Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (75 page)

‘It's just creepy. I'm about ready for whomever it is to start focusing on someone else, you know? Someone a little more interesting, who might actually be living a scandalous life? I definitely don't qualify.' I bit into a piece of pizza, possibly the most perfect slice in the world.

‘I understand, darling, truly I do. But Philip qualifies, don't forget! I hate to go rushing off, but my column doesn't seem to want to write itself this week. Talk soon? Will we see you at dinner this Thursday?'

‘Of course,' I said automatically before realizing that I was expected to attend the launch of a new Gucci fragrance that night. I knew I'd have to call back and cancel, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it now. ‘Wouldn't miss it for the world. Talk to you later.'

I finished my little slice of heaven and ordered a second, which I also knocked off in record time. I was listlessly staring at a tattered copy of the
Post
someone had left on the table when my phone rang. H
OME
flashed on the caller ID.

‘Hello?' I answered, wondering whether it was my mother or father – or both, since they often enjoyed the tag-team calling of first one, then the other, then all three of us talking from different extensions.

‘Bette, is that you?' my mother practically shouted. ‘Can you hear me?' Her voice was, as usual, louder than necessary. She was convinced that cell phones required above-average volume from all involved parties and therefore screamed whenever she called mine.

‘I can hear you, Mom. Perfectly. How are you?'

‘I can't really talk since I'm running into a scheduling meeting, but one of the girls at the clinic today said she saw your picture on some website. A picture of you and a famous boy and another girl? Or something to that effect.'

Impossible! My mother, who had only recently registered for her own email address, was now receiving information about the content of online gossip columns? I was quick to deny it. ‘It was nothing, Mom, just a little photo of me at a work event.'

‘Bette, that's wonderful! Congratulations! I can't wait to see it. I asked Dad to get online and print it out, but he couldn't seem to open the page or something. Save us a copy?'

‘Of course,' I said meekly. ‘Will do. But seriously, it's nothing important, just work stuff. I have to get back to the office, so can I call you later?'

‘Sure, dear. Congrats again. Not at the job long, and already you're making headlines!'

If only she knew, I thought as I clicked off the phone. Thankfully, there was no chance my father would ever figure out how to register for the free account that New York Scoop offered to readers. As long as no one actually printed it out and showed it to them, I was safe. At least for now.

‘I'd like to open tonight's meeting with a toast to Bette,' Courtney said, raising her mojito above her head.

I'd been reading a text message from Kelly politely requesting (read: ordering) that I ‘put in an appearance' at the
Mr and Mrs Smith
premiere that was being overseen by Skye and Leo. The movie would end at exactly eleven o'clock, which meant I could stop by the after-party at Duvet and still be home by twelve-thirty and asleep by one
A.M.
– which would be the earliest night in weeks. I had just concluded my calculations when the sound of my name made me snap to attention.

‘Me? What have I done to deserve a toast?' I asked distractedly.

The group stared at me as though unable to comprehend my stupidity. Janie spoke first. ‘Excuse me, do you think we live in a vacuum? That our lives cease to exist outside this book club?'

I just stared, having a fairly good idea where this was headed, but still trying to prevent it from happening.

Jill mashed some limes with sugar in a bowl before spooning more of the muddled mixture into my drink. ‘Bette, we all read New York Scoop, you know – hell, everyone reads it. And you appear to be the featured story every day. When on earth were you planning to mention that your boyfriend just happens to be
Philip Weston
?' She said his name with a slow deliberateness and everyone laughed.

‘Whoa, girls, let's hold on a second here. He is
not
my boyfriend.'

‘Well, that's not what Ellie Insider seems to think,' Alex chirped in. Her hair was an unsavory shade of puke green tonight and I marveled at the thought that even the East Village punk crowd was reading that horrific column.

‘Yeah, that's true,' Vika added thoughtfully. ‘You do seem to be with him quite frequently. And why not? He's wildly, undeniably, fabulously gorgeous.'

