Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (92 page)

‘I'll read the summary from the website,' she announced, unfolding a printout. ‘Everyone ready?'

We all nodded.

‘Okay, here goes. “Spanish millionaire Cesar Montarez wants Rosalind the moment he sees her; this electrifying attraction is like nothing he's ever felt before. But Cesar has little respect for money-hungry women – mistresses or trophy wives. Rosalind is determined she'll never be either, until Cesar discovers that she has secret debts. Now he can
buy
her as his
mistress
… and Rosalind has little choice but to pay his price. …” Wow. Certainly sounds hot. Thoughts?'

‘It's just so romantic when he spots her at that seaside restaurant. He just
knows
she's the one. Why aren't normal guys like that?' Courtney asked.

I'm sure Sammy is like that,
I thought, my mind drifting.

We all weighed in on our favorite characters, plot twists, and sex scenes, which inevitably led to conversation about our own lives – work stories and a few family complaints, but mostly men.

It was almost midnight when the buzzer rang from the lobby.

‘Yes?' I asked, pressing the button on the intercom.

‘I have a Philip Weston here to see you, Bette. Should I send him up?'

‘Philip? He's here? Right now?' I didn't realize I'd said that out loud until Seamus sang back, ‘Sure is, Bette.'

‘I have company,' I said, panicked. ‘Can you ask Philip to call when he gets home?'

‘Bette, love, ring me up. My mate here – what's your name? Seamus? Good bloke! We're sharin' a pint and talking about what a good girl you are. Now be a good girl and ring me up.'

I glanced down at my ripped jeans and tattered T-shirt and wondered what on earth Philip could want at midnight. It would be obvious with a normal guy, but Philip had never drunk-dialed – never mind drunk-visited – and I actually felt queasy.

‘What the hell.' I sighed. ‘Come on up.'

‘Ohmigod, Philip Weston is here? Right now?' Janie asked, sounding breathless. ‘But we all look like hell.
You
look like hell.'

She was right, of course, but there wasn't time to do anything about it.

‘Bette, don't think you're getting off this easy. We'll leave, but you better be prepared to explain yourself at the next meeting,' Vika warned.

Courtney nodded. ‘You've been denying that the New York Scoop columns are true, but now Philip Weston shows up at your apartment in the middle of the night? We deserve every juicy detail!'

There was a knock, followed by a dull thud in the hallway. I opened the door, and Philip reeled inside.

‘Bette, love, I'm a tad pissed,' he slurred, slumping against the wall.

‘Yes, I can see that. Come on in,' I said, half dragging, half supporting him as he shuffled in, and the girls parted down the middle to clear a path.

‘Philip Weston,' Janie breathed.

‘The one and only.' He grinned and scanned the room before flopping backward onto the couch. ‘Dollface, where did all these smashing girls come from?'

Courtney stared at him for a full ten seconds before turning to me and saying, quite pointedly, ‘Bette, we're going to clear out for now. Everyone, let's go and leave Bette and Philip to, uh, to themselves. I'm sure she'll tell us
all
about it at the next meeting. Speaking of which, what's on deck?'

Alex held up a copy of
The Taming of the Dark Lord,
tilted so only we could see it, and said, ‘I nominate this.'

‘Done,' I said. ‘We'll read that for next time. Thanks for coming, guys.'

‘Oh, no, thank
you
,' Janie said as I hugged everyone good-bye.

‘Can't wait to hear about this one,' Jill whispered.

When they'd all gone, I turned my attention back to the drunk Englishman on my couch. ‘Coffee or tea?'

‘Gin and tonic sounds ab fab, love. I'd fancy a little nightcap right about now.'

I put the teakettle on and sat down on the chair opposite him, unable to get any closer because the stench of alcohol was overwhelming. It was emanating from his pores in that special way guys have when they've been drinking all night, enveloping everything within a five-foot radius in that distinctive frat-boy-freshman-year-floor stench. He still managed to look adorable, though. His tan was so solid it wouldn't allow him to look as green as he probably should, and his spiky hair was mussed in the most perfect way.

‘So where were you tonight?' I asked.

‘Oh, here and there, love, here and there. Bloody reporter following me around all night with her bloody cameraman. I told them to bugger off, but I think they followed me here,' he mumbled, reaching out for Millington, who glanced at him, growled, and bolted. ‘Come over, pup. Come on and say hello to Philip. What's wrong with your dog, love?'

