Everyone Worth Knowing (67 page)

now that I no longer worked at Kelly & Company or dated Philip, I

didn't warrant any mention at all. There was also the possibility

that her affair with Avery had ended. Either way, I hadn't stopped

praying for her demise.

"Happy birthday, Bette!"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, thanks. But listen, have you seen the
Post

yet?"

She laughed for a full minute, and I got the distinct feeling I

was missing something. "My gift to you, Bette. Happy twentyeighth!"

"What are you saying? I don't understand what's going on. Did

you have something to do with this?" I asked with such hopefulness

it was almost humiliating.

"You might say that," she said coyly.

"Pen! Tell me this instant what happened! This might just be

the best day of my life. Explain!"

"Okay, calm down. It was all very innocent, actually—it just

sort of fell into my lap."

"What did?"

"The information that our dear friend Abby is not a college

graduate."

"And how, exactly, did that happen?"

"Well, after my ex-fiance told me he was screwing her—"

"Correction, Pen. He told you he was screwing
someone
—I told

you he was screwing
her,"
I added helpfully.

"Right. So anyway, after I found out they were screwing, I had

the inclination to write her a little letter and tell her what I

thought."

"What does this have to do with her not graduating?" I was too

eager for the dirt to endure the extraneous details.

"Bette, I'm getting there! I didn't want to email her because

there's always the potential that it'll get forwarded to a million people,

but her address in New York is unlisted—she must think she's

some kind of celebrity, and people would just beat down her door

to catch a glimpse of the star herself. I called New York Scoop, but

they wouldn't give it out. That's when it occurred to me to call

Emory."

"Okay, I'm following so far."

"I figured that as a fellow graduate, I'd have no trouble getting

her address from them. I called the alumni center and told them I

was looking for a classmate, that we'd lost touch but I wanted to

invite her to my wedding."

"Nice touch," I said.

"Thanks, I thought so. Anyway, they checked their records and

told me they had no one under that name. I'll save you all the gory

details, but basically a few more minutes of digging revealed that

while darling Abby matriculated with us, she didn't manage to

graduate with our class—or ever."

"Jesus. I think I see where this is going, and I could not be

more proud right now."

"Well, it gets better. I was on the phone with a girl at the registrar's

office. She swore me to secrecy and then told me that the

reason Abby withdrew three credits short was because the dean of

arts and sciences found out Abby was sleeping with her husband

and suggested that she withdraw immediately. We never knew because

Abby never told anyone; she just stuck around campus until

the rest of us graduated."

"Amazing," I breathed. "And yet not at all surprising."

"Yeah, well, it only took a few minutes from there to set up an

anonymous Hotmail account, let the good folks at New York Scoop

know that their star columnist wasn't a college graduate, and give

them a little clue as to why she'd departed without a degree. I

called their offices every day asking for her until I was told yesterday

that she was no longer with the paper, at which time I sent a

helpful little anonymous tip to Page Six as well."

"Ohmigod, Penelope, you evil bitch. I didn't think you had it in

you!"

"So, as I said before, happy birthday! I found out about it

months ago, when I wrote the letter, but I thought if I waited, it

would make a fine birthday present. Consider it my gift to you.

And myself," she added.

We hung up, and I was unabashedly elated, imagining Abby

walking the streets, panhandling, or—better yet—wearing a McDonald's

apron. When the phone rang again within seconds, I

snapped it open without looking first.

"What else?" I said, assuming it was Penelope calling back with

some forgotten juicy tidbit.

"Hello?" I heard a male voice say. "Bette?"

Ohmigod, it was Sammy. Sammy! Saaaaaaaammmmmy! I

wanted to sing and dance and scream his name to the entire coffee

shop.

"Hiiiii," I breathed, barely able to believe that the call I'd

waited nearly four months for—the call I'd
willed
to arrive—was finally

happening.

He laughed at my obvious joy. "It's good to hear your voice."

"Yours, too," I said much too quickly. "How have you been?"

