vibrated across my coffee table like a wind-up toy. I debated whether or not to answer it. The cell phone was company-issued and, much like my new colleagues, didn't ever seem to rest. I'd been out the last three nights, attending events the company had put on, following Kelly as she did everything from consulting with clients to firing slow bartenders, hosting VIPs, and arranging for press passes. The hours were even more grueling than at the bank – a whole day of office work followed by a full night out – but the office buzzed with young, pretty people, and if one has to spend fifteen hours a day at work, I thought I might prefer DJs or champagne cocktails to diversified portfolios.

TXT MESSAGE!
appeared on my color screen. Text message? I'd never before received a message or sent one. After a moment's hesitation, I looked at the screen and hit Read.

din 2nite @ 9? cip dwntn on w.broad. c u there.

What was that? Some sort of cryptic dinner invitation, for sure, but where and with whom? The only clue to its origin was a 917 number I didn't recognize. I dialed it and a breathless girl answered immediately.

‘Hey, Bette! What's up? You in for tonight?' the voice said, crushing my hope that the person had simply dialed the wrong number.

‘Uh, hi. Um, who is this?'

‘Bette! It's Elisa. We've only worked together twenty-four/­seven for the past week! We're all going out tonight to celebrate being done with the Candace party. It'll be the usual crew. See you at nine?'

I'd planned to meet Penelope at the Black Door since I'd barely seen her during my unemployment hibernation, but I didn't see how I could turn down my first social invitation from my new colleagues.

‘Uh, yeah, sure, that sounds great. What was the name of that restaurant again?'

‘Cipriani Downtown?' she asked, sounding a bit incredulous that I wasn't able to deduce as much from her earlier shorthand. ‘You've
been,
right?'

‘Of course. I love it there. Do you mind if I bring a friend? I had plans already and—'

‘Fab! See you both in a couple hours!' she screeched and hung up.

I snapped my phone shut and did what every New Yorker does instinctively upon hearing the name of a restaurant: I checked
Zagat.
Twenty-one for food, twenty for decor, and a still respectable eighteen for service. And it wasn't a one-word name like Koi or Butter or Lotus, which might seem innocuous but almost always guaranteed an exceptionally horrid time. So far, everything looked promising.

‘To see or be seen is never the question' at this SoHo Northern Italian where watching Eurobabes ‘air kissing' and ‘pretending to eat their salads' is more to the point than the surprisingly good ‘creative' fare; natives may ‘feel like foreigners in their own country,' but the high ratings speak for themselves.

Ah, so it was going to be another Eurobabe night. Whatever that meant. And more to the point, what was I supposed to wear? Elisa and crew seemed to rotate between black pants, black skirts, and black dresses at work, so it was probably safe to stick with the formula. I dialed Penelope at the bank.

‘Hey, it's me. What's up?'

‘Ugh. You are so unbelievably lucky that you left this wretched sweatshop. Is Kelly looking to hire anyone else?'

‘Yeah, I wish. But listen – what do you think about meeting everyone tonight?'

‘Everyone?'

‘Well, not everyone, just my immediate work group. I know we had plans, but since we always go to the Black Door, I thought it might be fun to go to dinner with them. Are you up for it?'

‘Sure,' she said, sounding too tired to move. ‘Avery's going out with a bunch of friends from high school tonight and I was just so not interested. Dinner sounds fun. Where is it?'

‘Cipriani Downtown. Have you been?'

‘No, but my mother talks about it obsessively. She's been dying for me to become a regular.'

‘Should I be upset that your mother and my uncle seem to know every cool place in the city, and we're completely clueless?'

‘Welcome to my life.' She sighed. ‘Avery's the same way – he knows everyone and everything. I just can't be bothered. The effort required for mere maintenance is too exhausting. But tonight will be fun. I'd like to meet people who plan parties for a living. And the food's supposed to be great.'

‘Well, I'm not sure that's a huge selling point with this crowd. I've spent forty hours with Elisa this week and haven't seen her eat a thing. She seems to subsist solely on cigarettes and Diet Coke.'

‘Hot-girl diet, huh? Good for her. You've got to admire that level of commitment.' Penelope sighed again. ‘I'm headed home in a few. Want to share a cab downtown?'

‘Perfect. I'll pick you up at the corner of Fourteenth and Fifth a little before nine. I'll call when I get in the cab,' I said.

‘Sounds good. I'll wait outside. Bye.'

I headed for my closet. After some discards and retries, I settled on a pair of tight black pants and a plain black tank top. I extracted some decently high heels, bought during a shopping trip in SoHo, and took the time to blow out the exceedingly thick black hair I inherited from my mother – the kind that everyone thinks they want until they realize it barely fits in a ponytail and instantly adds thirty minutes to any preparation time. I even attempted some makeup, which got put to use so infrequently that the mascara wand was all clumpy and a few of the lipsticks were stuck inside their tubes.
No matter!
I thought, singing along to Mike & the Mechanics' ‘The Living Years' as I worked on my face … this was even kind of fun. I had to admit, the end results were worth the extra effort: my love handles no longer bulged over the waistline of my pants, my boobs had retained their chubby-girl fullness even though the rest of me had shrunk, and the mascara I'd haphazardly brushed across my lashes had accidentally smeared to perfection, giving my somewhat bland gray eyes a sexy, smoldering look.