Everyone Worth Knowing (42 page)

pulling out another cigarette. I offered him one and he took it,

lighting first mine and then his own.

"I don't know, I probably should've. 1 just figured you had no

idea. I felt kind of weird not saying something at first and then too

much time went by. But I remember, when everyone else was

sanding and chiseling, you'd always be writing—letters, it looked

like—line after line, page after page, and I always wondered how

anyone could have so much to say. Who was the lucky guy?"

I'd mostly forgotten about the letter-writing; I hadn't written one

of those in years. It was easier now that I no longer heard my parents

asking me what I had done for the world that day. They'd taught me

how to write letters when I was old enough to put sentences on

paper, and I'd instantly loved it. 1 wrote to congressmen, senators,

CEOs, lobbyists, environmental organizations, and, occasionally, the

president. Each night at dinner we'd discuss some great injustice and

the following day I'd write my letter, letting someone know my outrage

about capital punishment or deforestation or foreign-oil dependence

or contraception for teenagers or prohibitive immigration laws.

They were always chock-full of self-importance and read like the

obnoxious, self-righteous missives they were, but my parents were so

lavish with their approval that I couldn't stop. They tapered off at the

end of high school, but it wasn't until some guy I was hooking up

with freshman year in college picked one off my desk and made

some offhand comment about how adorable it was that I was trying

to save the world that I stopped entirely. It wasn't what he said so

much as the timing. My parents' lifestyle was already less appealing.

I had traded the alternative, peace-on-earth persona for a significantly

more mainstream college social life pretty damn fast. Sometimes

I wondered if I'd been just a little too thorough in my rejection.

There was probably a happy medium somewhere, but banking

and—let's be honest—party-planning hadn't exactly put me back on

the track to selflessness.

I realized that Sammy was watching me intently as I recalled

that time and said, "Guy? Oh, they weren't to a boyfriend or anything

like that. Guys didn't exactly dig the dreadlock/espadrille

thing I had going back then. They were just, you know, letters

to . . . I don't know, nothing special."

"Well, I always thought you were pretty cute."

I immediately felt myself blush.

For some reason, this made me happier than if he'd announced

his undying love for me, but there was no time to savor it because

my cell phone bleated with a 911 text message:
Doll, where R UP

Need Crista! ASAP.

Why Philip couldn't just ask one of the three dozen male model/

waiters wandering around for that very reason was beyond me, but I

knew I should check on things.

"Listen, I've got to get back in there and make sure everyone is

drunk enough to have fun but not so trashed that they'll do anything

stupid, but I was wondering: do you need a ride home tomorrow?"

"Home? To Poughkeepsie? You're going?"

"I couldn't possibly miss the annual Harvest Festival."

"Harvest Festival?" He once again paused to open the velvet

rope, this time to let in a couple who weren't coordinated enough

to walk but still seemed in possession of enough faculties to grope

each other.

"Don't ask. It's something my parents do every year on Thanksgiving

Day, and my presence is required. I'm pretty positive my

uncle will bail—he always comes up with some pressing obligation

at the last minute—but he'll lend me his car. I'd be happy to give

you a ride," I said, fervently praying that he'd accept and not want

to invite his aging significant other.

"Uh, sure. I mean, if you don't mind, that'd be great. I was just

planning on taking the bus up Thursday morning."

"Well, I was planning to go tomorrow after work, so if you

could go Wednesday instead of Thursday, I'd love to have the

company. I always want to drive the car off the road right around

Peekskill." I cheered myself silently for finally managing to maintain

a normal exchange with this boy.

"Yeah, I'd really like that," he said, looking pleased. Of course,

I'd be pleased, too, if I didn't have to endure a four-hour Greyhound

ride for a trip that normally takes two hours. I assured

myself it was my companionship that convinced him and not just

the chance to escape the gross stickiness and claustrophobia of

the bus.

"Great. Why don't you meet me at my uncle's apartment at,

let's see, maybe around six? He's on Central Park West, northwest

corner of Sixty-eighth Street. Is that okay?"

He had just enough time to say that he was really looking forward

to it before Philip materialized outside and literally dragged

me back inside by the arm. I didn't much mind, though, considering

what I had to look forward to the next day. I floated happily

around the room, accepting compliments from everyone on staff

and listening as guests talked about what a "great scene" we had

going on that night. When the party began to wind down around

two, I pleaded yet another headache to Philip, who seemed happy

to remain behind with Leo and a bottle of Cristal. At home, 1 curled

up in bed with a Slim Jim and a brand-new Harlequin. It was the

most perfect evening I could remember.

