Everyone Worth Knowing (47 page)

"You've gone out a few times with whom? Weston something

or other? Do you mean, as in the famous English Westons?"

I was a little bit proud that even my mother had heard of him.

"The one and only," I said, glad that things were finally smoothing

over.

"Bettina, you
are
aware that the Westons are notorious anti-

Semites? Do you not remember that situation with the Swiss bank

accounts from the Holocaust? And as if that isn't bad enough,

they're reputed to employ South American sweatshops in a couple

of their business ventures. And you're
dating
one of them?"

Eileen quickly noticed that the conversation had begun to

nosedive and quietly slipped out.

"I'm not dating him," I insisted, although the denial sounded

ludicrous in light of the fact that I'd just admitted to going out

with him.

She peered at me as though seeing my face for the first time in

months and shook her head slowly. "I never expected this from

you, Bettina, I really didn't."

"Expected what?"

"I never thought that a daughter of mine would associate with

these types of people. We want you to be everything you are—

smart and ambitious and successful—but we also tried to instill in

you some level of social and civil consciousness. Where did it go,

Bettina? Tell me, where did it go?"

Before I could answer, a man I'd never seen before rushed into

the kitchen to announce that my mother was needed outside to

take a picture for the local paper. For die last five years my parents

had been using their annual party as a fund-raiser for battered

women's shelters in the area, and it had become such a Poughkeepsie

institution that both the local and school newspapers covered

it. I watched as the photographer posed my parents, first in

the greenhouse and then by the bonfire, and I spent the rest of the

night getting to know as many of their friends and coworkers as I

could. Neither my mom nor my dad mentioned my job or Philip

Weston again, but the weird feeling lingered. Suddenly, I couldn't

wait to get back to the city.

21

The week after Thanksgiving was brutal. My parents' concerns

were weighing on me. Philip was calling nonstop. And although I

told myself there was no reason to worry, I hadn't yet heard from

Sammy. I'd passed a couple of days dreamily reliving The Kiss, remembering

the way Sammy had pulled me from the car, and wondering

when he'd finally get in touch, but this was starting to lose

its charm. To make matters worse, Abby hadn't stopped writing

about me even though I hadn't been in town for a full five days.

The whole thing had been a blur, but I knew for a fact that Abby

had not been present at my parents' Harvest Festival, which was

why it was so distressing to see my name jump out from the headline

of New York Scoop,
TROUBLE IN PARADISE? ROBINSON RECOUPS IN

HOMETOWN.
Abby had gone on to comment on how my "sudden

absence" was noteworthy because Philip and I had been "inseparable,"

and the fact that I'd "fled" to my parents' house upstate obviously

indicated some major relationship trouble. There was even

an extra-special line implying that my "weekend away from the

party circuit"
might
have something to do with the need to "detox"

or perhaps "lick rejection wounds." She ended the piece by

encouraging everyone to stay tuned for more details on the

Weston/Robinson saga.

I had torn the first sheet from the stapled packet, balled it up,

and thrown it as hard as I could manage across the room. Relationship

trouble? Detox?
Rejection?
Even more offensive than the implication

that Philip and I were dating was the suggestion that we

weren't. And detox? It was bad enough being portrayed as an outof-

control party girl, but it was almost more embarrassing to be the

person who couldn't handle it. The whole thing was becoming too

ridiculous to comprehend. It took three straight days to reassure

Kelly (and Elisa, who seemed particularly concerned) that Philip

and I were not fighting, that I was not in Poughkeepsie scouting

potential rehab clinics, and that I had no intention of "dumping"

Philip for any reason anytime soon.

I'd now spent most of December attending as many events as

possible, mugging with Philip and generally inviting nasty commentary

from Abby (who was only too happy to oblige), and

everything had returned to some twisted version of normal. Kelly

had placed us on a rotating holiday schedule; since we all couldn't

take off at the same time, I'd agreed to work a cocktail party for

Jewish professionals on Christmas Eve in exchange for having New

Year's Eve off. I was looking forward to spending New Year's with

Penelope in Los Angeles, finally taking her up on her offer to visit

and buying my ticket the moment I learned my work schedule.

Christmas was two weeks away, and our Monday-morning staff

meeting was more frantic than ever. I was daydreaming about how

Pen and I would soon be catching up over Bloody Maiys in shorts

and flip-flops, beachside, in the middle of winter, when Kelly's

voice broke into my thoughts.

"We've accepted a new client I'm really excited about," Kelly

announced with a huge smile. "As of today we officially represent

the Association of Istanbul Nightclub Owners."

"There's nightlife in Istanbul?" Leo asked, examining what appeared

to be a flawless cuticle.

