Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection

by Lauren Weisberger

  ‘Wow, he’s a real Don Juan, P. The guy could write a book on seduction.’

  ‘Right? I know it sounds ridiculous, but they actually sounded flirty. He signed them “xoxo.”’

  ‘Oh, God. Is he gay? He’s definitely not gay, is he? What straight guy on earth does that?’

  ‘Well, he sure hasn’t ever done that with me. It just creeped me out. I casually asked him last night when he got home at three in the morning if he still keeps in touch with anyone from work, and he said no just before he passed out. Am I overreacting? This morning he was so sweet and offered to take me shopping, spend the day together. …’

  I didn’t quite know what to say. The wedding was still more than eight months away, and it sounded like Penelope might – just might – realize before it was too late that Avery was a supreme jackass and not worth her entire married future. I’d happily fan the fire whenever possible, but she’d have to come to that conclusion herself.

  ‘Well,’ I said slowly, picking my words with the utmost care. ‘It’s normal for every relationship to have its ups and downs, right? That’s why people get engaged first. It’s just that. An engagement. If you discover something about him that you don’t think you can live with forever, well, you’re not married, and—’

  ‘Bette, that’s not what I’m saying,’ she said sharply. Oops. ‘I love Avery, and of course I’m marrying him. I was just talking to my best friend about what I’m sure is a ridiculous, unfounded, paranoid suspicion. It’s clearly my own issue, not Avery’s. I just need to be more confident in his feelings for me, that’s all.’

  ‘Sure, sure, Pen. I totally understand. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. And of course I’m always here for you, just to listen. I’m sorry I said that.’

  ‘Whatever, I’m just emotional right now. A little homesick. Look, thanks for listening. I’m sorry about all this stuff. How’s everything with you? Philip? Is he good?’

  How had things gotten so out of control that my best friend not only asked about Philip but also had no idea that Sammy even existed? It was unfathomable to think I could kiss someone like Sammy and not have Penelope know about it within thirty seconds when we were working together all day and hanging out at the Black Door at night, but it’d been forever since we’d done that. Or at least it felt like forever.

  ‘It’s complicated. Everyone thinks we’re dating – even him, probably – but we’re really not,’ I said, knowing full well that I was making no sense but not having the energy to explain everything.

  ‘Well, it’s probably not my place, but I’m not sure he’s right for you, Bette.’

  I wondered what she’d say if she knew what my mom had told me about the Westons.

  I sighed. ‘I know that, Pen. I’m just overwhelmed right now, you know?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘You haven’t exactly explained it.’

  ‘It’s just that this job has sort of infiltrated the rest of my life. My boss isn’t so great at making distinctions between what happens in the office and what goes on everywhere else, so there’s a lot of overlap. Does that make sense?’

  ‘No. What does your boss have to do with your personal life?’

  ‘It’s not just that. Will got me this job and expects me to do well. He called in a huge favor for it. And I am doing well, I think, whatever that means. But the whole Philip thing is sort of tied in.’ I knew I was being positively nonsensical, that I could be speaking an African clicking language for all the clarity I was providing Penelope or myself, but I just didn’t have the energy.

  ‘All right,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I have no idea what you’re saying, but I’m always around, you know? I’m only a phone call away.’

  ‘I know, honey, and I appreciate that.’

  ‘Again, I’m so sorry about New Year’s, but I’m glad you’ll be doing something so much more fabulous. I’ll read about it in all the papers. …’

  ‘That reminds me! I haven’t told you. … How could I have forgotten this? You know how New York Scoop has been writing all those nasty things about me?’

  ‘Yeah, they’ve been hard to miss lately.’

  ‘Well, any idea who’s writing them?’

  ‘Of course. It’s some stupid pseudonym, right? Ellie something?’

  ‘Yeah, and you know who that is?’

  ‘No, should I?’

  ‘That, my dear Pen, is Abby. Vortex. That whore has been following me around and printing all that stuff under a fake name.’

  I heard a sharp intake of breath. ‘Abby is behind all that? Are you sure? What are you going to do about it? You need to shut her down.’

  I snorted. ‘You’re telling me! Kelly told me weeks ago, but I was sworn to secrecy! I’ve been obsessing over it, but we’re always so rushed and I forgot to tell you. Isn’t it crazy? I never thought she hated me that much.’

  ‘It is weird. I know she’s not your biggest fan – or mine, for that matter – but this seems excessively mean, even for her.’

  ‘All I want to do is confront her, and I can’t. It’s incredibly aggravating.’ I glanced at the clock on the cable box and jumped off the couch. ‘Ohmigod, Pen, it’s already eight. I hate to run – I’m hosting the holiday book club tonight and I have to get everything set up.’

  ‘I don’t know why, but I love that you still read that stuff. You are such a romantic, Bette.’

  I thought of Sammy and almost said something but decided to skip it at the last second.

  ‘Yeah, you know me, always hopeful,’ I said lightly.

  I felt slightly better when we hung up. I should’ve spent the evening Googling and reading about the people we’d be taking with us to Turkey, but I couldn’t bear to cancel book club if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. It took me a full hour to arrange the apartment for the girls, but when the intercom buzzer first rang, I knew it would be worth it.

  ‘I’ve decided to honor tonight’s Latin theme,’ I announced after everyone had settled in. We were reading Bought by Her Latin Lover, and the cover featured a tall man in black tie (presumably the Latin lover) embracing an elegant woman in an evening dress on the deck of what looked like a yacht. ‘We have here one pitcher of sangria, and another of margaritas.’

  They clapped and cheered and poured.

  ‘In addition, I have chicken quesadillas, mini burritos, and some killer chips and guac dip. And for dessert, Magnolia cupcakes.’

  ‘What do pink-frosted cupcakes have to do with our Latin theme?’ Courtney asked, plucking one off the serving tray.

  ‘That was, admittedly, random – I can’t think of a Spanish dessert I’d prefer to a Magnolia cupcake,’ I said. Just then Millington gave a little bark from her hiding spot in the corner. ‘Baby, come here. Come here, good girl,’ I called. She obliged and strolled over, giving everyone a view of the tiny sombrero she wore for the occasion.

  ‘You didn’t.’ Jill laughed, scooping Millington up and admiring her hat.

  ‘Oh, I did. Got it at that baby-costume store in midtown. See, it comes with a chinstrap so it stays on. How great is that?’

  Janie helped herself to another quesadilla and absently scratched Millington. ‘Bette, to think you went from a hesitant early member who refused to host to the Martha Stewart of the club. … Well, I just have to say, it’s very impressive.’

  I laughed. ‘I guess my job is seeping into other areas of my life, huh? I can pull together an event in my sleep at this point.’

  We ate and drank first, working up a decent sangria buzz so we’d be able to discuss with complete frankness how much we’d loved the night’s selection. By the time Vika pulled her well-worn copy from her messenger bag, we were fairly far gone.

  ‘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. Bu
t 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.

  23

  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.