Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (97 page)

‘Oh, wait, there is a message for you.' She handed me a piece of folded paper, which I immediately opened, expecting some disaster.
MEET ME IN ROOM 18 WHEN YOU GET BACK
was written in bold print, all caps. There was no signature, but a plastic room key was enclosed.

I briefly considered my options. The note had to be from Sammy. He'd somehow arranged for a room away from Isabelle so that we could spend some private time together. It was, if I dared to think about it, the most exciting romantic gesture of my lifetime. I was buffed and polished from the spa that morning, and now my secret boy had called. It didn't get better than this.

The elevator ride seemed to last forever, and by the time I knocked on the door, I was shaking with excitement.

It took almost a minute for it to open, a minute that felt like a month, and I had a fleeting, horrifying thought that it wasn't Sammy at all, or that maybe the note was intended for someone else. A dozen possible misunderstandings flashed through my mind in the thirty seconds I stood there, rooted to the carpet, quietly panicking and wondering how I could possibly be expected to function if it wasn't him, if he wasn't waiting inside, preparing to tear my clothes off and throw me on what would surely be a king-sized bed tricked out in all its Four Seasons, down-filled, Frette-covered glory.
Oh, please,
I prayed to some unknown entity,
oh, please let it be him and let him want me as badly as I want him and also make it so that he has –

The door swung open, and Sammy pulled me inside immediately, pressing his mouth to mine even before kicking the door shut. ‘I want you so badly,' he breathed, moving his mouth over my face, my neck, my shoulders as he pushed aside the straps of my dress before he got frustrated and pulled the entire thing over my head.

Those were the last words either of us bothered with. We collapsed on the bed, which delivered every inch of fabulousness I'd imagined, and attacked each other with a ferocity that would have scared me if it hadn't delighted me so much. It was impossible to tell whose limbs belonged to whom, and I lost all awareness of time or place or where, exactly, I was being touched. It was a total sensation overload – the weight of his body, the smell of his deodorant, the way the hair on my arms and the back of my neck stood on end every time his fingers ran down my back. It was, I had to admit, a sex scene straight out of a Harlequin – maybe better. It wasn't until someone knocked at the door that I even noticed the dozens of candles strewn about or the two glasses of red wine that sat untouched or the great Buddha Bar soundtrack playing from the bedside Bose CD player.

‘Who knows you're here?' I whispered, climbing off him and collapsing all in one motion.

‘No one but the front desk. I put it on my personal credit card.'

‘Could Isabelle have heard you?'

‘No way. She took a fistful of Ambien to get over the time difference. She won't be awake for another two days.'

We continued to debate this for another few minutes, until I realized that night had eased its way into morning and I'd better be getting back to my rightful room if I didn't want to deal with lots and lots of questions.

He pulled me on top of him again and began kissing my earlobe, earring and all. ‘Don't go. Not yet, at least.'

‘I've got to, I'm sorry. You don't want this to be public yet, do you? Not like this.'

‘I know, I know, you're right. Not like this. We'll have all the time in the world together once we're back in New York.'

‘You aren't going to be able to get rid of me once we're home,' I whispered. My short, beaded dress was bunched up in a tiny ball on top of the desk, but I managed to get it on with some semblance of dignity before falling back into the bed. The thought of putting on any sort of undergarments was unbearable; after freeing my strapless bra from its resting place on the headboard, I tossed it and my underwear into my purse.

He yanked a sheet from the bed we'd destroyed and wrapped it around his waist as we walked to the door. ‘Bette, thank you for an amazing night,' he said, holding my face in both his hands, making it feel small and delicate and absolutely gorgeous.

I stood on tiptoe to wrap my arms around his neck one last time. ‘It was perfect,' I said.

And it was perfect, everything I'd hoped it would be, until the very second I opened the door and was greeted by the brightest, most aggressive flashbulb I'd ever experienced. It continued rapid-fire as I stood, frozen, too shocked to move.

‘Oh, hey, sorry about that. Wrong room,' said John, one of the photographers we'd toted along.

