Everyone Worth Knowing (28 page)

planning and Philip hosting the event, so I think it works out perfectly!"

she sang, not the least bit aware that Philip most likely still

didn't even know my full name.

"Skye will help you with whatever you need"—a quick glance

at Skye informed me that she wasn't thrilled with this pronouncement—"

and we'll all be here to support you. The party is scheduled

for November twenty-second, which is the Tuesday before

Thanksgiving, so you'd better get started immediately."

I did a few mental calculations and realized that it was less

than three weeks away. I said as much.

"Oh, Bette, stop stressing," Elisa said with an exasperated eyeroll.

"It's nothing. Find a venue, get sponsors, order invites, work

The List, and save all your presswork until that week. Anything

that Philip hosts will be automatically covered, so this is not exactly

going to be a lot of work."

When the meeting finally ended, I ducked out with my laptop

and headed to Starbucks in a panicky effort to figure out exactly

what needed to happen for the BlackBerry event. I almost hoped

Philip would make it some sort of quid pro quo that he'd host the

event if I'd sleep with him . . . and then immediately felt pathetic.

Everyone assumed we'd already consummated our relationship,

but the reality was that we both seemed to avoid the situation entirely.

Which wasn't difficult, considering he only seemed to want

to mug for the cameras. He was great with the suggestive remarks,

but he never really followed up on any of them, and he seemed almost

relieved when I brushed him off and left alone each night.

There hadn't been much time to think about it, but I figured he

had some sort of top-secret girlfriend (or five) that he kept sequestered

away and was content to let the general public think we

were dating. It was vaguely insulting—I still wanted him to
want
to

have sex with me—but we seemed to have an unspoken agreement

to maintain the present arrangement.

I left a message with Amy Sacco's office asking if we could reserve

Bungalow for the BlackBerry event, just as Penelope called

on the other line.

"Hey, what's going on? What warrants the middle-of-the-day

call? How's Aaron? Have you seen him lately?"

"Do you know how much the quality of my work life has improved

since you left?" Penelope asked. "No offense, but it's almost

worth not having you around to never have him utter the word

powwow.
How's lover boy?"

"Oh, you mean my boyfriend? He's dreamy," I said.

"Tell me," Penelope said, trying to sound enthusiastic. I knowshe

couldn't stand the thought of Philip, but she'd been kind

enough not to say that outright . . . yet.

"Let's see. Things are, like, so amazing. We go to these wonderful

parties where he spends at least a few minutes talking to me

before flirting with every other girl there. Often I'm allowed to

bring him his favorite cocktail—gin and tonic, for the record. I let

him kiss me for the photographers and then we go our separate

ways. No sex, by the way. We haven't even spent the night together

since I passed out there the first time I met him."

"Maybe he's just so overwhelmed by the amount of sex he's

having with every model, actress, and socialite in London, Los Angeles,

and New York that he's just physically exhausted? it's possible,

you know."

"Did I ever tell you what a good friend you are, Pen? Seriously,

you always know exactly what to say."

She laughed. "Yeah, well, I don't have to spell out that I think

you're not doing yourself justice. But enough, let's talk about me

for a second. I have something to tell you."

"You're knocked up and feel guilty about getting rid of it because

you're engaged and old enough to take responsibility for

your own actions?" I asked eagerly, leaning in closer to the phone

as though she could see me.

She sighed, and I knew she was rolling her eyes.

"You're knocked up and it's not Avery's baby?"

When this elicited nothing but another exasperated sound, I

decided on just one more.

"You're knocked up and—"

"Bette." Her voice tightened and I could tell she wasn't enjoying

this nearly as much as I was.

"Sorry. What's up?"

"I'm leaving."

"You're what?"

"I'm leaving. Done. I'm finished."

"Ohmigod, no."

"Yes," she said.

"It's definite?"

"Yes."

"Are you serious? Just like that? Over? Are you okay with it?"

I was doing everything possible to contain my glee at the idea

that she wouldn't be going through with the wedding, but it was

difficult, especially since I knew she'd probably had to walk in on

Avery and some girl, a scenario I'd already decided was the only

way she'd ever believe it. That aside, she sounded good. Maybe it

was the best thing and she knew it.

"Honestly? I didn't expect this, but I couldn't be happier. I've

wanted to do it for a long time and, well, I'm just so excited about

what's next."

I slowly took a sip of my coffee and contemplated this new information.

"You wouldn't be this excited if you hadn't met someone

else. Who is he? I had no idea you and Avery were having

trouble—how could you not tell me?" I choked out. "What about

the ring? You know, etiquette dictates that if you're the one to

break off the engagement, you've got to give it back. Ohmigod, he

isn't cheating on you, is he?" I pretended to be horrified at even

the idea of it, as though it were just too impossible to even imagine.

