Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (94 page)

‘You name it, I got it. Just tell me what you need. We have to get rid of all this before we land, anyway. I saw
Midnight Express
and I want no part of that,' she announced.

‘Yeah, you don't muck around with the Turks and drugs,' Philip said agreeably. ‘The concierge'll take care of us when we get there, but I wouldn't advise bringing in anything yourself.'

‘I'll take a couple Valium,' Leo announced.

‘Xanax for me.'

‘Do you have any Ambien? If I take two and a drink, I should be good.'

‘How about Percocet? Can you hook that up?'

Everyone patiently waited their turn as Elisa went around the cabin, providing each person with a custom order, managing to produce every brand and dosage that had been requested. Only Sammy and I passed, but no one seemed to notice. I lit a cigarette in an effort not to appear too angelic, but that didn't exactly pass for imbibing with this crowd. Sammy excused himself, saying he had a headache, and asked Philip if it was okay for him to lie down in the bedroom.

‘Not my plane, man, so help yourself. Just don't mind if I ask you to leave in a little,' Philip said affably while managing to leer lecherously in my direction.

I cringed but made myself raise my footrest and focus for a few minutes on
Pulp Fiction,
which had begun playing on a wall-sized plasma screen. Just as I was getting into it, managing to put Sammy out of my mind for solid thirty-second increments, Elisa scampered over.

‘Okay, so I'm, like, still pretty unclear,' she said, ripping the foil off a new pack of Marlboro Lights. ‘Who
is
that guy?'

‘What guy? Sammy?'

‘Isabelle's guy. What does he mean, he
works
at Bungalow?'

‘He's the bouncer there, Elisa. You've seen him probably a thousand times.'

‘The bouncer? What's the
bouncer
doing on our trip?' she hissed. Almost immediately, her expression changed from disgust to understanding. ‘Oh, I get it. He's one of the Downtown Boys. Yes, that makes perfect sense.'

‘I don't think he lives downtown,' I said, trying to remember if I even knew where Sammy lived.

She stared at me disdainfully. ‘Bette, you
know
Downtown Boys. They're the company that hires out gorgeous guys as bartenders or security or waitstaff at private parties and events. You ordered all those pretty boys to work the BlackBerry party, right? Well, Downtown is
way
more exclusive. And it's an open secret that they're available to their clientele for
whatever
needs they may have.'

I looked at her. ‘What are you saying?'

‘Just that I wouldn't be surprised if Isabelle keeps Sammy on some sort of retainer to escort her to events, work her parties,
keep her company.
Things like that. Her husband isn't exactly interested in her social obligations.'

‘She's married?' This was the best news I'd heard all day.

‘Are you serious?' Elisa asked, stunned. ‘Do you think she's the most seen socialite in Manhattan because she's charming? Her husband is some sort of Austrian viscount – not that Austrian royal titles are so hard to come by – one of the
Forbes
Top 100 Richest People every year since the early eighties. Hell, probably forever. What, did you think that bouncer was her boyfriend?'

My silence said everything.

‘Ohmigod, you did. That's so cute, Bette! You honestly think someone like Isabelle Vandemark dates bouncers?' She was laughing so hard she almost choked. ‘That is such a great visual! She may be fucking him, but she sure isn't
dating
him!'

I briefly considered burning her with my cigarette, but I was too elated by what I'd just learned to hate Elisa that much. She grew bored after a few minutes and went back to drape herself across Davide, who couldn't seem to divert his eyes from Isabelle's chest, and she tried to flirt with Philip, who was deep in conversation with Leo about the merits and pitfalls of having the pedicurist razor your dead foot-skin instead of merely scrubbing it with a pumice stone. The photographers and reporters were mostly keeping to themselves, playing Texas Hold 'Em at the large dinner table and throwing back tumblers of bourbon. Everyone else was unconscious, or close, and before I'd even gotten to the scene where Travolta plunges the needle into Uma Thurman's chest, I was fast asleep as well.