"I didn't know they allowed clubs in Syria!" Elisa exclaimed,

looking shocked. "I mean, Muslims don't even drink, right?"

"Istanbul's in Turkey, Elisa," Leo said, looking pleased with

himself. "And even though it's a Muslim country, it's really, really

westernized and there's, like, total separation of church and state.

Or mosque and state, I guess I should say."

Kelly grinned. "Exactly, Leo, that's exactly right. As you all

know, we're ready to expand to international clients, and I think

this will be a perfect start. The association is made up of nearly

thirty club owners in greater Istanbul, and they're looking for

someone to promote the city's active night scene. And they've chosen

us."

"I didn't know people went to Turkey to party," Elisa sniffed. "I

mean, it's not exactly Ibiza, is it?"

"Well, that's precisely why they need our assistance," Kelly

said. "It's my understanding that Istanbul is a cosmopolitan city,

really very chic, and they have no problem drawing all sorts of fabulous

Europeans who love the beaches and clubs and cheap shopping.

But tourism has suffered since nine-eleven and they want to

reach out to Americans—especially young ones—and show them

that partying in Istanbul is just as accessible as going to Europe,

more affordable
and
exotic. It's our job to make them
the
destination."

"And how, exactly, are we going to do that?" Leo asked, studying

the buckle on his Gucci belt and looking supremely bored.

"Well, for starters, you'll have to get acquainted with what

we're trying to promote. Which is why you'll all be spending New

Year's in Istanbul. Skye will stay behind with me to keep things

running here. You leave December twenty-eighth."

"What?" I almost shouted. "We're going to
Turkey? In two

weeks?"
I felt a combination of horror at telling Penelope I wouldn't

be coming to LA and excitement at the prospect of going somewhere

so amazing.

"Kelly, I agree with Bette. I'm not sure that's such a good idea.

I, like, don't make it a habit to visit war-torn countries," Elisa said.

"I wasn't saying that I didn't want to go," I whispered meekly.

"War-torn? Are you stupid?" Skye asked.

"I don't mind war-torn, I just don't think it sounds all that appealing

to go to some third-world country where the food's dangerous,

the water's unsafe, and you can't get decent room service.

For New Year's? Really?" Leo said, looking at Kelly.

"See, this is part of the problem," Kelly said, keeping her cool

far better than I would have in her position. "Turkey is a Western

democracy. They're trying to join the EU. There's a Four Seasons

and a Ritz and a Kempinski right in town. There's a Versace boutique,

for chrissake. I have the utmost confidence that you'll all be

perfectly comfortable. Your only requirement while you're there is

to check out as many clubs and lounges and restaurants as humanly

possible. Take cute clothes. Drink the champagne they'll

give you. Shop. Lay out. Party as often and as much as you can

manage. Ring in the new year together. And, of course, entertain

your guests."

"Guests? The nightclub owners, you mean? I am not fucking

whoring myself out to some Turkish club owners, Kelly! Not even

for you," Elisa said, folding her arms across her chest in a show of

moral fortitude.

Kelly grinned. "That's funny." She paused for emphasis. "But

fear not, young Elisa. The guests to which I'm referring are a carefully

selected group of tastemakers from right here in Manhattan."

Elisa's head snapped to attention. "Who? Who's coming? What

do you mean? We'll have fabulous people with us?" she asked.

Davide and Leo perked up, too. We all sat, leaning slightly forward,

waiting for Kelly to give us the full scoop. "Well, we haven't

gotten final confirmations from everyone yet, but so far we have

commitments from Marlena Bergeron, Emanuel de Silva, Monica

Templeton, Oliver Montrachon, Alessandra Uribe Sandoval, and

Camilla von Alburg. It helps that there's nothing really major

planned here for New Year's Eve—everyone's looking for something

to do. You'll all fly via private jet and stay at the Four Seasons.

The client will take care of everything: cars, drinks, dinners,

whatever you'll need to show them—and the photographers—a

good time."

"Private jet?" I murmured.

"Photographers? Please tell me you're not sending us over there

with a planeload of paparazzi," Elisa whined.

"Just the usual; there won't be more than three, and all are

freelance, so they won't be tied down to any one publication.

Throw in three—maybe four—writers, and we should get some

fantastic coverage."

I considered this information. In less than two weeks, I'd be en

route to Istanbul, Turkey, charged with drinking, dancing, and

lounging by the pool of one of the world's nicest hotels, my only

real assignment having to keep a carefully selected handful of socialites

and scenesters plied with enough alcohol and drugs to ensure

that they were drunk enough to look happy in pictures but

still coherent enough to say something remotely intelligible to the

reporters. The party pictures would be splashed across all the

weekly tabloids and papers when we got home, and the captions