Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (98 page)

I just stared at her.

She just sighed. ‘Philip would probably never do that to you, right? He's such a great guy …'

I nearly spat out my orange juice but somehow remained composed. ‘Mmm,' I murmured. ‘Have you ever heard anything about Philip being … well, uh, about him being interested in …'

She gave me a glazed stare. ‘Interested in what?'

‘Oh, I don't know … guys?'

This elicited a gasp, and her mouth fell wide open. ‘Philip Weston? Gay? Are you joking? Bette, how can you be so naïve? Just because he happens to have a fabulous sense of style and drive a Vespa and do yoga does not, in any way, mean he likes guys.'

No,
I thought to myself,
of course it doesn't. But what about the fact that I walked in on him a half-hour ago while he was performing oral sex on our very gay and very out coworker?

‘Right, no, I hear what you're saying. It's just that—'

‘Bette, when are you going to appreciate that boy? Any girl in her right mind would do anything and everything she could to keep him, but you don't seem to understand that. So apparently there was some scandal around here this morning.' She switched tacks so quickly I barely had time to process that what she was saying might concern me.

‘Scandal? With one of our group? Did anyone see it?'

She looked me in the eye and for a moment I was sure she knew the entire story. But then she just said, ‘I'm not sure exactly. One of the photographers – that fat one, what's his name? – mentioned that he may have snapped a few “interesting” shots of someone in a compromising position. Any idea who it was or what happened?'

I chewed my croissant deliberately and fixed my gaze on the front page of the
International Herald Tribune.
‘Hmm, no, I haven't heard a thing. Should we be worried? I mean, we wouldn't want anything truly damaging to get out.'

Elisa poured a third cup of coffee and allowed herself a single packet of Equal this time. Her hands shook from the effort. ‘I guess we'll just have to wait and see, won't we? I'm going to try to sleep – I've got to be back down here in a couple hours for my scrub in the Turkish bath. I hear it's even better for your skin than a laser peel. See you later.'

I watched her hobble out on stilt-skinny legs and tried to figure out what, exactly, had made that interaction so weird. But the mention of a scrub reminded me of my own appointment, so I finished breakfast and hit the spa for my pre-sightseeing massage, adding on a paraffin pedicure for good measure. This one I had earned.

‘I have to say, I think this one's my favorite,' Will announced, passing me a computer printout across the table. He didn't sound particularly amused. He'd taken it upon himself to put together a little collection of all the newspaper clippings that had mentioned my name since I'd started at Kelly & Company and we were reviewing them together, over brunch. The week before, I'd returned from Turkey and what I'd thought was an incredibly successful trip. No one had seemed the least bit clued in as to what had
really
happened with either Philip or Sammy. It was becoming obvious that I'd relaxed too soon.

Abby was apparently omniscient. Somehow she must've gotten in touch with John, the fat photographer, because she'd managed to take a tiny, partial truth and weave it into a hideous lie. She'd published this particular gem on Friday, and this time I thought Kelly would have a heart attack:

Publicist Bette Robinson is generating some publicity of her own, sources say, while running a press trip to Istanbul last month. Mostly known for her relationship with Philip Weston, Robinson was reported to be intimately involved with Rick Salomon – better known as the guy who brought us the Paris Hilton sex tape – in the same hotel where she also shared a room with Weston. Can readers look forward to a remake of this famous sex tape, this time featuring everyone's favorite party planner in place of everyone's favorite partier? Stay tuned.

The photo accompanying the darling little write-up was the one taken of me as I opened the door of Sammy's room, holding my sandals in one hand and running the other through my ratty, bed-head hair. My mouth hung open unattractively, and my makeup was smeared under my eyes. I looked just as slutty as Paris, minus her fab body and clothes. A figure had been blurred out in the background; upon closer inspection, it was clearly a male with a sheet tied around his waist, but identifying him beyond that was impossible. It was Sammy, of course – the bastard photographer had just spent five straight days with him and knew that perfectly well, but he clearly hadn't bothered to provide that information when he sold the picture to Abby. I imagined she'd spent little time trying to figure out who the guy was before picking someone particularly damaging at random and assigning him the role of my illicit, late-night paramour.