I thought about that for a moment. He was indeed gorgeous, and every woman between the ages of fifteen and fifty seemed to want him desperately, so what was so wrong with letting everyone think we were dating? Unless I told them, no one would really know that I hadn't been back to Philip's apartment since the first time I accidentally woke up there. In fact, they probably wouldn't even believe it if I explained that we only saw one another (and were subsequently seen together) because I was expected to stop by every Kelly & Company event – whether I'd worked on it or not. I'd run into Philip ‘accidentally' almost every other night for weeks. After all, it was my job to throw the best parties, and it was Philip's self-designated responsibility to attend each and every one.

Why explain that even though we only chatted briefly at these events, he always seemed to throw his arm around my shoulders (or put his hand on my ass or his drink in front of my chest or his mouth on my neck) precisely when a photographer happened to stroll by? It appeared to anyone who was watching that we were inseparable, but what got labeled as ‘lots of hot-and-heavy canoodling' was about as sexual as my nightly cuddles with Millington. Why, I wondered, would anyone possibly want to hear all of that?

I knew the answer. Because he was the It Boy du jour, and I was making out with him.

‘He is cute, isn't he?' I asked. Philip Weston might be one of the more arrogant guys I'd ever met, but it was ridiculous to deny that I was absurdly attracted to him.

‘Um,
yeah.
And let's not overlook the fact that he's the most perfect Harlequin guy you could imagine existing in real life.' Courtney sighed. ‘I think I'm going to model the hero of my next novel after him.'

‘After Philip?' It was difficult to envision any leading Harlequin man whining and bitching about his thread count, but I supposed the genre could use some updating for the new millennium.

‘Bette! He's tall, handsome, and powerful. He's even foreign, for Christ's sake,' she pointed out while waving a copy of
Sweet Savage Love
and pointing to the hulking man in a loincloth on the cover. ‘And better looking than Dominick, which is remarkable when you consider that Dominick is
drawn
to look as gorgeous as humanly possible.'

The girl had a point. Philip fit the ideal of the romantic hero more closely than any guy I'd met before – except for that small, nagging little problem of his personality.

I spent the rest of book club distracted, dreamily wondering if I'd see Philip later at the after-party and what might happen.

I ducked out of the meeting early and changed before heading to Duvet. Where, of course, the first person I saw upon walking inside was Mr Weston himself.

‘Bette, love, come say hello to a few mates visiting from England,' he said, planting a brief but admittedly delicious kiss directly on my lips.

I couldn't help it; I looked over my shoulder. I had promised myself I'd be more aware of the photographers, but I saw nothing unusual, just the regular beautiful writhing masses.

‘Hi,' I said, noticing (a) he looked even more like fictional Dominick when he was standing in front of me, and (b) Courtney was right: Philip was better-looking. ‘Can I meet you over there in a minute? I've got to find Kelly and make sure everything's okay.'

‘Sure, love. Will you bring me a cocktail when you come back? That'd be smashing!' And he scampered off to play with his friends, as happy as a little boy at the playground.

I managed to check in with Kelly, ask Leo and Skye if they needed anything, wave to Elisa as she made out with Davide, introduce myself to two potential clients (the much-worshipped designer Alvin Valley and someone who Kelly described to me as ‘the most sought-after stylist in Hollywood'), and bring Philip a gin and tonic, all in less than an hour. So much for what might happen with Philip. He was busy entertaining his ‘blokes.' The dull headache I'd managed to ignore since morning had suddenly become sharper, and I knew it couldn't be another late night. I slipped out the door shortly thereafter and was home by twelve-fifteen (a solid fifteen minutes ahead of schedule) and unconscious by twelve-thirty, after deciding that silly nighttime rituals like teeth-brushing and face-washing could easily be neglected. When my alarm went off six and a half hours later, I was not looking good.

I grabbed the Dirt Alert before rushing out and read it as I inhaled a large coffee and a buttered cinnamon-raisin bagel on the subway. Unsurprisingly, New York Scoop was the first clipping of the day's packet and, again, there was a huge picture – a close-up, actually – of Philip kissing me the night before. Only the back of his head was visible, but somehow the camera had zoomed in on my face and caught me with some sort of faraway, dreamy look caused by my eyes being only partially open while they gazed adoringly at him. Or drunkenly, depending on how one might interpret my half-blink. I probably should have expected it, but since I'd never even spotted a camera, the full-page photo made me physically recoil. That day's scoop was extra memorable. As predicted, I'd graduated from being ‘Philip's gal pal' and ‘the new girl' and ‘party girl' and ‘PR maven-in-training' to warranting my own identity. Right there, under the picture – just in case there was anyone left in New York State who didn't know my whereabouts at all times – was my name, spelled in big, bold letters, and a caption that read:
APPARENTLY, SHE'S HERE TO STAY … BETTINA ROBINSON KNOWS HOW TO PARTY
. The feeling was a weird mixture of embarrassment at having anyone see me in such a state, indignation at the misrepresentation of it all, and a faint but persistent misery at the realization that I no longer had anything remotely resembling privacy.

