Everyone Worth Knowing (30 page)

back to past meetings and cobble together a semi-reasonable answer.

"Well, I'll definitely be securing some sponsors, so I think

we'll do alcohol but use your bartenders. I'm assuming we'll be

using your, uh, your . . ."

"Security?" he provided helpfully, somehow sensing my discomfort

at using the word
bouncers.

"Yes, exactly, although I'll have to check on that."

"Sounds good to me. As of now, only Lot 61 is free that night,

but Amy may want to consider rearranging the schedule. Who will

be hosting?"

"Oh, uh, a guy named Philip Weston. He, uh, he's—"

"I know who he is. Your boyfriend, right? I've seen you guys together

a lot lately. Yeah, I'm sure Amy will be thrilled to hear that, so

I wouldn't worry about Bungalow being free that night."

"No, no, he's certainly not my boyfriend," I said as quickly as

possible. "It's not like that at all. Actually, he's just this weird guy I

sort of know who—"

"None of my business, that's for sure. Guy always seemed like

kind of an asshole to me, but what do I know, right?" Was that bitterness

I detected? Or wanted to detect?

"Yes, I suppose it's not any of your business, is it?" I said with

such prissiness that he actually physically recoiled.

We stared at each other briefly before he looked away.

He took another sip of his coffee and began to gather his stuff.

"Well, then, this has been fun. I'll check with Amy and get back to

you about the venue. Assume it's fine. Like I said, who wouldn't

jump at the chance to have Mr. British Royalty himself throw a

party, right? He's going to have to start tanning now if he has any

hope of being dark enough in time."

"Thanks for your concern, I'll be sure to pass that along. In the

meantime, you enjoy making your little puff pastries. I'll work out

the details of the event on my own or directly with Amy, since as

much as 1 enjoy being verbally attacked by you, I don't really

have the time right now." I stood up with as much steadiness as I

could manage and began to lurch toward the door, already wondering

how things had managed to go so terribly wrong in so little

time.

"Rette!" he called just as I was about to pull open the door.
He's

so sony. He just had a really long day and is under a lot of stress

lately and hasn 't been getting enough sleep and he didn
7
mean to

take it out on me. Either that, or he's so wildly, insanely jealous of the

fact that Philip and I are dating that he simply couldn't refrain from

saying something nasty. Or perhaps a combination of the two,
I

thought. Either way, I would of course forgive him when he begged

for me to understand and apologized profusely.

I turned around, hoping all the time that he would rush toward

me with a plea for forgiveness, but instead he was holding up

something and waving it. My cell phone. Which naturally began

ringing before I'd reached the table.

He glanced down and I spotted the tightness in his face before

he forced a smile. "What a coincidence, it's the man of the hour.

Shall I take a message for you? Don't worry, I promise to tell him

we're on a jet on our way back from Cannes and not sitting at a

downtown Starbucks."

"Give that to me," I snapped, wanting to kick myself for programming

Philip's number into my phone while yanking it from

Sammy's fingers and noticing only briefly how nice it was to touch

his skin. I silenced the ringer and tossed it in my bag.

"Don't not answer on my account."

155

156 lauren weisberger

"I'm not doing anything on your account," I announced. I

looked back only once as I stormed out, only to see him watching

me and shaking his head.
Not exactly how the same scene ivould've

played out in
The Magnate's Tender Touch, I thought with not a little

remorse. But I cheered myself up slightly with the rationalization

that all new relationships—even the fictional ones—have

obstacles to overcome in the beginning. I would not give up hope

on this one. Not yet.

13

The rest of the day after the Starbucks encounter passed in a

blur as I alternately obsessed over my bizarre fight with Sammy

and Penelope's news that she was moving. Both of these, combined

with the reality that I was entirely responsible for planning

an event that was to take place in two and a half weeks, made me

want to curl up with Millington and watch back-to-back showings

of
When Harry Met Sally
on TNT. By the time I arrived at home,

my small-talk quotient was rapidly approaching zero, and I still

had to traverse the entire lobby to reach the elevator, where I

would surely be accosted by Seamus. I'd managed to press the button

and was silently rejoicing in my victory when he materialized,

as always, out of nowhere.

"Good day?" he asked with a huge smile.

"Urn, yeah, it was fine, I guess. And you?"

"Fine sounds very different from good, Bette!" he was practically

singing. What sort of vibe did I give off that said "Talk to me"?

"I suppose it is different, but I think 'good' would be an overstatement.

It was definitively fine," I explained, wondering if it'd be

worth it to climb thirteen flights of stairs rather than wait for the elevator

and endure the interim conversation.

