Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (79 page)

‘Correct. Your niece is a glorified prostitute, and it's all your fault.'

He ignored that comment. ‘Well, it seems that it's an easy out, no? You can continue spending time with him as you – or your company – see fit, but you don't actually have to, ah, participate in anything unsavory. You're getting credit for minimal work, darling.'

That was an interesting way of looking at it. I wanted to tell him about Sammy, maybe even ask his advice, but I realized it was ridiculous to talk about my unrequited crush. Before I could broach the subject either way, my cell phone rang.

‘Philip,' I announced, wondering, as usual, whether to answer it. ‘He seems to instinctively call at the most inopportune times.'

‘Answer it, darling. I'm going to find Simon and soothe his jangled nerves. That man is a walking basket case, and I'm afraid it's due in no small part to yours truly.' With that, he strolled out.

‘Hello?' I said, pretending, as everyone does, that I had no idea who was calling.

‘Please hold for Philip Weston,' a hollow voice replied. A moment later, Philip came on. ‘Bette! Where are you? The driver said you're not home, and I can't imagine where else you'd be.'

There were a few things to process here, not the least of which was how I'd just been blatantly accused of having no life outside of him.

‘I'm sorry, who's speaking?' I asked formally.

‘Oh, stop banging on like that, Bette. It's Philip. I sent a car to your flat, but you're not there. Bungalow is blowing up tonight and I want to see you. Get over here,' he commanded.

‘While I appreciate the sentiment, I have plans tonight, Philip. I can't make it,' I said for emphasis.

I could hear Eminem in the background and then muffled words from another male voice.

‘Hey, some guy wants me to say hello for him. The fucking
bouncer.
Jesus, Bette, you must patronize this establishment more than I had originally thought. Man, what's your name?'

If I'd been given the choice at that moment, I would've chosen death over talking to Sammy through Philip. But before I could change the subject or ask him to move away so I could hear him better, Philip said, ‘Are you listening to my conversation? Sod off, man.'

I cringed.

‘Philip, thank you so much for the gorgeous flowers,' I blurted out, trying desperately to divert his attention. ‘They were the most beautiful I've ever seen, and I'm so happy you'll be doing the BlackBerry party.'

‘What?' More mumbled talking. ‘The bouncer's called Sammy and he says he's working with you on a party or something. What's he talking about, Bette?'

‘Yes, that's what I was just saying. The BlackBerry party.' I was screaming into the phone now, trying to be heard over the background noise. ‘The one you agreed to do … the flowers … the note … any recollection?'

‘Flowers?' He sounded genuinely confused.

‘The ones you sent me just earlier today? Remember?'

‘Oh, right on, love. I suppose Marta sent them. She's quite attentive to the details, sending shit at all the right times. She's my best girl.'

It was my turn to be confused. ‘Marta?'

‘My assistant. She runs my life, makes me look good. Works well, doesn't it?' I could almost hear him grinning through the phone.

‘So did she tell you that she agreed on your behalf to host this party?' I kept my voice as steady and measured as was humanly possible.

‘Not for a second, love, but that's all right. If she's keen on it, then so am I. She'll just tell me where to be and when. What?' he asked, sounding distracted.

‘What?' I asked back.

‘Hold on a moment, the bouncer wants to talk to you. He said it's about work.'

This was unacceptable. I'd almost – almost – forgotten that Sammy had been standing there listening to this entire exchange. He'd heard the bit about the flowers, and certainly how patronizing Philip had been during his charming pronouncement that the bouncer wanted to talk to me. ‘Wait! Philip, don't just go and—'

‘Hello, Bette?' It was Sammy. I couldn't even speak. ‘You still there?'

‘I'm here,' I said meekly. The flutter feeling described so vividly in all my books began immediately, and with great forcefulness.

‘Hey, listen, I just wanted to—'

I cut him off without thinking and blurted, ‘I'm sorry he sounds like such an asshole right now, but he really can't help it, since that's exactly what he is.'

There was a momentary silence and then a deep, appreciative laugh. ‘Well, you said it, not me. Although I won't disagree with you.' Again I heard some sort of muffled exchange and then heard Sammy call out, ‘I'll keep it right here for you, man.'

