Everyone Worth Knowing (19 page)

peed on my pillow for good measure, but there wasn't time to

clean it up. I managed to wedge between the throngs of commuters

and arrive at the office at exactly one minute after nine. I

was fantasizing about devouring the only known hangover cure, a

large street coffee and bacon, egg, and cheese on a buttered roll,

when Elisa motioned me over. She'd saved a space near the sunniest

window and appeared to be quite eager to talk to me.

The office was a giant rectangle, surrounded on all sides by

sleek leather couches and sitting areas. There weren't technically

individual desks, just two giant, half-moon-shaped tables that

formed a circle with two small breaks where the half-moons didn't

quite meet, allowing access to the shared faxes and printers in the

middle. We each had our own laptop that we could either lock in

the closet or take home at night, and workspace was doled out on

a first-come-first-served basis every morning. We all scrambled to

sit in the two or three spots around the circle where Kelly couldn't

see your computer screen from her office, and Elisa had managed

to snag a few feet of prime space. I dropped my laptop on the

table and very carefully removed the coffee from its paper bag,

taking care not to spill a single golden drop. Elisa was practically

panting.

"Oh, Bette, sit the hell down already. Tell me everything, I can

barely stand it."

"Tell you what? I had a great time last night. Thanks for inviting

me."

"Shut up!" she was squealing, which appeared to be her only

method of communication. "How was . . ." Pause. Deep breath.

"Philippe?"

"Philippe? Don't you mean Philip? He sure didn't seem French

to me."

"Oh, God, you are truly missing the point. He's absolutely fabulous,

don't you think?"

"Actually, I thought he was kind of a jerk," I said, which was

partially true. This also made him tremendously intriguing, of

course, but it didn't seem necessary to admit that.

Elisa inhaled sharply and fixed her gaze on my face. "What did

you say?" she whispered.

"I said, I thought—"

"I heard you." She was nearly growling now. "I just can't imagine

why you'd say something like that. You sure looked like you

were having fun when you were all over him on the dance floor.

He's pretty good, huh? Who said practice doesn't make perfect?"

She very well could've still been talking about dancing, but

something in her expression, now dreamy and slightly far-off, indicated

otherwise.

"Elisa, what do you mean?"

"Oh, Bette, come on! This is Philip Weston we're talking about

here."

"And that should mean something to me?"

"Ohmigod, Bette, this is 50 humiliating for you. Are you serious?

You have no idea who he is?" She began ticking things off on

her fingers, one by one. "Graduate of Eton and Oxford, with a law

degree from Yale? Youngest lawyer
ever
to be named partner at

Simpson Thacher? Grandfather is a duke; father owns the majority

of land between London and Manchester, with additional large

chunks in Edinburgh? Trust fund large enough to rival the country's

national debt? Ex-boyfriend of Gwyneth, current boy toy of multi-

pie Victoria's Secret models, and crowned 'Nightlife Adonis' by

none other than
Vanity Fair.
Any of this ringing any bells?" She

was almost panting at this point.

"Not really," I said, trying to synthesize everything she'd said

while the sound of blood rushed through my ears. A duke?

Givynetb??

"It's so ironic," she mumbled to herself. "Every girl on the

planet makes it her lifelong goal to have sex with Philip Weston

and you go and do it without even knowing who he is? It's almost

too much."

"Have sex with him? What?"
If by "having sex" you mean "listening

as he fires the maid for gross neglect of $4,000 sheets," then

yes, we had a mind-blowing night.

"Bette! Give up the 'I'm so innocent' routine. We all saw you

last night!"

At that exact moment, it was impossible to comprehend anything

other than the fact that the same man who used to have sex

with Gwyneth Paltrow had not only seen me naked, but had also

witnessed period underwear, unshaved legs, and a viciously overgrown

bikini line.

"Nothing happened," I muttered, wondering how quickly I

could pack my bags, change my name, and move to Bhutan.

"Riiiiight." She smiled lasciviously.

"No, really. Granted, I woke up at his place, and granted, I was

wearing his clothes, but absolutely nothing happened."

She looked dumbfounded and disappointed. "How is that even

possible? He's much too gorgeous to resist."

"Did
you
sleep with him, Elisa?" I asked teasingly.

She looked as though she'd been slapped. "No!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to suggest . . . I was just kidding, I

didn't think you had—"

"Way to rub it in, is all. I've only been lusting after him forever

now, but he barely even glances in my direction. I see him out all

the time, of course, and he, like, totally knows who I am, so

maybe it's just a matter of time. . . ." Her voice once again took on

a dreamy quality.

I coughed and she snapped back to attention. I was just about

to be flattered by the fact that Philip had taken me home last night

when he could have had Elisa instead, but I didn't have a chance

to revel.

