Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (90 page)

I was a little bit proud that even my mother had heard of him. ‘The one and only,' I said, glad that things were finally smoothing over.

‘Bettina, you
are
aware that the Westons are notorious anti-Semites? Do you not remember that situation with the Swiss bank accounts from the Holocaust? And as if that isn't bad enough, they're reputed to employ South American sweatshops in a couple of their business ventures. And you're
dating
one of them?'

Eileen quickly noticed that the conversation had begun to nosedive and quietly slipped out.

‘I'm not dating him,' I insisted, although the denial sounded ludicrous in light of the fact that I'd just admitted to going out with him.

She peered at me as though seeing my face for the first time in months and shook her head slowly. ‘I never expected this from you, Bettina, I really didn't.'

‘Expected what?'

‘I never thought that a daughter of mine would associate with these types of people. We want you to be everything you are – smart and ambitious and successful – but we also tried to instill in you some level of social and civil consciousness. Where did it go, Bettina? Tell me, where did it go?'

Before I could answer, a man I'd never seen before rushed into the kitchen to announce that my mother was needed outside to take a picture for the local paper. For the last five years my parents had been using their annual party as a fund-raiser for battered women's shelters in the area, and it had become such a Poughkeepsie institution that both the local and school newspapers covered it. I watched as the photographer posed my parents, first in the greenhouse and then by the bonfire, and I spent the rest of the night getting to know as many of their friends and coworkers as I could. Neither my mom nor my dad mentioned my job or Philip Weston again, but the weird feeling lingered. Suddenly, I couldn't wait to get back to the city.

The week after Thanksgiving was brutal. My parents' concerns were weighing on me. Philip was calling nonstop. And although I told myself there was no reason to worry, I hadn't yet heard from Sammy. I'd passed a couple of days dreamily reliving The Kiss, remembering the way Sammy had pulled me from the car, and wondering when he'd finally get in touch, but this was starting to lose its charm. To make matters worse, Abby hadn't stopped writing about me even though I hadn't been in town for a full five days. The whole thing had been a blur, but I knew for a fact that Abby had not been present at my parents' Harvest Festival, which was why it was so distressing to see my name jump out from the headline of New York Scoop.
TROUBLE IN PARADISE? ROBINSON RECOUPS IN HOMETOWN.
Abby had gone on to comment on how my ‘sudden absence' was noteworthy because Philip and I had been ‘inseparable,' and the fact that I'd ‘fled' to my parents' house upstate obviously indicated some major relationship trouble. There was even an extra-special line implying that my ‘weekend away from the party circuit'
might
have something to do with the need to ‘de-tox' or perhaps ‘lick rejection wounds.' She ended the piece by encouraging everyone to stay tuned for more details on the Weston/Robinson saga.

I had torn the first sheet from the stapled packet, balled it up, and thrown it as hard as I could manage across the room. Relationship trouble? Detox?
Rejection?
Even more offensive than the implication that Philip and I were dating was the suggestion that we weren't. And detox? It was bad enough being portrayed as an out-of-control party girl, but it was almost more embarrassing to be the person who couldn't handle it. The whole thing was becoming too ridiculous to comprehend. It took three straight days to reassure Kelly (and Elisa, who seemed particularly concerned) that Philip and I were not fighting, that I was not in Poughkeepsie scouting potential rehab clinics, and that I had no intention of ‘dumping' Philip for any reason anytime soon.

I'd now spent most of December attending as many events as possible, mugging with Philip and generally inviting nasty commentary from Abby (who was only too happy to oblige), and everything had returned to some twisted version of normal. Kelly had placed us on a rotating holiday schedule; since we all couldn't take off at the same time, I'd agreed to work a cocktail party for Jewish professionals on Christmas Eve in exchange for having New Year's Eve off. I was looking forward to spending New Year's with Penelope in Los Angeles, finally taking her up on her offer to visit and buying my ticket the moment I learned my work schedule. Christmas was two weeks away, and our Monday-morning staff meeting was more frantic than ever. I was daydreaming about how Pen and I would soon be catching up over Bloody Marys in shorts and flip-flops, beachside, in the middle of winter, when Kelly's voice broke into my thoughts.