The walk from the subway to the office felt six miles longer than the actual three blocks it was, and it was made incrementally worse when I overheard two perfect strangers talking about Philip's ‘new girlfriend, what's her name?'

By the time I'd dropped my laptop bag on the circular table, the entire staff had surrounded me.

‘I suppose you've all seen it already?' I asked no one in particular, flopping into a leather work chair.

‘It's really nothing we don't already know,' Kelly pointed out, sounding disappointed. ‘It just says here that one Mr Philip Weston has been seen so frequently in the company of one Ms. Bettina Robinson that it would only be fair to consider them an item.'

‘An item?' I asked, incredulous. In my horror at seeing the picture and the caption, I'd simply forgotten to read the accompanying text.

‘Oh, yes, it says here that an unnamed source claims that the two of you spend nearly every night together, after partying at all the hot spots like Bungalow and Marquee.'

‘We are not dating,' I insisted.

‘The pictures are right here, Bette. And it very much appears that you are, thank God.' Kelly turned her twenty-inch flat-screen Mac monitor toward the group so we could all enjoy the photos of Philip and me.

My personal and professional lives had become not only intertwined but completely dependent on one another. Any idiot could see that my connection with Philip had made me an accepted part of the team with a swiftness that made my head hurt.

‘Well, it's just that
dating
is kind of a strong word,' I said awkwardly. Why did no one understand?

‘Well, whatever you're doing, Bette, just keep on doing it. Do you know we've been hired to represent BlackBerry solely because you're dating Mr Weston?'

Solely?
I thought.

‘Surprise, Bette! We got a call from their internal PR company just this morning. They want us to introduce their new BlackBerry to New York's younger set, and picked us because we clearly have access to that world. BlackBerry's already huge, of course, with the Wall Street crowd, and everyone who's anyone – and most people who aren't – in Hollywood already has one, but they haven't hit as big with the younger crowd. We will do our best to change that, of course. And I'm happy to report that I'm putting you in charge of all the logistics, reporting to me only for approval.'

‘In charge?' I stammered.

‘Their account rep told us how much she'd love to have you planning and Philip hosting the event, so I think it works out perfectly!' she sang, not the least bit aware that Philip most likely still didn't even know my full name.

‘Skye will help you with whatever you need' – a quick glance at Skye informed me that she wasn't thrilled with this pronouncement – 'and we'll all be here to support you. The party is scheduled for November twenty-second, which is the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, so you'd better get started immediately.'

I did a few mental calculations and realized that it was less than three weeks away. I said as much.

‘Oh, Bette, stop stressing,' Elisa said with an exasperated eye-roll. ‘It's nothing. Find a venue, get sponsors, order invites, work The List, and save all your presswork until that week. Anything that Philip hosts will be automatically covered, so this is not exactly going to be a lot of work.'

When the meeting finally ended, I ducked out with my laptop and headed to Starbucks in a panicky effort to figure out exactly what needed to happen for the BlackBerry event. I almost hoped Philip would make it some sort of quid pro quo that he'd host the event if I'd sleep with him … and then immediately felt pathetic. Everyone assumed we'd already consummated our relationship, but the reality was that we both seemed to avoid the situation entirely. Which wasn't difficult, considering he only seemed to want to mug for the cameras. He was great with the suggestive remarks, but he never really followed up on any of them, and he seemed almost relieved when I brushed him off and left alone each night. There hadn't been much time to think about it, but I figured he had some sort of top-secret girlfriend (or five) that he kept sequestered away and was content to let the general public think we were dating. It was vaguely insulting – I still wanted him to
want
to have sex with me – but we seemed to have an unspoken agreement to maintain the present arrangement.