"I mean, the boy will sleep with any decent-looking girl he can

get his hands on, so I just don't understand what's wrong with

me," she said tonelessly.

"Any girl?" I asked, still determined to hold on to the illusion

that I might be his one and only.

"Well, pretty much any hot girl, which is why I can't understand

why he doesn't respond to me. Maybe he just doesn't like his

women thin."

Ouch. Unintentional, but painful. I waited while she continued

with her stock-taking.

"Let's see. Skye dated him, but that was years ago, way before

he became who he is now. So did one of the List Girls—the pretty

one—and that girl who was on the cover of
Marie Claire
last

month, and a solid handful of the hottest girls at Conde Nast." She

continued to tick off names of beautiful and social girls, some that

I recognized from years of idly reading the gossip columns and

party pages, but I could barely hear her. Luckily, she only hit about

a dozen before Kelly bounded from her office and called for me to

enter her animal-print hell—the whole room was done in a hallucinogenic

mixture of zebra, leopard, and tiger fabrics, replete with

oversized furry pillows and a giant, spotted shag rug.

"Hey there, Bette. How is everything?" she said happily, closing

the door and motioning for me to take a seat on a chair covered in

what felt like actual skin and hair.

"Uh, great. It's been a great first week so far."

"I'm so glad! I think so, too!" Biggest smile yet.

"Uh, yeah. Seriously, I'm so happy to be here, and I promise

I'll get all this stuff down as quickly as possible so I can start actually

contributing instead of just watching," I said with what

sounded to me like a reasonable level of sobriety and coherence.

"Uh-huh, that's nice. So tell me about last night!" She clasped

her hands together and leaned forward.

"Oh, right, last night. Yeah, I went to dinner with Elisa and

Skye and Leo and a couple others and we had such a nice night.

It's a really great group of people you have here. Of course, I

won't always let them keep me out so late. . . ."I laughed, trying

to sound casual, since I wasn't exactly used to discussing nights

out with my boss. Aaron most certainly hadn't been my go-to

morning-after confidant, but Kelly seemed eager for it.

"You mean, you won't let them keep you out until the next

morning . . . " She grinned and let her words trail off.

Ahem. I suspected we were toeing the line between personal

and professional, and I wasn't about to cross it. "It was a great dinner!

I just love everyone who works here." A slightly inane non sequitur,

but it was the only thing that came to mind.

She leaned forward, brushing her side-swept bangs even more

to the left, and placed her elbows on the rough-hewn wooden

desk. "Bette, dear, you can't expect to, ah,
spend the night
with

Philip Weston and not have the entire world know about it. Here,

look." She thrust a piece of computer paper across the table. My

hands shook as I took it.

I recognized it immediately as that day's edition of the column

that Abby and Elisa had been talking about the night before, New

York Scoop. It had been printed from the Scoop's website and the

headline read:
MYSTERY GIRL CHECKS INTO WESTON'S HOTEL.
The story

went on to detail how Philip had been "accosted" at Bungalow 8

the previous evening by a "pretty young thing" who some sources

"have fingered as a new hire at Kelly & Company. Keep it tuned

right here to see if she resurfaces anytime soon . . ." The byline at

the bottom of the piece read "Ellie Insider."
Vial's a stupid name,
I

thought.

Despite the "pretty young thing" semi-compliment that was undoubtedly

supplied to fill space, my stomach dropped and I

looked at Kelly in horror.

"I'm working feverishly alongside half of Manhattan trying to

figure out who Ellie Insider is. It's fucking brilliant. Do you believe

how quickly they get things posted? I suppose that's the benefit of

having it online, although I still can't help feeling that these, these,

blogs
are just little diaries for people who can't actually get published."

"Kelly, it's so not what it looks like. I can explain. It's just that

after dinner, we—"

"Bette, I know exactly what happened. And I'm thrilled!"

"You are?" I was certain this was just her convoluted way of firing

me.

"Of course! Look, this is an ideal scenario. Philip Weston, Bungalow

8, a mention for the office. The only thing I ask is that next

time you make sure the real Page Six is watching, too. This is a

solid mention, but the column's still pretty new, and not completely

up to par yet with its circ numbers."

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. She

didn't seem to notice, though.

"He's amazing, isn't he? Just between you and me, I've always

had a thing for him."

"You have? For Philip?"

"Ohmigod, girl, who hasn't? He's splendid. Not only is he
all

boldfaced mentions
all
the time, he also happens to look amazing

without a shirt."

Her face had taken on the same hazy expression as Elisa's had

earlier. "Did you date him?" I asked, praying with all my energy