‘We've accepted a new client I'm really excited about,' Kelly announced with a huge smile. ‘As of today we officially represent the Association of Istanbul Nightclub Owners.'

‘There's nightlife in Istanbul?' Leo asked, examining what appeared to be a flawless cuticle.

‘I didn't know they allowed clubs in Syria!' Elisa exclaimed, looking shocked. ‘I mean, Muslims don't even drink, right?'

‘Istanbul's in Turkey, Elisa,' Leo said, looking pleased with himself. ‘And even though it's a Muslim country, it's really, really westernized and there's, like, total separation of church and state. Or mosque and state, I guess I should say.'

Kelly grinned. ‘Exactly, Leo, that's exactly right. As you all know, we're ready to expand to international clients, and I think this will be a perfect start. The association is made up of nearly thirty club owners in greater Istanbul, and they're looking for someone to promote the city's active night scene. And they've chosen us.'

‘I didn't know people went to Turkey to party,' Elisa sniffed. ‘I mean, it's not exactly Ibiza, is it?'

‘Well, that's precisely why they need our assistance,' Kelly said. ­‘It's my understanding that Istanbul is a cosmopolitan city, really very chic, and they have no problem drawing all sorts of fabulous Europeans who love the beaches and clubs and cheap shopping. But tourism has suffered since nine-eleven and they want to reach out to Americans – especially young ones – and show them that partying in Istanbul is just as accessible as going to Europe, more affordable
and
exotic. It's our job to make them
the
destination.'

‘And how, exactly, are we going to do that?' Leo asked, studying the buckle on his Gucci belt and looking supremely bored.

‘Well, for starters, you'll have to get acquainted with what we're trying to promote. Which is why you'll all be spending New Year's in Istanbul. Skye will stay behind with me to keep things running here. You leave December twenty-eighth.'

‘What?' I almost shouted. ‘We're going to
Turkey
?
In two weeks
?' I felt a combination of horror at telling Penelope I wouldn't be coming to LA and excitement at the prospect of going somewhere so amazing.

‘Kelly, I agree with Bette. I'm not sure that's such a good idea. I, like, don't make it a habit to visit war-torn countries,' Elisa said.

‘I wasn't saying that I didn't want to go,' I whispered meekly.

‘War-torn? Are you stupid?' Skye asked.

‘I don't mind war-torn, I just don't think it sounds all that appealing to go to some third-world country where the food's dangerous, the water's unsafe, and you can't get decent room service. For New Year's? Really?' Leo said, looking at Kelly.

‘See, this is part of the problem,' Kelly said, keeping her cool far better than I would have in her position. ‘Turkey is a Western democracy. They're trying to join the EU. There's a Four Seasons and a Ritz and a Kempinski right in town. There's a Versace boutique, for chrissake. I have the utmost confidence that you'll all be perfectly comfortable. Your only requirement while you're there is to check out as many clubs and lounges and restaurants as humanly possible. Take cute clothes. Drink the champagne they'll give you. Shop. Lay out. Party as often and as much as you can manage. Ring in the new year together. And, of course, entertain your guests.'

‘Guests? The nightclub owners, you mean? I am not fucking whoring myself out to some Turkish club owners, Kelly! Not even for you,' Elisa said, folding her arms across her chest in a show of moral fortitude.

Kelly grinned. ‘That's funny.' She paused for emphasis. ‘But fear not, young Elisa. The guests to which I'm referring are a carefully selected group of tastemakers from right here in Manhattan.'

Elisa's head snapped to attention. ‘Who? Who's coming? What do you mean? We'll have fabulous people with us?' she asked.

Davide and Leo perked up, too. We all sat, leaning slightly forward, waiting for Kelly to give us the full scoop. ‘Well, we haven't gotten final confirmations from everyone yet, but so far we have commitments from Marlena Bergeron, Emanuel de Silva, Monica Templeton, Oliver Montrachon, Alessandra Uribe Sandoval, and Camilla von Alburg. It helps that there's nothing really major planned here for New Year's Eve – everyone's looking for something to do. You'll all fly via private jet and stay at the Four Seasons. The client will take care of everything: cars, drinks, dinners, whatever you'll need to show them – and the photographers – a good time.'

