Everyone Worth Knowing (31 page)

"Bette! You'll never guess what! I have the best news in

the whole world. Are you sitting down? Ohmigod, I'm just so excited."

I didn't think I could handle another engagement announcement,

so I just leaned back into the cushions and waited patiently,

knowing that Elisa wouldn't be able to hold out for long.

"Well, you'll never imagine who I just spoke to." Her silence indicated

I was supposed to respond, but I couldn't muster the energy

to ask.

"None other than our favorite gorgeous and no-longer-eligible

bachelor, Mr. Philip Weston. He was calling to invite the whole

crew to a party and I just happened to answer and—oh, Bette,

don't be mad, I just couldn't hold out—I asked him if he'd host

your BlackBerry event and he said he'd love to." At this point, she

actually squealed.

"Really?" I asked, feigning surprise. "That's great. Of course I'm

not mad; that saves me from having to ask him. Did he sound excited

about it, or just willing?" I didn't really care, but I couldn't

think of anything else to say.

"Well, I didn't
technically
speak to him, but I'm sure he's totally

thrilled."

"What do you mean by 'technically'? You just said that he

called and—"

"Oh, did I say that? Oops!" She giggled. "What I meant to say

was that his
assistant
called and I ran the whole thing by her and

she said of course Philip would be delighted. It's totally the same

thing, Bette, so I wouldn't worry about it for a second. How great

is that?"

"Well, I guess you're right because I just got flowers from him

with a card saying that he's going to do it, so it seems like everything

worked out."

"Oooooooh, my god! Philip Weston is sending you flowers?

Bette, he must be in love. That boy is just so amazing." Long sigh

on her part.

"Yes, well, I've got to run, Elisa. Seriously, thanks for figuring it

out with him. I really appreciate it."

"Where are you off to? You guys have a hot date tonight?"

"Uh, no. I'm just headed to my uncle's for dinner and then

straight to bed. I haven't been home before two A.M. since I started

this job, and I'm just ready to—"

"I know! Isn't it great? I mean, what other job would actually

require that you stay out and party all night? We're so lucky." Another

sigh, followed by a moment for both of us to reflect on this

truth.

"We are, yeah. Thanks again, Elisa. Have fun tonight, okay?"

"Always do," she sang. "And Bette? For all it's worth, you may

have gotten this job because of your uncle, but I think you're

doing great so far."

Ouch. It was classic Elisa: a backhanded compliment meant to

sound entirely sincere and positive. I didn't have the energy to

start, so I said, "You do? Thanks, Elisa. That means a lot to me."

"Yeah, well, you're dating Philip Weston and, like, totally planning

a whole event yourself. It took me almost a year to do that

once I started."

"Which one?" I asked.

"Both," she said.

We laughed together and said good-bye and I hung up before

she could insist that I attend another party. For that very brief moment,

she actually felt like a friend.

After a quick scratch for Millington and an even quicker change

into jeans and a blazer, I shot one last bitter glance at the flowers

and bolted downstairs to get a cab. Simon and Will were bickering

as I let myself into the apartment and waited quietly in the ultramodern

foyer, perched on a granite bench underneath a bright

Warhol that I knew we'd covered in art history but about which I

could recall not a single detail.

"I just don't understand how you could invite him into our

home," Simon was saying in the study.

"And I'm not sure what you don't understand about it. He's my

friend, and he's in town, and it would be rude not to see him,"

Will replied, sounding nonplussed.

"Will, he hates gays. He makes a living hating gays. Gets
paid

to hate gays. We're gay. What's so hard to understand?"

"Oh, details, darling, details. We all say things we don't quite

mean in the public arena to generate a little controversy—it's good

for the career. It doesn't mean we actually mean it. Hell, just in last

week's column I had a moment of weakness, or perhaps hallucination,

and wrote that pandering line about how rap music is its own

art form, or something inane to that effect. Seriously, Simon, no

one actually thinks I believe that. It's very much the same situation

with Rush. His Jew-gay-black hating is strictly for ratings; it's certainly

not reflective of his personal opinions."

"You are so naive, Will, so naive. I can no longer have this

conversation." I heard a door slam, a long sigh, and ice cubes

being dropped into a glass. It was time.

"Bette! Darling! I didn't even hear you come in. Were you lucky

enough to witness our latest tiff?"

I kissed him on his clean-shaven cheek and assumed my usual

perch on the lime green chaise. "I sure did. Are you actually inviting

Rush Limbaugh here?" I asked, slightly incredulous but not

really surprised.