19

I could barely contain my excitement as I waited for Sammy in

the lobby of Will's building. That day had dragged on interminably.

Never mind that Kelly had bought the entire office breakfast in celebration

of the previous night's success, or that she'd brought me

into her jungle lair to tell me that she was so impressed with the

evening that she was officially making me second-in-command of

the
Playboy
party, reporting directly to her. Elisa's face tightened

when the announcement was made; she'd been there a year and a

half longer than me and clearly had expected to oversee the company's

biggest event. But after a few remarks about how she was

happy to "give someone else a chance" at overseeing what would

surely be total chaos, she plastered on a happy face and proposed

celebratory drinks. Newspapers and websites that weren't even at

the party had covered it, breathlessly writing how the "slew of

celebs and socialites" had come out to fete the "hottest new urban

accessory." It almost didn't register when a box arrived directly

from Mr. Kroner's office with enough BlackBerries to stock an entire

wireless store, the note sounding so effusive I was almost embarrassed.

I barely even noticed the few lines in New York Scoop

that announced I'd been spotted sobbing in a corner as Philip

made out with a Nigerian-born soap star, and I didn't get the least

bit upset when Elisa confided to me that she'd "accidentally" gotten

a ride with Philip on his Vespa because "she was so drunk and she

and Davide had gotten in a fight but that nothing—
nothing, I

swear on your life and mine
—had happened." No, none of that

had even really registered because none of it made the minutes

any shorter or got me in the same car with Sammy any faster.

When he walked through my uncle's lobby's door wearing a pair

of broken-in jeans and a very snuggly sweater, a duffel bag slung

over his shoulder, I didn't know if I'd be able to keep my eyes on

the road long enough to get us out of the city.

"Hey," he said when he saw me sitting on the bench, pretending

to examine the paper. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate

this."

"Don't be ridiculous," I said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him

hello on the cheek. "You're the one doing me the favor. Hold on a

sec, I'll have my uncle come down with the keys."

Will had agreed to lend me his Lexus for the weekend only

after I'd sworn to uphold the story he'd fabricated to explain his

absence. Even though I was just giving Sammy a lift to his parents'

house, he insisted that Sammy be fully apprised of the cover story

as well.

"You promise you've got the details down, darling?" he'd asked

nervously upon relinquishing the keys as the three of us stood in

his underground garage.

"Will, stop stressing. I promise I won't give you up. I shall endure

the suffering alone. As always."

"Humor me. Let's go through it one more time. When she asks

you where I am, what do you say?"

"I simply explain that you and Simon couldn't bear the idea of

spending an entire weekend in a solar-powered house where

there's never enough hot water and the all-natural, undyed sheets

are itchy and nothing's really ever clean since chemicals aren't

used, so instead you decided you'd rather admire the harvest from

your comped beachfront suite in Key West. Oh, yeah, and that you

find it quite dull when the dinner-table conversation consists solely

of ecopolitics. Is that about right?" I smiled sweetly.

He looked helplessly at Sammy and coughed a few times.

"Don't worry, sir, Bette's got the story down," he assured him,

climbing into the passenger seat. "Simon had a last-minute request

to fill in for one of the missing musicians, and you felt it wouldn't

be right to leave him alone on the holiday, as much as you'd like

to see everyone. You would've called them yourself, but you're on

a tight deadline for your bastard of an editor and will call next

week. I'll get her up to speed on the ride."

Will released the keys into my open palm. "Sammy, thank you.

Bette, I want you to pay close attention to the empowerment lectures—

women can do anything, you know—and try not to feel too

bad for little old me, kicking back poolside with a daiquiri and a

paperback."

I wanted to hate him, but he looked so happy with his alibi

and his sneaky plans that I didn't do anything but hug him and

turn on the car. "You owe me for this. As usual." I tucked Millington's

Sherpa Bag in the backseat and tossed a Greenie inside so

she wouldn't cry or whine while we drove.

"You know it, darling. I'll bring you back one of those kitschy

fringed T-shirts, or maybe a coconut candle or two. Deal? Drive

safely. Or don't. Just don't call me if anything happens, at least not

for the next three days. Have fun!" he called, blowing kisses in the

rearview mirror.

"He's great," Sammy said as we worked our way slowly

through traffic up the West Side Highway. "Like a little kid who got

out of school by pretending to be sick."

I stuck
Monster Ballads
(ordered from an 800 number in an insomniac

three A.M. fit) in the six-disc changer and skipped through

until I found Mr. Big's "To Be with You." "He is really great, isn't

he? I honestly don't know what I would do without him. He's the

only reason I'm normal today."