‘What the hell is going on?' Sammy asked.

‘Let me handle it,' I said. ‘Stay here.'

I stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind me. ‘What was that? What are you doing?' I practically shrieked.

‘Hey, honey, I'm sorry about that. No worries, really, I didn't see a thing,' he said unconvincingly. He was the slickest of the group and had made me nervous from the very beginning – most of his work consisted of paparazzi-style pictures that he sold to the tackiest tabloids for the highest bid. Kelly had insisted it would be good to have him along because the photo editors loved everything he submitted.

‘Why were you staking out my room? Uh, his room, I mean. I've spent all morning going around to everyone to discuss tonight's schedule, so you see, there's nothing really interesting there.'

‘Look, I don't care who you're screwing.' He chuckled loudly and with great gusto. ‘Of course, I imagine I could find someone who'd be interested to know that Philip's girl didn't spend the night with him, but you've been real good to us this trip, so we'll just forget that ever happened.'

Bastard. He was openly leering at my outfit and what I imagined to be a face full of smeared makeup and that general, all-night-sex look that simply could not be denied.

‘Besides,' he continued, unsnapping the flash from his camera and tucking it into a black shoulder bag, ‘what I
thought
was going on in there would've been far hotter than you banging Isabelle's guy.'

‘Pardon me?' I wanted to strangle him for suggesting that anything could be better than the night I'd just had, for the fact that he didn't believe my ridiculous story about scheduling, and because he had the nerve to state that Sammy belonged to Isabelle. Naturally, I couldn't think of one remotely insulting or clever thing to say.

‘Well, let's just say that sources indicated the possibility of a little private party between your boyfriend and some of his closest friends.' He raised his bushy unibrow and pulled his lips taut against his teeth in an effort to smile.

‘By “boyfriend” I mean Philip Weston,' he added with a grin.

I swallowed my anger. ‘Mmm, while that all sounds really fascinating, I have to get back upstairs now to continue my rounds, so if you'll excuse me …' I pushed past him in my bare feet, with my sandals in one hand and my purse in the other, and beelined for the elevator.

The more I thought about it, the less nightmarish it seemed, especially since he didn't seem particularly fascinated by the scandal – or lack thereof – of Sammy and me.
And why should he be?
I reasoned. The man spends his life following insanely famous celebrities and documenting all the drama they manage to create, so why should he be the least bit interested in some insignificant publicist who appeared to be doing some extracurricular bed-hopping? And not even with someone famous! Of course, there was the issue of Philip. And if Kelly found out that I'd been caught keeping Isabelle's friend-for-hire company, she wouldn't be happy. Isabelle might insist I be fired. But I was getting ahead of myself; it seemed unlikely that John would leak anything. Only Abby seemed interested in my whereabouts, and there was no way even she had tentacles that reached all the way to Istanbul. I realized that was part of why I'd gotten so upset when I saw the photographer – for a blissful twenty-four hours, I'd forgotten what it felt like to feel stalked and spied on and vulnerable. Since Abby was a solid five thousand miles away, I didn't have that constant, creepy feeling that someone was trying to expose my private life to the general public. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that it could be far worse, and gave thanks that Abby was in an entirely different country.

As I approached, I saw that the door to Philip's and my suite was slightly ajar – only noticeable if you actually stood right next to it and looked – and I heard some muffled noises coming from inside. It was just after eight in the morning – practically the middle of the night, considering I hadn't returned to the hotel until three and Philip was still at Bella when I left – and I immediately understood that the supposed threesome most likely
was
going on, only it was happening in my room. The idea of knocking briefly crossed my mind, but instead I pushed the door open.

I rounded the corner from the sitting room and strolled through the French doors to the bedroom, only to see Leo sprawled on his back, naked, on the bed. It took another second or two for me to realize that the mop of hair that was currently bobbing up and down in the general area of Leo's exposed pelvic region – his bare ass saluting me – belonged to Mr Philip Weston. Before I could even react, Leo spotted me.

‘Hey, Bette, what's up?' Leo asked nonchalantly, making no attempt to cover himself or Philip.