For the first time since I'd begun working for her, I saw that Kelly was not pleased with the coverage. She'd asked me, fairly, if there was any truth to the claim, and then followed up with questions about why Abby had it out for me. I assured her that I'd never met the Hilton sex-tape guy and certainly hadn't had sex with him – either on camera or off – and she seemed to believe me. Oddly enough, it never occurred to her to ask who the guy was if it wasn't Mr Paris Hilton, so I hadn't needed to lie. After this brief question-and-answer session, Kelly instructed me to settle any animosity with Abby since this kind of publicity was no longer helpful. She reminded me that we were a mere four weeks from the
Playboy
party, and there was to be no negative publicity, true or not, surrounding my private life between now and then. I assured her that I completely understood and vowed I'd put an end to it, although as of yet, I had no realistic plan for doing so. I knew I had to call Abby and confront her directly, but the thought of even hearing her voice made me sick with dread.

Philip, of course, had kept his mouth shut; only I knew he was relieved the photo was of my indiscretion – even if he did look like a loser whose girlfriend openly cheated on him, or, as Will had called him, a cuckold. At least it wasn't a shot of his little visit to the other team. Philip and I had yet to even mention anything that had happened that first night in Turkey. Not a word. Nada. Things had resumed their normal pattern for the rest of the trip. Two days of spa treatments and late-night debauchery. Eyeing but not touching Sammy (Isabelle's Ambien didn't last long enough) and generally making sure all the guests remained satisfied and out of trouble. We finished out Turkey like we had started – pretending to be together – although had anyone bothered to look closely, they would've noticed that I didn't so much as nap in Philip's room.

In the week since we'd been home, Philip and I had seen each other out, and neither of us denied it when people assumed we were together. After the chaos of the photo, the ‘reconciliation' gave me some wiggle room with Kelly. But I needed a low-drama way out of this ‘relationship' – not just because of the tabloid pressure, but because I really liked Sammy.

The good news was that every daily and weekly that mattered had dedicated massive spreads to the group's carefully orchestrated debauchery, and a very happy Association of Nightclub Owners was certain there would soon be an unprecedented number of American partiers. Only New York Scoop had printed the ugly photo of me. Kelly seemed okay once she heard Philip and I had ‘made up.' Sammy had been extremely apologetic, although Isabelle kept such a tight leash on him that we'd had little contact since the trip. The only people who seemed truly devastated were my parents.

My mother was so hysterical when she called that I had to hang up on her mid-conversation and have Will call her back to explain that you can't believe everything you read, especially when it comes to gossip columns. He managed to placate her slightly, but it didn't change the rather unsettling fact that even if I hadn't been sleeping with the Hilton sex-tape guy, my parents had still seen a photo of me taken right after I had quite obviously slept with someone. They didn't understand what I was doing professionally or personally … or why. While there'd been absolutely nothing good about the situation, the worst of it seemed to be over, and the only one who still seemed obsessed with it was Will.

It was Sunday, exactly one week after we'd returned from Turkey, and I was at my usual brunch with Will and Simon. I was bemoaning the lack of fact and truth in the piece when Will interrupted me.

‘Bette, darling, stop using the word
truth
when referencing gossip columns. It makes you sound naïve.'

‘Well, what am I supposed to do? Just be totally fine with the fact that that vengeful bitch can make up whatever she wants about me and they'll print it? It's a miracle and a blessing that I still have my job.'

‘Is that so?' He raised his eyebrows and sipped from his Bloody Mary, his pinky extended.

‘You're the one who practically mandated I take this job, if I remember. Said I needed more friends, to go out, to have a life. Well, I've done just that.'

‘This,' he said, holding up the picture for emphasis, ‘was not what I meant. And you know it. Now, darling, I'm happy to support you in anything that makes you happy, but I don't think it's a stretch of an observation to say that this is not it.'

Well, that one silenced me momentarily.

‘So what do you propose I do?' I asked. ‘You thought banking was a bore, and now you're disapproving of the job
you
picked for me because some girl I knew in a previous life has it in for me? That seems unfair.'