‘What's going on?' I asked.

‘Your boyfr – your, uh, your friend – spotted another, uh, a friend and went inside to say hello. He just left me with his phone. Hope he's not too upset if it gets accidentally run over by a cab. Listen, I really wanted to apologize for this afternoon. I don't know what got into me, but I had no right to say that stuff to you. We don't even know each other, and I was totally out of line.'

Here it was! My big apology, and he couldn't have sounded more sincere had he showed up outside my apartment and serenaded me in the adorable Calvin Klein boxer briefs I just knew he wore. I wanted to crawl through the phone and into his lap, but I managed to maintain some semblance of cool.

‘Not at all. I'm sorry I snapped at you like that, too. It was just as much my fault, so please don't worry about a thing.'

‘Great. So this won't get in the way of our professional relationship, right? Amy told me today that I'm going to be the primary liaison for your party, and I didn't want this to affect how well either of us does our job.'

‘Uh, right.' Our jobs. Of course. ‘Yes, yes, no problem at all.'

I tried to hide my disappointment and obviously didn't do well because he stammered right back, ‘Uh, yeah, well, our jobs, and of course our, uh, our friendship. You know?' I could almost feel him blushing and wanted nothing more than to stroke his face with my palm right before wrapping my entire body around his.

‘Right. Our friendship.' This was getting worse with every passing second, and I decided that no matter how nice it was to hear his voice, nothing good could come from continuing the conversation.

‘Oh, Bette, I almost forgot to tell you! I spoke to Amy and she okayed you guys having Bungalow that night. It's in the books and there's no problem whatsoever. She just has a few requests for some of her people that she'd like included on the list, but otherwise you'll control the guest list entirely. She almost never agrees to that. Perfect, right?'

‘Wow!' I said with forced enthusiasm. ‘That's really great news. Thanks so much!'

Some girls started giggling in the background, one of them saying his name a few times, obviously trying to get his attention.

‘Well, duty calls. I better get back to work. Good talking to you, Bette. And thanks for being so understanding about today. Can I call you tomorrow? To, uh, discuss the other details?'

‘Sure, sure, that'd be great,' I said quickly, eager to hang up since Will had just walked back in, and he had ominously placed a sheet of paper in his lap. ‘I'll talk to you then. Bye.'

‘Was that your boyfriend?' Will asked, picking up his drink again and settling back into the chair.

‘No,' I sighed, reaching for my own martini. ‘It most definitely was not.'

‘Well, not to rain on this little party here, but you'll have to read it at some point.' He cleared his throat and picked up the sheet. ‘By Ellie Insider. She writes a paragraph about her trip to Los Angeles last week and all the movie stars with whom she partied. That's followed by a short ditty concerning her immense popularity with designers, to the point where they all clamor to dress her for events. We're up next. It's short, but not sweet. “Since any friend of Philip Weston's is a friend of ours, we realized we didn't know much about his new girlfriend, Bette Robinson. We do know that she's a graduate of Emory University, an ex-employee of UBS Warburg, and the new darling of Kelly & Company PR, but did you know that she's also the niece of columnist Will Davis? The once-favored arbiter of all things Manhattan has, admittedly, become a bit passé, but what must he think of his niece's very public antics? We're willing to guess he's less than pleased.” That's all she wrote,' Will said softly, calmly tossing the paper aside.

I instantly had a queasy feeling, as though I'd just awakened from a nude-in-the-high-school-cafeteria dream. ‘Oh, my god, Will, I'm so sorry. The last thing I ever wanted was to drag you into this. And what she said about your column is patently untrue,' I lied.

‘Oh, Bette, darling, do shut up. We both know she's exactly right. But you can't control what these people write, so let's not worry about it for another moment. Come, let's dine.' He said all the right words, but the tension in his face said something else, and I was left with an odd feeling of sadness and nostalgia for the way things had been before my new and improved life.