"I am. I've been to his home a half-dozen times over the years,

and he's a perfectly nice fellow. Of course, I was never quite

aware of how heavily medicated he was during those evenings,

but it somehow makes him even more endearing." He took a deep

breath. "Enough. Tell me what's new in your fabulous life?"

It always amazed me how he could be so cool and casual

about everything. I remember my mother explaining to me as a

child that Uncle Will was gay and that Simon was his boyfriend

and that as long as two people are happy together, things like gender

or race or religion don't mean anything at all (not applicable,

of course, to me marrying a non-Jew, but that went without saying.

My parents were as liberal and open-minded as two people

could get when they were talking about anyone besides their own

kid). Will and Simon visited Poughkeepsie a few weeks later and

as we sat at the dinner table, trying to choke down fistfuls of

sprouts and what felt like never-ending rations of vegetarian dahl, I

had asked in my sweet ten-year-old voice, "Uncle Will, what's it

like to be gay?"

He'd raised his eyebrows at my parents, glanced at Simon, and

looked me straight in the eye. "Well, dear, it's quite nice, if I do say

so myself. I've been with girls, of course, but you do soon realize

that they just don't, ah, well, work for you, if you know what I

mean." I didn't know, but I was certainly enjoying the pained faces

my parents were making.

"Do you and Simon sleep in the same bed like Mommy and

Daddy?" I'd continued, sounding as sweet and innocent as I possibly

could.

"We do, darling. We're exactly like your parents. Only different."

He took a swig of the scotch my parents kept on hand for his

visits and smiled at Simon. "Just like a regular married couple, we

fight and we make up and I'm not afraid to tell him that even he

can't pull off white linen pants before Memorial Day. Nothing's different."

"Well then, that was an illuminating conversation, wasn't it?" My

father cleared his throat. "The important thing to remember, Bette,

is that you always treat everyone the same, regardless of how they

might be different from you."

Booooring. I had no interest in another love-in lecture, so I settled

on one last question: "When did you find out you were gay,

Uncle Will?"

He took another sip of scotch and said, "Oh, it was probably

when I was in the army. I sort of woke up one day and realized I'd

been sleeping with my commanding officer for some time," he

replied casually. He nodded, more sure now. "Yes, come to think

of it, that
was
rather telling for me."

It didn't matter that I was slightly unclear on the terms
sleeping

with
and
commanding officer;
my father's sharp inhalation and the

look my mother shot Will across the table were perfectly sufficient.

When I'd asked him years later if that was actually when he realized

he preferred men, he'd laughed and said, "Well, I'm not sure

that was the first time, darling, but it was certainly the only one

that was appropriate for the dinner table."

Now he sat calmly, sipping his martini and waiting for me to

tell him all about my new and improved life. But before I could

come up with something to offer, he said, "I assume you've gotten

the invitation to your parents' for the Harvest Festival?"

"I have, yes." I sighed. Every year my parents threw their Harvest

Festival party in the backyard to celebrate Thanksgiving with

all their friends. It was always on Thursday, and they never served

turkey. My mother had called a few days earlier and, after listening

politely to the details of my new job—which to my parents was

only slightly preferable to padding the coffers of a huge corporate

bank—she'd reminded me yet again that the party was coming up

and that my presence was expected. Will and Simon always RSVPd

yes, only to cancel at the last moment.

"I suppose I'll drive us all up there Wednesday when you're

done with work," Will said now, and I barely managed to keep

from rolling my eyes. "How is everything going, by the way? Judging

from everything I'm reading, you seem to have, ah,
embraced

the job." He didn't smile, but his eyes sparkled, and I swatted him

on the shoulder.

"Mmm, yes, you must mean the new little write-up in New

York Scoop." I sighed. "Why are they after me?"

"They're after everyone, darling. When your sole mission as a

columnist—online or otherwise—is to cover what's being consumed

in the Conde Nast cafeteria, well, nothing should really surprise

you. Have you read the latest?"

"This isn't the latest?" I felt the familiar dread begin to build.

"Oh, no, darling, I'm afraid to say it isn't. My assistant faxed it

here an hour ago."

"Is it awful?" I asked, not really wanting an answer.

"It's less than complimentary. For both of us."

I felt my stomach flip. "Oh, Christ. I can understand Philip,

but for whatever reason they've made me their project, and

there's not a damn thing I can do about it. Now they're including

you?"

"I can hold my own, darling. I'm not thrilled, but I can handle

it. As far as you're concerned, you're right. There's not much you

can do, but I would certainly advise you not to do anything exceptionally

stupid in public, or at least while you're in the company of

this certain gentleman. But I'm not telling you anything you don't

already know."

I nodded. "I just don't think my life is interesting enough to

chronicle, you know? I mean, I'm no one. I go to work, I go out