‘Oh, she's always been particularly wary of tall, drunk Brits wearing Gucci loafers without socks. Honestly, it's nothing personal.'

For some reason, he thought this was hysterically funny and nearly rolled off the couch in fits of laughter. ‘Well, then, if not her, then why don't you come over here and give me a proper greeting?'

The kettle howled as I walked to the stove to pour our tea. I caught a glimpse of Millington cowering on the floor of the dark bathroom, shaking slightly.

‘Love, you really shouldn't have gone to so much trouble,' he called, sounding slightly more coherent.

‘It's tea, Philip. It's just boiling water.'

‘No, love, I meant your clothing choice. Seriously, I'd shag you no matter what you were wearing.' He collapsed into another laughing fit and I wondered how it was possible for someone to be so clever.

I placed a mug in front of him, and he pinched my ass in return.

‘Philip.' I sighed.

He placed his hands around my hips with surprising strength and pulled me onto his lap.

‘Everyone thinks you're my girlfriend, love.' He was slurring again.

‘Yeah, weird, isn't it? Especially since we've never actually been, ah, intimate.'

‘You don't go banging on about that, do you?' he asked quickly, looking alert for the first time since he'd walked in.

‘Banging on about what?'

‘Come closer, doll. Kiss me.'

‘I'm right here, Philip,' I said, breathing through my mouth.

He slid his hand under my T-shirt and started stroking my back. It felt so nice that I managed to forget for a split second that it was a drunk Philip doing it and not Sammy. Without thinking, I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my mouth to his. I didn't immediately realize that he'd opened his own mouth to protest, not to kiss me back.

‘Whoa, love, try to keep your knickers on.' He pulled back in shock and looked at me like I'd just torn off all my clothes and jumped on him.

‘What's the problem? What?' I asked. I refused to let him off the hook this time – I had to know once and for all that it wasn't my imagination or some half-assed excuse. I wanted confirmation that, for whatever reason, he would rather die than touch me.

‘Of course I fancy you, love. Where's that G and T? Why don't I tuck into that for a moment, and then we can talk?'

I climbed off him and retrieved a bottle of Stella Artois from the fridge. I'd bought it a year ago because I'd read in
Glamour
that you should always keep a cool beer in the fridge in case an actual guy ever materializes in your apartment, and I silently applauded the good folks on their editorial staff. By the time I'd returned, however, Philip appeared to be unconscious.

‘Philip. Hey, look, I have a beer for you.'

‘Argh.' He groaned, his eyes fluttering, a telltale sign that he was faking it.

‘Come on, get up already. You may be drunk, but you're not asleep. Why don't I put you in a cab?'

‘Mmm. I'm just going to have a little sleep, love. Argh.' He swung his loafered feet onto my couch with surprising agility and hugged an accent pillow to his chest.

It was just after two when I threw a blanket on the snoring Philip, retrieved Millington from the space between the bathtub and the sink, and tucked us both under the covers without bothering to undress or turn off the lights.

The day had finally arrived: we were set to leave that evening for Turkey. I'd arrived at the office to collect a few last-minute things, only to find a fax from Will. The cover sheet simply read ‘Ugh,' and attached was a clipping from New York Scoop. The headline read:
IS MANHATTAN'S FAVORITE PARTY BOY GAY OR JUST CONFUSED
? Byline: Ellie Insider, obviously. Knowing who she was made it even worse. The text laid it out in no uncertain terms:

Philip Weston, heir to the Weston fortune and member of the British Brat Pack in New York, raised eyebrows last week when he was spotted at the Roxy, the notoriously flamboyant Chelsea nightclub. Weston, who has been linked in the press to various
Vogue
fashion editors, Brazilian models, and Hollywood starlets, was spotted snuggling with an unidentified male in the club's VIP room, sources say. When Weston apparently realized that he'd been sighted, he hastily Vespaed to the home of his current fling, Bettina Robinson, an associate at Kelly & Company (see sidebar). Weston's publicist refused to comment.