‘Private jet?' I murmured.

‘Photographers? Please tell me you're not sending us over there with a planeload of paparazzi,' Elisa whined.

‘Just the usual; there won't be more than three, and all are freelance, so they won't be tied down to any one publication. Throw in three – maybe four – writers, and we should get some fantastic coverage.'

I considered this information. In less than two weeks, I'd be en route to Istanbul, Turkey, charged with drinking, dancing, and lounging by the pool of one of the world's nicest hotels, my only real assignment having to keep a carefully selected handful of socialites and scenesters plied with enough alcohol and drugs to ensure that they were drunk enough to look happy in pictures but still coherent enough to say something remotely intelligible to the reporters. The party pictures would be splashed across all the weekly tabloids and papers when we got home, and the captions would all describe how everyone who was anyone partied in Istanbul, and no one would even realize that we'd been paid to bring the party there, complete with handpicked photogs to shoot it and writers to describe it. It was brilliant, and personified our industry's motto – S
TAGE
I
T
, T
HEN
P
AGE
I
T
– to perfection.

But then an image of Penelope flashed in my mind and I almost choked: How could I do this to her again?

‘Bette, I took the liberty of asking the association to book you and Philip into the honeymoon suite. It's the least I could do for my favorite darling couple!' Kelly announced with obvious pride.

‘Philip's going?' I croaked. Ever since Sammy's kiss, my faux relationship with Philip had felt even weirder.

‘Well, of course he's going! Most of this was his idea! I was telling him about our new client at the BlackBerry event and he offered his services, said he'd be happy to take a group of his friends over to party if it would be helpful. He even volunteered his father's jet, but the association had already planned to use their own. Bette, you must be so happy!'

I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but Kelly had already moved to the conference-room door. ‘Okay, kids, we've got a lot of work to do over the next couple weeks. Elisa, I'm putting you in charge of liaising with the client and the guests to confirm and reconfirm all the travel details – make sure everyone knows where and when they'll be going and what they need. Leo, you're to focus on keeping in touch with writers and photogs and their editors; put together a quickie press release and a tip sheet and get them whatever stock photos of our guests you can scrounge up. Davide, start putting together folders on the group you'll be hosting. They're all in the database, of course, so pull their profiles and get the team their social histories, likes, and dislikes as quickly as possible, and then follow up with the Four Seasons so we can ensure they have the right waters and wines and snacks personalized in each room. I don't think there are any major romantic conflicts, but make sure. Aside from the fact that Camilla used to fuck Oliver, and Oliver is supposedly sleeping with Monica now, I think it's a fairly nonincestuous group of people, which should make it easier.'

Everyone was furiously taking notes, and the List Girls, who'd been permitted to sit in the back of the room to watch the meeting, were staring at us in wonderment.

‘Kelly, what should I do?' I called as she turned to leave.

‘You? Why, Bette, the only thing you need to worry about is Philip. He's the key to all of this, so you just concentrate on keeping him as happy as possible. Anything he wants, get it for him. Anything he needs, provide it. If Philip's happy, his friends are, too, and this whole project will be a walk in the park.' She winked just in case any of us weren't exactly certain what she meant and then skipped back to her desk.

Leo and Skye and Elisa chattered happily and decided to lunch at Pastis to continue their planning, but I begged off. I couldn't get a waking-nightmare image out of my head: Philip outstretched on the balcony of a lavish honeymoon suite wearing only silk boxers and performing all sorts of yogic contortions while a photographer snapped pictures from our shared bed and Penelope looked on from afar.

I finally got through to Penelope on Tuesday night. She seemed far away, both in the physical sense of the distance and in the time difference, but it went beyond that. She swore that she'd forgiven me for leaving the night of her going-away party, but it didn't feel like she'd gotten over it. I still hadn't told her about the Sammy kiss or the situation with my parents at the Harvest Festival, or even how Abby was behind the horrible New York Scoop articles. Three months ago, that would have all been incomprehensible, and now here I was, about to make it much, much worse. Possibly irreconcilable.