Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection

by Lauren Weisberger

  I thought I might pass out from happiness. Instead I concentrated on putting one foot squarely in front of the other. I followed him into the darkened dining room and tried to adjust my eyes, but a moment later he’d found the lights and I could see everything. Or, rather, everyone.

  ‘Surprise!’ came the shouts. There was a cacophonous call of ‘Happy birthday,’ and I realized I knew every single face that stared back at me.

  ‘Ohmigod’ was all I uttered.

  The small tables had been pushed together to form a single long one in the middle of the room; all my friends and family had been installed around it and were waving and calling out to me.

  ‘Oh. My. God.’

  ‘Come here, sit down,’ Sammy said, taking my hand once again and leading me to the head of the table. I hugged and kissed everyone on the way to my seat and then flopped into my designated chair, at which point Penelope placed a cardboard tiara on my head and said something embarrassing along the lines of ‘You’re our heroine tonight.’

  ‘Happy birthday, honey!’ my mom said, leaning over to kiss me on the cheek. ‘Your father and I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.’ She smelled faintly of incense and was wearing a beautiful hand-knit poncho that had surely been made from dye-free wool. My father sat next to her, his hair carefully arranged in a neat ponytail, his best pair of Naots proudly on display.

  I looked down the table and saw everyone assembled: Penelope and her mom, who was delighted Penelope was in-the-know enough to get them into the new hot place; Michael and Megu, both of whom had specially requested the night off to come celebrate with me; Kelly and Henry, the guy she’d been with at the Playboy party; all the book-club girls, each clutching what appeared to be wrapped copies of new paperbacks; and, of course, Simon, who’d swathed himself in what seemed like a surplus of linen, and Will, who was throwing back his namesake martini (I learned later that Sammy had named the house drink The Will) at the foot of the table, directly across from me.

  After repeated shouts of ‘Speech, speech,’ I managed to pull myself out of my seat and say a few awkward words. Almost immediately, a waiter brought out bottles of champagne, and we all toasted my birthday and Sammy’s success. And then dinner began in earnest. Heaping platters of food emerged from the kitchen on the shoulders of waiters, all steaming and deliciously aromatic and placed in front of us with great flourish. I watched as Sammy sat across the table, looked up at me, and winked. He began talking to Alex, pointing to her nose piercing and saying something that made her laugh. I watched them for a moment in between bites of a delicious cumin-and-dill-spiced lamb dish, and then let my eyes wander around the table: everyone was chattering happily while they passed the dishes around and refilled one another’s champagne glasses. I heard my parents introducing themselves to Kelly while Courtney told Penelope’s mom about our book club and Simon told jokes to Michael and Megu.

  I was just sitting there, drinking it all in, when Will pulled a chair up next to mine. ‘Pretty special night, no?’ he asked the moment he sat. ‘Were you surprised?’

  ‘Totally surprised! Will, how could you not have told me that you and Simon were the ones behind this whole project? I’m not sure I know how to thank you.’

  ‘You don’t have to thank me, darling. We didn’t do it for you, or even really for Sammy, although I am quite fond of him. You’d mentioned that he cooked brunch every Sunday at Gramercy Tavern, and it piqued our curiosity. Simon and I paid him a visit there months ago, and I have to say, we were absolutely blown away. The boy is a genius! Not only that, but he must listen when you talk because the entire meal was utter perfection: the Bloody Mary was served exactly how I like it, with an extra dash of Tabasco and two limes. A copy of The New York Times was on the table and already open to the Sunday Styles section. And there were no potatoes to be seen. None! I’ve been brunching at the Essex House for decades now, and they still can’t get it quite right. We couldn’t stop talking about it, and we decided we’d better snap him up before someone else did. Looks like we were right, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You went to brunch at Gramercy Tavern? Just to see Sammy?’

  Will folded his hands and raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Darling, you were clearly smitten with this boy in a very substantial manner – that much was obvious. Simon and I were curious! We certainly weren’t expecting to be so impressed with his skills – that was a bonus. When I asked him that day about his future plans and he began rambling on about something called a “Houston’s,” I knew we had to step in and save him from himself.’