See sidebar. See sidebar. See sidebar.
I read those two words nearly a dozen times before I could bring myself to glance to the right. Sure enough, there was a picture of me, snapped at Bungalow 8 the very first night I'd met Philip, pressed against him suggestively, my head thrown back in obvious ecstasy while I appeared to be literally pouring champagne down my throat, seemingly unaware of either the camera or Philip's hands cupping my ass. If I'd needed any proof of how trashed I'd been that night aside from the blackout, well, this was it. Headline:
WHO IS BETTINA ROBINSON
? Byline: Ellie Insider. Inside the one-column, page-length box was a bulleted list of my biographical details, including the date and place of my birth (thankfully, it merely read ‘New Mexico'), schools, degrees, position at UBS, and relationship to Will, who was described as ‘the controversial national columnist whose readership catered exclusively to the white, rich, and over-50 crowd.' It was a nightmare, naturally, but so far it was accurate. It wasn't until my eyes forced their way to the bottom paragraph that I thought I might vomit. Abby had found someone to go on record as saying that I'd ‘certainly been well-acquainted with many guys' beds as an undergrad at Emory' and that there had been ‘accusations of academic integrity issues, but no one knew for sure.' Someone else was quoted as describing how I had ‘been plotting to take over Kelly & Company' even though I had no previous PR experience. When asked by Abby to elaborate, the ‘source' merely intimated that ‘everyone knew she never actually wrote her own papers and was known for “cozying up” to her male TAs in the classes she found particularly challenging, which, if I must say, were probably most of them.' The final sentence of the short paragraph implied that I'd aggressively pursued Philip from the moment I'd met him in order to become a boldfaced name myself and further my new career.

My first reaction, of course, was to hunt Abby down and subject her to a creatively torturous death, but it was difficult to consider any particulars because I was having trouble breathing. I gasped quite dramatically for a few moments. In some weird way I appreciated Abby's self-awareness: if she had just attributed all those things to herself instead of to me, I would have applauded her honesty. But this insight was brief, vanishing the moment Kelly appeared at the doorway of her office, clutching a copy of the paper and grinning so maniacally that I instinctively backed away in my rolling chair.

‘Bette! You saw it, right? You read it, didn't you?' she asked frantically, rushing toward me with all the grace and enthusiasm of a linebacker.

She interpreted my dulled reaction time as a denial and literally threw the paper on my desk. ‘Didn't you at least read the Dirt Alert?' she shrieked. ‘The girls called me at home this morning to tell me about this one.'

‘Kelly, I, uh, I'm just sick about this—'

‘You minx! Here I was this whole time thinking you were this good little worker bee, slaving away at a bank, living a decidedly unfabulous life, and now I find out that you're a secret party girl? Bette, seriously, I can't tell you what a shock this is. We'd all had you pegged as, well, as a little reserved, shall we say – no offense, of course. I just didn't think you had it in you. God only knows where you've been hiding the last couple years. Do you realize you're a full
sidebar
? Here, read it.'

‘I've read it,' I said numbly, no longer shocked that Kelly was delighted instead of horrified at such coverage. ‘You know none of that stuff is true, don't you? You see, the girl who wrote that actually went to school with me and she—'

‘Bette, you're a sidebar. Say it after me. Sidebar. In New York Scoop! There's a huge picture of you, and you look like a rock star. You
are
a star, Bette. Congratulations! This
so
calls for a celebration!'

Kelly scampered off, presumably to plan an early-morning champagne toast, while I was left to consider the possibility of simply flying to Istanbul and staying there forever. Within minutes my phone was ringing off the hook with all sorts of unsavory calls, each hideous in its own special way. My father called immediately to announce that even though they were home on winter break, one of his students had emailed the article to him; this was followed by my mother saying she'd overheard some volunteers at her crisis hotline wondering when I would ever own up to the fact that I was dating a Jew-hating slave driver, and did I want to talk to someone about what appeared to be my ‘promiscuity/­self-worth' issues? A woman left a message offering her services as my publicist, kindly mentioning that this would never have happened had I been on her watch, and a couple gossip columnists from small, local papers across the country wanted to know if I would submit to phone interviews to discuss such crucial issues as my opinions on Brad and Jen's breakup, my favorite party spot in New York, and my evaluation of Philip's sexual orientation. Megu called on Michael's behalf to say that if I wanted to talk about anything, they wanted me to know that they were both there for me. Elisa called from a cab on her way to the office to congratulate me on my sidebar status. So did Philip's assistant, Marta. Simon called while I was riding in a Town Car to the airport. He declared, rather endearingly in light of our earlier conversations, that not one respectable person read New York Scoop, and not to worry because he was sure no one would ever even see it.