"Well, let's just say I have a really good feeling it's going to get

better," he replied with what was, unmistakably, a wink.

"Mmm, really?" I said, desperately staring at the elevator doors

and willing them to open. "That'd be nice."

"Yep, you heard it here first. I officially predict that your day is

going to improve significantly within the next couple of minutes."

He said this with such certainty—and in that particularly rankling

I-know-something-you-don't-know tone—that I actually looked up

at him.

"Is there something I should know? Is someone here?" I asked,

both horrified and curious as to who might be staking out my

apartment, waiting for me to get home.

"Okay, well, I've said enough, that much is for sure!" he sang.

"It's none of my business, of course. Time for me to get back to

the door." He tipped his hat and turned on his heels and I wondered

if there was any possible way to ask him nicely never to

speak to me again.

I knew exactly what he'd meant when I stepped off the elevator

and rounded the corner to lucky number 1313. Resting against

the door were the most gorgeous flowers I'd ever seen. My first

thought was that they'd been mistakenly left in front of my door

and were actually for someone else, but as I got closer, I could see

my name written in black marker on the outside of the envelope

that was nestled behind the cellophane wrapping. After accepting

that it wasn't a delivery glitch, a second thought popped into my

head immediately: they were from Sammy, who'd thought over

everything that had happened earlier and wanted to apologize for

his behavior. Yes! I knew he wasn't such a bad guy, and flowers

were such a sweet, gentlemanly way of getting in touch to say he's

sorry.
I'm sorry, too,
I mentally directed toward the flowers.
I don't

know why I was so bitchy and nasty, especially since I haven't

stopped thinking about you for one second since then. Yes, I'd love

to meet you for dinner and put that whole stupid conversation behind

us. And if you must know, I'm already beginning to envision

you as the father of my future children, so we'd best be getting to

know each other. How much our kids will love hearing that our lifelong

love affair began with a fight and makeup flowers/ It's almost

so romantic I can't bear it. Yes, darling, yes, I forgive you and I

apologize a hundred times myself and I know this will make us

stronger.

I heaved the arrangement upward and unlocked the door, so

delighted with this surprise that I barely even noticed Millington

wrapping herself around my leg. Flowers always featured promi-

nently in romance novels, which made receiving such a first-rate

bouquet even more wonderful. There were actually three dozen

roses in shades of bright purple and hot pink and white, all clustered

tightly together in a short, round bowl that appeared to be

filled with some sort of sparkling glass marbles. Completely absent

was any sort of adornment—no ribbons, bows, filler greenery,

or ugly baby's breath; it screamed simple and elegant and very,

very expensive. The card wasn't the ordinary sort, either. It was

a heavy cream vellum and I couldn't tear it from the purplelined

envelope fast enough. But it took only a split second for my

eyes to find the signature, and when they did, I thought I might

pass out.

Doll, I'll absobloodylutely host the BlackBerry event! We'll make

it the poshest party of the year. You're brilliant. Big kiss! Philip

What?! I reread it a few dozen times to make sure my brain was

correctly processing the words, and then I read it again because I

still couldn't believe it. How did he know where I lived? How on

earth did he know anything about the event when I hadn't even

mentioned it yet? But more to the point, where was Sammy, with

his declaration of undying love? I flung the card across the room,

left the flowers on the kitchen counter, and flopped quite dramatically

onto the couch. Within seconds, my cell phone and land line

began ringing simultaneously, and a cursory check of each yielded

even more disappointing results: Elisa on the cell and Uncle Will

on the home phone. No Sammy.

I flipped open my cell and told Elisa to hold on before she

could even speak and then clicked the portable on and said hi to

Will.

"Darling, is everything all right? You're late, and Simon and 1

are worried that you're drowning your public-humiliation sorrows

all alone. We both thought you looked great in that last New York

Scoop photo! Let's get sloshed together! Are you on your way?"

Dammit! I'd forgotten all about dinner. Even though Thursday

nights had been the standing plan since the day I'd graduated from

college, I'd missed the last few weeks for Kelly events and had obviously

completely flaked on tonight.

"Will! I'm sorry I'm late, but I was at the office until two minutes

ago and I just ran home to feed Millington. I'm literally walking

out the door this minute."

"Sure, darling, of course. I'll buy that story if it's the best you're

offering, but I'm not letting you out of tonight. We will see you

soon, yes?"

"Of course. In just a few minutes . . ."

I hung up without saying good-bye and turned back to my cell

phone.

"Hey, sorry about that. My uncle just called and I—"