It wasn't until almost two o'clock the next afternoon that I had my first second alone. We flew through the night, landed at eleven o'clock Thursday morning, and immediately climbed from the cool leather plushness of the Gulfstream to the cool leather plushness of a fleet of limousines, sent courtesy of the Association of Nightclub Owners – or ANO, as Mr Kamal Avigdor neatly abbreviated it. Mr Avigdor had obviously received the memo regarding the appearance qualifications of our little group and was beautiful in the most classic way. He waited with two strikingly pretty girls – his assistants, he claimed, but each had probably done a round or two in the role of girlfriend – on the red carpet that had been laid on the tarmac, a warm smile lighting up his welcoming face. His black suit was tight and fitted in the way only European guys can get away with, and his monochromatic green shirt-and-tie combo only illuminated his dark skin, dark hair, and green eyes. Naturally, he'd accessorized everything perfectly, with Ferragamo loafers, a Patek Philippe watch, and some sort of buttery soft man-purse that would have made any normal man sob with humiliation but somehow managed to make him look even more masculine. I estimated him to be somewhere in the thirty to thirty-five range, but I wouldn't have been the least bit surprised to learn he was ten years older or younger. Most impressive of all, he'd greeted each person by name as we'd disembarked.

Elisa, Leo, Davide, and I rode into town with Mr Avigdor – who insisted quite adamantly that we call him Kamal – while the others ducked into the limos behind us. He gave us the whole rundown on the weekend, assuring us that our only collective responsibility was to show our guests a fantastic time. He would take care of everything else. We were to let him know if they wanted anything, anything at all (‘And by anything, I most certainly mean anything – boys, girls, leather goods, hard-to-find food or drink items, “recreational substances” – anything') and he would ensure that it found its way to the appropriate person. The itineraries he handed us looked more like lists of restaurants and clubs than any sort of schedule; the days were completely blank, leaving time for the ‘beauty rest, spa treatments, shopping, and sunning that everyone will surely require,' but the nights were jam-packed. For three nights, starting at eight o'clock each evening, we'd be fed dinner at a fabulous restaurant, work our way through two fabulous lounges, and end up at a superfabulous, ultra-exclusive nightclub, where we'd remain until close to dawn, just like the young Turks and visiting Europeans. New Year's Eve differed from the other nights only in that we were to conduct a champagne toast – on national TV – at the stroke of midnight. Photographers would document every minute of the fabulous fun, and Kamal expected that the resulting publicity would help just as much in Turkey as in America; after all, who doesn't want to party at the very same place Philip Weston did?

Check-in went smoothly with only a half-dozen complaints about the rooms (‘too close to where the maids keep their cleaning shit'; ‘not nearly enough towels to dry this much hair'; ‘so not interested in having a view of a
mosque
!'), and everyone was in good spirits when we reconvened at the impressively elegant champagne brunch held in our honor on the hotel's rooftop overlooking the majestic Topkapi Palace. I managed to sneak away after an hour and walked the few blocks to the Grand Bazaar, where I planned to roam and gape at everyone and everything. I entered through the Nuruosmaniye Gate to cries of ‘Miss, I have what you look for,' and wandered aimlessly through the cavernous building, weaving in and out of the overflowing stalls, taking in the limitless amounts of beads and silver and rugs and spices and hookahs and merchants who sipped and smoked, sipped and smoked. I was in the process of haggling with a little man who couldn't have been a day younger than ninety for a powder blue pashmina when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

‘You realize you're fighting over approximately forty cents, don't you?' Sammy asked, grinning like he'd just discovered a very big secret.

‘I know that!' I said indignantly. Of course I didn't.

‘So why are you doing it?'

‘You're obviously not very familiar with the culture around here. You're expected to haggle. They actually find it insulting if you don't.'

‘Oh, really? Mister, what price are you asking for this scarf?' he asked, addressing the hunchback seller in the softest voice imaginable.

‘Six dollars, U.S., sir. It is of the finest quality. From the south. Made by my own granddaughter just a week ago. It is beautiful.' The man smiled to reveal a fine spread of toothless gums that somehow made him look even friendlier.

‘We'll take it,' Sammy announced, pulling some Turkish lira from his wallet and placing them gently in the man's paper-thin hand. ‘Thank you, sir.'