"Is that bastard—"

"Bette, stop! I'm not leaving Avery, I'm leaving this job!" she

hissed, trying not to be overheard by her cubicle mates.

Serious one-eighty—and a major disappointment.

"You're leaving UBS? Really? What happened?"

"Well, I kind of had no choice. Avery got accepted to UCLA for

law school, so we're moving there. He doesn't start until January,

but we figured we'd go now to get settled and learn our way

around."

"UCLA?"

"Uh-huh."

"So you're not leaving Avery, you're leaving me?" I wailwhispered.

The juicy story of my best friend cheating on her

fiance had become the story of my best friend moving to another

coast.

"I'm not leaving you," she said, sighing. "I'm leaving this job

and this city and going to California. Probably just for the three

years, and then I'll be back. And we'll visit, of course. You'll love

coming out there when it's February and you haven't left your

apartment in twelve days because the temperature hasn't hit the

double digits."

"There aren't law schools on the East Coast? Avery really has to

be so selfish as to drag you all the way out, out,
there?'

"Oh, Bette, shut up and be happy for me. UCLA is a great

school, and besides, I could use a change. I've lived in the city for

five years since graduation, and eighteen before it. I'll be back,

there's no getting around that. But for now I think it could be nice

to do something different."

It occurred to me right then that as a friend, I was required to

express some sort of support, however lame it might come across.

"Honey, I'm sorry, this is just all so surprising—you didn't even

mention he was applying out west. If this is what you want to do,

then I'm excited for you. And I promise to try very, very hard to

stop only thinking about how it will affect me, okay?"

"Yeah, he did the UCLA application at the last second, and I

never thought he'd want to go there. But seriously, I'm not too

worried about you. You've got a whole new crew now, and I have

a feeling you'll be just fine without me. . . ." She let the words trail

off, trying to sound casual, but we both knew this was the closest

she'd ever get to saying something more important.

"Well, we'll have to have a great big going-away dinner for you

guys," I said with forced cheer, not quite acknowledging my opportunity

to disagree.

"As you can imagine, our mothers are already on that. We're

leaving sort of soon, so they planned a joint dinner at the Four

Seasons on Saturday. You'll be there, right? It'll be dreadful, but

you're obligated to attend nonetheless." She cleared her throat.

"And, of course, Philip is always invited."

"Pen! Of course I'll be there. And I'll certainly spare all of you

Philip's company."

My call waiting beeped with a 917 number I didn't recognize. I

decided to answer it in case it was related to the BlackBerry party.

"I'm sorry, Pen, I've got to take this call. Can I call you later?"

"Sure, no worries."

"Okay, I'll talk to you in a few. And congratulations! If you're

happy, then so am 1. Grudgingly, of course. But happy for you."

We hung up and I clicked over right before the phone went

to voice mail. "May I speak with Bette?" I heard a gravelly male

voice ask.

"Speaking."

"Bette, this is Sammy calling from Amy Sacco's office. You

called about a date you wanted to reserve the club?"

Sammy? Wasn't that the name of the Bungalow 8 bouncer?

Could there be more than one Sammy in her employ? I didn't

know that bouncers did office work.

"Yes, hi, how are you?" I said as professionally as possible, although

he certainly didn't know my name or remember me as the

cranky girl with no umbrella.

"Great. We got your message, and Amy asked me to call you

back because she's tied up all afternoon." The rest was drowned

out by the screech of sirens.

"Sorry, I missed that. It's just the loudest siren I've ever heard.

It must be eight fire trucks or something," I screamed, tiying to be

heard over the wails.

"I hear it, too, only not just through the phone. Where are you

now?"

"I'm at the Starbucks near Eighth and Broadway. Why?"

"That's weird. I'm literally across the street. I was just leaving

class when I got the message from Amy to call you back. Hold on,

I'm coming over." He hung up, and I stared at the phone for a second

before frantically yanking a lip gloss and brush out of my bag

and sprinting for the bathroom, which, naturally, was occupied. I

watched as he approached the front door and then bolted back to

my table in a side nook, falling back into my seat before he even

saw me.

There was no subtle way to fix anything right now since I

needed to focus my energy on pretending to look both busy and

indifferent, which was impossible. I knew I'd choke if I tried to

drink or drop my phone if I pretended to be talking, and so I just

sat, staring at my Filofax with such determined interest that I briefly

wondered if it might just up and ignite from the intensity of my

gaze. A quick mental survey of my physical state revealed a list of