At the sound of my name, Philip's head snapped around, exposing the few inches of Leo's naked body that I hadn't yet seen. ‘Oh, hey, babe, how are you?' he asked, wiping his mouth delicately with a pillowcase. ‘Where were you all night?'

‘Where was I all night?' As usual, I could merely mimic.

‘I waited forever, love,' he whined, bounding off the bed like a little boy on Christmas morning and shrugging on a robe. I realized that this was the first time I'd seen him completely naked.

‘Forever, huh?' I responded brilliantly.

‘Well, if you'd come home when you should've, I don't think Leo would've ended up in my bed. Do you, love?'

I laughed out loud. Now
that
was funny. ‘Oh, Philip. Please! You haven't wanted to sleep with me in –'

‘Relax, doll, just calm down a bit. Leo here showed up a few minutes ago and just passed out. I must've had a sleep, too. We were daft to drink so much, but at least we slept it off.'

I was laughing uncontrollably now. ‘Are you serious? Are you saying I didn't just see what I know I just saw?' Had either of them had the courtesy to appear the least bit embarrassed by what had just happened, I might – might – have been able to deal with it.

‘Hey, guys, I'm going to order some coffee and orange juice, maybe a few croissants. I feel a wicked hangover coming on,' Leo announced. He still made no attempt to cover himself, instead grabbing the remote and scrolling through the hotel's movie offerings.

‘Good call, mate. I fancy a double espresso, a few aspirin, and an extra-tall Bloody Mary,' Philip said.

‘Is this happening?' I asked, wondering at what point my night – my entire life – had veered into the twilight zone. It felt like I was living in some sort of alternate reality, but apparently I was living there alone.

‘Hmm?' Philip asked, dropping his robe again in front of both of us as he stepped into the shower, leaving the bathroom door wide open. ‘Leo? Tell your coworker here that you and I are just mates.'

Leo managed to extract himself from the tangle of covers, which looked as though they'd been put through the paces for hours already, and pulled on his jeans sans underwear. ‘Of course, Philip. Bette, we're just friends, honey. You want something to eat?'

‘Um, no thanks. I, uh, I think I'm going to get some breakfast downstairs, okay? I'll see you both later.' I grabbed a clean pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of flip-flops, tossed them in a plastic hotel laundry bag, and sprinted out of the room, feeling slightly queasy as I left Philip and Leo to their domestic tranquillity.

I went to kill some time in the lobby restaurant and get a snack before I could safely go back to my room, but just as the waiter brought a full coffee service and a basket of the most amazing-looking pastries and muffins, Elisa stumbled in and collapsed into the seat across from me.

‘I can't fucking sleep, and I'm ready to kill myself,' she announced.

I panicked the moment I saw her, convinced that she already knew what had happened. I figured no one would be awake at that hour, but her knotty hair and black-circled eyes and jumpy hands indicated that she'd probably done way too many drugs to even entertain the idea of sleep, so she'd come down to wait it out.

‘Hey, sure, have a seat,' I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

The waiter brought her a cup and saucer. Her glassy eyes fixated on them for a moment, as though she'd never before seen either, but she recovered and poured herself some coffee. Then she eyed me suspiciously.

‘You're up early. Where's Philip?' she asked, finishing off the entire cup in one gulp.

‘Philip?' I tried to laugh casually, but it sounded more like a choke. ‘Oh, he's sleeping, I think. I don't know why I'm up so early. Must be the time difference.'

‘Time difference?' She snorted. ‘If that's your only problem, just take a Xanax. I feel like shit.'

‘Here, have something to eat. You look like you could use some food.'

Another snort. ‘That muffin is equivalent in fat and carbs to at least two Big Macs. No, thank you.' She poured another cup of black coffee and finished it off.

‘Is Davide upstairs?' I asked, not out of any genuine interest but because I felt I had to say something.

‘I don't know where he is. Lost track of him around three in the morning. Probably went home with some Turkish chick.' She sounded neither upset nor surprised by this.