‘Thank
you,
sir. A beautiful pashmina for a beautiful girl. Have a nice day,' he said merrily, clapping Sammy on the back before returning to his water pipe.

‘Yeah, you're right.' Sammy grinned at me again. ‘He looked really insulted to me.' He wrapped the scarf around my neck and gathered my hair into a bundle to lift it up, letting it fall on top of the silky soft material.

‘You didn't have to do that!'
But I'm so glad you did,
I thought.

‘I know. I wanted to, to apologize for crashing your trip. I really didn't know you'd be here, Bette. I'm sorry about that.'

‘Sorry for what?' I said lightly. ‘Don't be ridiculous, you have nothing to apologize for.'

‘Have coffee with me? I've been in the country for hours and I still haven't had Turkish coffee. I'm excited at the idea that it won't be skim or extra-hot or no-whip or sugar-free or blended. What do you say?'

‘Sure. My book here says the best place is a few hallways over.'

‘Your book?'

‘
Lonely Planet.
How can you go anywhere without a
Lonely Planet
?'

‘You're such a dork,' he said, pulling on the end of my pashmina. ‘We're staying at the Four Seasons, getting shuttled around by private drivers, and have unlimited spending accounts, and you're following your
Lonely Planet
? Amazing.'

‘Why, exactly, is that so amazing? Maybe I want to see a few things that aren't on the spa-oceanfront-dinner-members-only club circuit.'

He shook his head, unzipped his backpack, and rooted around inside. ‘This is why it's amazing,' he said, pulling out his own copy of the exact same book. ‘C'mon, let's go find that stall.'

We claimed a couple of miniature stools around a tiny table and hand-motioned for two cups of coffee, which came accompanied by a small plate of sugar cookies.

‘Can I ask you something?' I said, slurping the thick liquid from the small cup.

‘Sure. Ask away.'

‘What is your relationship with Isabelle?' I asked, trying to sound casual.

His face tightened. He said nothing, just stared at the tabletop and ground his teeth.

‘Forget it, it's none of my business,' I added quickly, desperate not to ruin the moment.

‘It's complicated,' he said.

‘So you've said.' I watched a tiny kitten leap from the ground to the top of a huge rug pile, where the teenage girl tending the stall fed it a dish of milk. ‘Well,' I finally said, ‘it's your deal. Let's just enjoy our coffee, okay?'

‘She pays me to spend time with her,' he said softly, moving his eyes to meet mine as he took a sip.

Well, I wasn't exactly sure what to do with that information. It wasn't a total shock, considering what Elisa had said, but the way he stated it, so calmly, with that matter-of-fact way that I was discovering was very,
very
Sammy – well, it just sounded so strange.

‘I'm not sure I understand. Does this have something to do with working for one of those agencies that hire all the hot guys to bartend and stuff?'

He laughed out loud. ‘No, I never went that route, but I do appreciate your thinking that I could meet their attractiveness quotient.'

‘Then I really don't understand.'

‘A lot of times people meet us at Bungalow and then hire us to work their private parties, stuff like that. I was bartending there last summer, and Isabelle was around a lot. I guess she took a liking to me. It started out that she'd pay me a few grand a night to tend bar at her dinner parties or meet and greet guests at her charity benefits. When she was named co-chair of the New York Botanical Garden's annual benefit, she decided to take on a full-time assistant. I guess I was the natural choice because I could, uh, do other stuff as well.'

‘Other stuff? She pays you to sleep with her?' I blurted before I could even consider what I was saying.

‘No!' he said sharply, glaring at me with a steely look. ‘Sorry. It's hardly weird that you would wonder that. I'm a little sensitive about it. The short answer is no, I'm not sleeping with her, but the more truthful one is that I'm not sure how long I can get away with that. I certainly didn't think that was an aspect of this in the beginning, but it's becoming pretty clear that it's expected.'

‘What about her husband?' I asked.

‘What about him?'

‘Doesn't he care that his wife has hired a gorgeous young guy to hang out at her home, help her with her assorted fund-raising activities, accompany her on romantic weekend getaways to Istanbul? You'd think he wouldn't be thrilled.' I got a little tingle from indirectly calling him ‘gorgeous.'