  ‘Yeah, he’d mentioned in Turkey that he and a few guys from culinary school were thinking about opening something like it on the Upper East Side,’ I said.

  Will gasped audibly and nodded. ‘I know. How dreadful! That boy is not meant for franchise work. I told the lawyer that I’d put up all the money, but Sammy would do all the work. Except for a standing table, I wanted to be consulted not at all. Better than the goddamn government getting it, don’t you agree? Besides, I was looking for something different to throw myself into; I’ve decided to retire the column.’

  Well, that one shook me. In a night of surprises, this might have been the most shocking of them all. ‘You’re what? Are you serious? Why now? How many years has it been, a hundred? The entire world reads your column, Will! What’ll happen to it?’

  He sipped his martini and looked thoughtful. ‘So many questions, darling, so many questions. It’s not that fascinating a story, really. It’s simply time. I don’t need New York Scoop to tell me that my column is a relic at this point. I had a great run for many, many years, but it’s time to try something new.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ I said finally. Somehow I knew it was the right decision. But Will had been writing that column since before I was born, and it was disconcerting to think that it would simply cease to exist.

  ‘However, I’ll have you know that I’ve spoken with my editor – mere child that he is – and have received assurances that there will always be a place for you there, should you choose to pursue it. Now, I don’t want to harp on this, Bette, but I think it’s something you should consider. You’re a wonderful writer, and I don’t know why you haven’t done anything with it. Just say the word and we can have you in there, first as a researcher and then, hopefully, in a sort of apprentice reporting position.’

  ‘I’ve actually thought about that, too,’ I said, saying what I’d sworn to keep to myself until I’d had a chance to think it through a bit longer. ‘I do want to try some writing. …’

  ‘Excellent! I was hoping you’d say that. Frankly, I think it’s long overdue, but certainly better late than never. I’ll call him tonight and …’

  ‘No, not like that, Will. You’re going to hate this—’

  ‘Oh, dear God, please don’t tell me that you want to cover weddings for the Sunday Styles section or some such nonsense. Please.’

  ‘Worse,’ I said, more for effect than because I believed it. ‘I want to write a romance novel. In fact, I’ve already got an outline, and I don’t think it’s half bad.’ I braced myself for the verbal barrage, but surprisingly, it never came.

  Instead he peered at me as though he were searching my face for some answer and just nodded. ‘Maybe it’s all these Will martinis, but I think that makes perfect sense, darling.’ He leaned in and kissed my cheek.

  Romance novels – it was true. Since Turkey and the luxe world Kelly & Company had introduced me to, I’d been imagining a star-crossed pair of characters and the events that would bring them together. One could say I was drawing from experience, or from fantasy, but it felt good either way. And it was the first thing I’d felt good about in a long time. Until tonight.

  I was preparing to tell my parents my plans when my cell phone rang. How odd, I thought. Every single person I know is sitting in this room. I reached into my bag to switch it off, but I couldn’t help noticing that it was Elisa calling from her cell phone. Elisa, who I hadn’t seen or spoken to sin
ce the Playboy party, the very same person who, for whatever reason – a malnourished brain, some weird obsession with Philip, or perhaps just for sport – had spoon-fed information about me to Abby for months. I was simply too curious. I walked into the kitchen.

  ‘Hello? Elisa?’ I said into the phone.

  ‘Bette, are you there? Listen, I’ve got the greatest news!’

  ‘Really? What’s that?’ I asked, pleased to hear that I sounded cool and aloof and supremely disinterested, exactly as I intended.

  ‘Well, I remember you had some, uh, some connection to that Bungalow bouncer who opened Sevi, right?’

  She was pretending not to remember Sammy’s name, as usual, but I was no longer interested in correcting her. ‘Yeah, that’s right. I’m actually at Sevi right now,’ I said.