He sighed. ‘Yes, well, darling, get over yourself. You're a big girl now, and I'm sure you'll find something a little more – how shall I put it? –
discreet
than your current lifestyle. Planning parties and going out, having a drink or two, a little romp with a cute boy is one thing, and I'm fully supportive of that. But dating some spoiled brat to please your boss, getting your name and face plastered across every rag in this city, and – not least – forgetting your old uncle's birthday because you were too busy acting as an international babysitter for a group of B-list stars and socialites is not quite what I had in mind when I recommended that you take this job.'

Will's birthday. January 2. I'd forgotten.

Will motioned for the waiter to bring him another Bloody Mary. ‘Darling, excuse me for a moment. I'm going to take this mobile phone outside and see where Simon is. It's unlike him to be this late.' He placed his napkin on his chair and crossed the cavernous room in a few easy strides, looking every bit the distinguished gentleman.

When he returned, he was smiling and composed. ‘How is your love life, my dear?' he asked, as if we'd not been talking about Philip at all.

‘Haven't I said it enough? I have no interest in Philip.'

‘Darling, I wasn't talking about Philip. Whatever happened to that hulking boy with whom you drove to Poughkeepsie? I rather liked him.'

‘Sammy? How could you have liked him? You only met him for thirty seconds.'

‘Yes, but in those thirty seconds he showed he was perfectly willing to lie on my behalf. Now, that's a quality person if there ever was one. So tell me, is there no interest there at all?' He peered at me with an intensity Will rarely displayed about anything.

I weighed whether or not to tell him the entire Istanbul story and then buckled. At least one person in my life should know I wasn't a complete tramp. ‘Um, yeah, I guess you could say that,' I mumbled.

‘Say what? That you are interested in him? Or you're not?' He winked.

I took a deep breath. ‘He was the guy in the picture. You just couldn't see him.'

Will looked like he was trying to suppress a huge smile. ‘He was in Turkey with you? How did you arrange that, my dear?'

‘It's sort of a long story, but suffice it to say that I didn't know he was going to be there.'

Will raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? Well, I'm pleased to hear that. I am sorry it had to end up in the gossip columns, but I'm glad the two of you have, ah, cemented your relationship.'

I listened to Will prattle on for a bit about how he always envisioned me being with someone like Sammy – the strong, silent type – and how it was about time I found myself a proper boyfriend who understood what was really important. And oh, by the way, how does he lean politically? I happily answered all of his questions, content to talk about Sammy if I couldn't be with him. We'd just tucked into our omelets when Will brought up the single subject I wanted to forget.

‘Well, at least now there's a good reason why I couldn't see my own niece until she'd been back in the country for a week. I'd be offended if you were simply out gallivanting for work every night, but now that there's a boyfriend in the picture … New relationships must be coddled, and the beginning is the best time! Oh, how I remember the beginning! You just cannot get enough of each other. Every moment you're apart feels like torture. Which lasts about two years, of course, at which point things do a full one-eighty and you try to wrangle every possible moment alone. But you've got plenty of time before that happens, darling. So tell me, how has it been?'

I speared my eggs and pushed them around the plate before dropping my fork altogether. ‘Actually, we haven't seen each other since we've been back,' I said, realizing how awful that sounded. ‘It's not like there's anything wrong,' I added quickly. ‘He's really busy talking to some people about opening up a restaurant – which is not his ultimate goal but seems to be a really good opportunity right now – and we've talked on the phone a few times, but I've also been so crazed getting everything together for the
Playboy
party and, well, you know how it is.'

I heard the words come out of my mouth and knew I sounded like a delusional girl trying to convince herself and everyone else that some guy really was interested, even though all outward signs indicated otherwise. It was beyond upsetting that I hadn't seen Sammy since we'd gotten home, but it was true that both of us had been extraordinarily busy, and besides, it was hardly unusual not to see a new guy for a week in New York City. Plus, I reminded myself, he had called three times in seven days, and he always said what a great time he'd had with me in Turkey, that he couldn't wait for things to calm down so we could go on a real date. I'd read enough romances to know that the worst possible thing I could do would be to push or demand. So far everything had unfolded organically, and while it would've been nice to have seen him once or twice in the past week, this was not a major cause for concern. After all, I was quite sure we had a long and beautiful future together, so what would be the point of rushing things now?