‘Tell me again why your mother is throwing you a going-away dinner when she's so pissed you're moving?' I asked Penelope. After a full day of list-checking and sponsor-calling for the BlackBerry party – which was now only four days away – it seemed like everything was shaping up nicely, and I'd retreated to Penelope's in the hope of discussing something, anything, that wasn't related to publicity. I was flopped on the floor of the bedroom that Avery and Penelope now shared, although it didn't appear that Avery had compromised much on combining their stuff: the king-sized waterbed rested on an imposing black platform, a frat boy–style black leather couch ate up what little room remained, and the only item that could qualify as ‘decor' was an oversized and slightly discolored lava lamp. The apartment's pièce de résistance, however, was a fifty-five-inch plasma screen that hung from the living room wall. According to Penelope, Avery didn't know how to wash a dish or launder a pair of socks, but he carefully detailed his flat-screen with special nonabrasive cleaning solution every weekend. The last time I'd been over I'd heard Avery instruct Penelope to ‘tell the maid to keep that surface cleaner away from my flatty. That shit fucks up the screen. I swear to God, if I see her go near my TV with that can of Lysol, she's gonna be looking for a new job.' Penelope had smiled indulgently, as if to say ‘Boys will be boys.' She was currently packing Avery's clothes in the Louis Vuitton suitcases his parents had bought them for their engagement-party trip to Paris while simultaneously bitching about the dinner that was to be held in their honor that night. I didn't inquire why Avery couldn't pack his own clothes.

‘You're asking me? She said something asinine about “keeping up appearances” or something like that. Honestly, I think she didn't have anything else scheduled for tonight and couldn't bear the thought of staying home.'

‘That's a really positive way of looking at it.' The empty bag in my hand reminded me that I'd just plowed through sixteen ounces of Red Hots in twelve minutes flat. My mouth alternated between numb and tingly, but that never slowed me down.

‘It's going to suck and you know it. The best I'm hoping for right now is tolerable. What the hell is this?' she mumbled, holding up a bright blue T-shirt with yellow lettering that read
I DO MY OWN NUDE SCENES
. ‘Eww! Do you think he's ever worn this?'

‘Probably. Toss it.'

She threw it in the garbage. ‘Are you sure you don't hate me for making you come tonight?'

‘Pen! I hate you for moving, not for inviting me to your going-away dinner. I mean, I'm not exactly complaining about your parents picking up the tab for dinner at the Grill Room. What time should I get there?'

‘Whenever. It starts at eight-thirty or so. Come a few minutes early, maybe, so we can do shots in the bathroom?' She smiled wickedly. ‘I'm seriously considering bringing a flask. Is that bad? Ick. Not as bad as these …' This time she held up a pair of faded, well-worn boxers with a none-too-subtle arrow in fluorescent pink pointing directly to the crotch.

‘A flask is definitely in order. What am I going to do without you?' I moaned pathetically. I had not yet come to terms with the idea that Penelope, who'd been my best – and only – girlfriend for the past ten years, was moving across the country.

‘You'll be fine,' she said, sounding more certain than I would've liked. ‘­You've got Michael and Megu and your whole new crew at work, and you've got a boyfriend now.'

It sounded weird for her to mention Michael, considering we almost never saw him anymore.

‘Puh-lease. Michael has Megu. The “crew” at work is precisely that – a bunch of people with mysterious access to huge piles of cash and a penchant for spending it on lots and lots of alcohol. As for the boyfriend remark, well, I'm not even going to dignify that.'

‘Where's my favorite girl?' Avery called right after the front door slammed. ‘I've been waitin' all day to get home and get that cute ass of yours into bed!'

‘Avery, shut up!' she called, appearing only slightly embarrassed. ‘Bette's here!'

But it was too late. He'd already shown up in the doorway, shirtless, with his jeans unbuttoned and unzipped to reveal lime green seersucker boxers.

‘Oh, hey, Bette.' He nodded in my direction, looking not the least bit distraught that I'd been witness to his seduction scene.

‘Hey, Avery,' I said, diverting my eyes to my sneakers and wondering for the umpteenth time what, besides his admittedly flat stomach, Penelope saw in him. ‘I was just heading out. Gotta get home and get ready for the big dinner tonight. Speaking of which, what does one wear to the Four Seasons?'