  ‘You’re there? You’re at the restaurant now? Ohmigod, that’s just too perfect! Listen, I just got word that Lindsay Lohan has a layover in New York for one night on her way from LA to London – you know we’re repping Von Dutch now, and she’s their new spokeswoman, right? – and guess what? She wants to eat at Sevi tonight! Insisted on it, actually. I’m picking her up from the Mandarin Oriental now. I’m not sure how many she has with her, but it shouldn’t be more than a half-dozen. We’ll be there in thirty minutes, maybe an hour. Tell your chef friend to go VIP all the way with tonight’s menu, okay? Bette, this will be such great press for him!’ She was breathless with excitement.

  I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider telling Sammy. It would be great press – the fastest way to guarantee mentions in the few remaining national magazines that hadn’t yet discovered him. But I peeked through the window in the kitchen door and saw Sammy placing a cake in the center of the table. It was a huge, rectangular thing with giant gobs of whipped cream and colored icing, and when I leaned in to get a better look, I saw that the cover of Tall, Dark, and Cajun had been airbrushed on in perfect detail. Everyone was laughing and pointing and asking Will where I’d gone.

  The split-second window of Lindsay Lohan potential slammed shut and I said, ‘Thanks but no thanks, Elisa. He’s closed for a private event tonight.’

  I hung up before she could protest and rejoined the table. It wasn’t even a lie, I thought to myself as I looked around. This just had to be the party of the season.

  Acknowledgments

  Three people in particular must be thanked for sticking with me on this project:

  The only editor worth knowing, Marysue Rucci, who is the master of a hundred elegant and subtle ways of saying ‘this sucks.’

  David Rosenthal, my publisher, whose Rolodex and dinner parties keep me from ordering in seven nights a week.

  Deborah Schneider, my amazing agent. She handles the logistical details of my career so I’m free to write the important literature of our time.

  Tremendous thanks also to Hanley Baxter, Aileen Boyle, Gretchen Braun, Britt Carlson, Jane Cha, Deborah Darrock, Nick Dewar, Lynne Drew, Wendy Finerman, Cathy Gleason, Tracey Guest, Maxine Hitchcock, Helen Johnstone, Juan Carlos Maciques, Diana Mackay, Victoria Meyer, Tara Parsons, Carolyn Reidy, Jack Romanos, Charles Salzberg, Vivienne Schuster, Jackie Seow, Peggy Siegal, Shari Smiley, Ludmilla Suvorova, and Kyle White.

  And of course, a huge thanks to my parents, Cheryl and Steve, and my sister, Dana. I could have never written such a masterpiece without you.

  *** While all of the characters in this book are imaginary, the inspiration for Millington the Yorkshire Terrier is actually Mitzy the Maltese.

  Chasing Harry Winston

  CHASING HARRY WINSTON

  Lauren Weisberger

  for Mike, with love

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  panties is a vile word

  if you think it’s too big, you don’t deserve it

  once they’re in, they’re real

  mommy drinks because i cry

  all cocky confidence and killer smile

  count him as south america

  friendly really means available and desperate

  three men do not a femme fatale make

  the perfect-for-right-now relationship

  may her huge, perky boobs give her back pain by thirty

  it’d be nauseating if it weren’t so goddamn cute

  Acknowledgments

  panties is a vile word

  When Leigh’s doorbell rang unexpectedly at nine on a Monday night, she did not think, Gee, I wonder who that could be. She thought, Shit. Go away. Were there people who actually welcomed unannounced visitors when they just stopped by to ‘say hello’ or ‘check in’? Recluses, probably. Or those friendly Midwestern folks she’d seen depicted in Big Love but had never actually met – yes, they probably didn’t mind. But this! This was an affront. Monday nights were sacred and completely off-limits to the rest of the world, a time of No Human Contact when Leigh could veg out in sweats and watch episode after beautiful TiVo’d episode of Project Runway. It was her only time alone all week, and after some intensive training on her part, her friends, her family, and her boyfriend, Russell, finally abided by it.

  The girls had stopped asking for Monday-night plans at the end of the nineties; Russell, who in the beginning of their relationship had openly balked, now quietly contained his resentment (and in football season relished having his own Monday nights free); her mother struggled through one night a week without picking up the phone to call, finally accepting after all these years that she wouldn’t hear from Leigh until Tuesday morning no matter how many times she hit Redial. Even Leigh’s publisher knew better than to assign her Monday-night reading … or, god forbid, knew not to log an interrupting phone call. Which is precisely why it was so incredible that her doorbell had just rung – incredible and panic-inducing.

  Figuring it was her super, there to change the air-conditioning filter; or one of the delivery guys from Hot Enchiladas, leaving a menu; or, most likely of all, someone just confusing her door with one of her neighbors’, she hit Mute on the TV remote and did not move a muscle. She cocked her head to the side like a Labrador, straining for any confirmation that the intruder had left, but the only thing she heard was the dull, constant thudding from above. Suffering from what her old shrink called ‘noise sensitivity’ and everyone else described as ‘fucking neurotic,’ Leigh had, of course, thoroughly scoped out her upstairs neighbor before signing over her life savings: The apartment might have been the most perfect she’d seen in a year and a half of looking, but she hadn’t wanted to take any chances.

  Leigh had asked Adriana for the scoop on the woman above her, in apartment 17D, but her friend had just pursed her pouty lips and shrugged. No matter that Adriana had lived in the building’s full-floor penthouse apartment from the day her parents had moved from São Paulo to New York nearly two decades before; she had completely embraced the New Yorker’s I-Promise-Not-to-Acknowledge-You-If-You-Extend-Me-the-Same-Courtesy attitude toward her neighbors and could offer Leigh no info on her neighbor. And so, on a blustery December Saturday right before Christmas, Leigh had slipped the building’s doorman twenty bucks, Bond-style, and waited in the lobby, pretending to read a manuscript. After Leigh spent three hours scanning the same anecdote, the doorman coughed loudly and looked at her over the top of his glasses with meaning. Glancing up, Leigh felt an immediate wave of relief. Before her, removing a QVC catalog from an unlocked mailbox, stood an overweight woman in a polka-dot housedress. Not a day younger than eighty, thought Leigh, and she breathed a sigh of relief; there would be no stilettos clacking against the hardwood floors, no late-night parties, no parade of visitors stomping around.

  The very next day Leigh wrote a check for the down payment, and two months later she excitedly moved into her mint-condition one-bedroom dream apartment. It had a renovated kitchen, an oversized bathtub, and a more than decent northern view of the Empire State Building. It might have been one of the smallest units in the building – okay, the smallest – but it was still a dream, a beautifu
l, lucky dream in a building Leigh never thought she could afford, each and every obscenely priced square foot paid for with her own hard work and savings.

  How could she possibly have predicted that the seemingly innocuous upstairs neighbor was a dedicated wearer of massive wooden orthopedic clogs? Still, Leigh berated herself regularly for thinking high heels were the only potential noise risk: it had been an amateur’s mistake. Before she’d spotted her neighbor wearing the offending shoes, Leigh had created an elaborate explanation for the relentless upstairs racket. She decided that the woman had to be Dutch (since everyone knew Dutch people wore clogs), and the matriarch of a huge, proudly Dutch family who received constant visits from countless children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, siblings, cousins, and general advice-seekers … all, most likely, Dutch clog-wearers. After spotting her neighbor wearing an air cast and feigning interest in the woman’s disgusting-sounding foot ailments including (but not limited to) plantar fasciitis, ingrown toenails, neuromas, and bunions, Leigh had clucked as sympathetically as she could manage and then raced upstairs to check her copy of the co-op rules. Sure enough, they dictated that owners were required to cover eighty percent of their hardwood floors with carpet – which she realized was an entirely moot point when the very next page revealed that her upstairs neighbor was president of the board.

  Leigh had already endured nearly four months of round-the-clock clogging, something that might have been funny if it was happening to someone else. Her nerves were directly tied to the volume and frequency of the steady thump-thump-thump that segued into a thumpety-thump-thumpety-thump-thump pattern when Leigh’s heart began to pound right along with it. She tried to breathe slowly, but her exhales were short and raspy, punctuated by little guppy gasps. As she examined her pale complexion (which on good days she thought of as ‘ethereal’ and all other times accepted as ‘sickly’) in the mirrored hallway closet door, a thin sheen of perspiration dampened her forehead.