"Good, good. I opened up a place, finally, and—"

"I know, I've been reading all about it. Congratulations! It's a

huge success, and I think that's just incredible!" I was dying to

know how he'd managed to put it together so quickly, but I

wasn't going to risk anything by asking a thousand annoying

questions.

"Yeah, thanks. So, look, I'm kind of racing around, but 1 just

wanted to call and—"

Oh. He had the tone of someone who'd moved on, most likely

had a new girlfriend who had a fulfilling job helping other

people . . . someone who didn't own a pair of tattered, stained

sweatpants but who always lounged around the apartment in the

cutest silk pajama sets. Someone who—

" . . . and see if you'll have dinner with me tonight?"

I waited to make sure I'd heard him right, but neither of us

ended up saying anything. "Dinner?" I tentatively ventured.

"Tonight?"

"You probably have plans, don't you? I'm sorry to call at the

last minute, I just—"

"No, no plans," I shouted before he could change his mind. No

chance of playing it cool, either, but suddenly that didn't seem to

matter. I hadn't missed a brunch or a Thursday dinner since I'd quit

Kelly & Company, so Will would just have to understand about

tonight. "I can totally have dinner."

I could hear him smiling through the phone. "Great. Why don't

I swing by your place around seven? We can have a drink in your

neighborhood, and then I'd like to bring you by the restaurant. If

that sounds okay . . ."

"Okay? That sounds perfect, just perfect," I gushed. "Seven? I'll

see you then." And I snapped my phone shut before I could say

one word to fuck it up. Fate. It was absolutely, positively, undeniably

fate that had inspired Sammy to call on my birthday: a sign

that we were, most definitely, destined to be together forever. I

was debating whether or not to tell him that I turned twenty-eight

that day when it occurred to me that I was going to
see
him that

night.

My preparations were frenzied. I called Will from the cab on

my way home, begging his forgiveness, but he merely laughed and

told me that he'd happily take a rain check if it meant I was finally

going out with a boy. I raced into the corner nail place for a

quickie manicure and pedicure and then threw in a ten-dollar, tenminute

chair massage to try to relax. Penelope took charge of stylist

duties and assembled multiple outfit pieces, including three

dresses and an intricately beaded tank top, two pairs of shoes, four

bags, and her entire stash of jewelry, which had recently been supplemented

by her parents in an attempt to cajole her out of mourning.

She dropped them off and left, planning to spend the night

with Michael and Megu and wait for an update from me. I tried

things on and discarded them, frantically straightened the apartment,

danced to Pat Benatar's "We Belong" with Millington in my

arms, and, finally, sat demurely on the couch and waited for

Sammy's arrival exactly one hour before he was due.

When Seamus rang my buzzer, I thought I might cease breathing.

Sammy arrived at my door a moment later. He had never

looked so good. He was wearing some sort of shirt/jacket/no-tie

combo that came across as stylish and sophisticated without trying

too hard, and I noticed that he'd let his hair grow to that perfect

length that wasn't really short or long—Hugh Grant-ish, if I had to

explain it. He smelled both soapy and minty when he leaned forward

to kiss my cheek, and had I not been death-gripping the

door frame, I would've surely collapsed.

"It's really great to see you, Bette," he said, taking my hand

and leading me toward the elevator. I walked effortlessly in my

borrowed D&G sandals and felt pretty and feminine in a skirt

that skimmed my knees and a summerweight cashmere cardigan

that revealed just the right amount of cleavage. It was just like

all the Harlequins always said it was: even though it had been

months since we'd last seen each other, it felt like not a single

day had passed.

"You, too," I managed, content to just gaze at his profile all

night.

He led me to a charming neighborhood wine bar three blocks

west, where we settled into a back table and immediately began

talking. I was delighted to see that he hadn't really changed at all.

"Tell me how you've been," he said, sipping from the glass of

Syrah he'd expertly ordered. "What have you been up to?"

"No, no, no way. I'm not the one with the hugely exciting

news," I said.
Well, isn't that the understatement of the century?
I

thought. "I think I've read pretty much every word they've written

about you, and it all sounds so fantastic!"

"Yeah, well, I got lucky. Really lucky." He coughed and looked

slightly uncomfortable. "Bette, I, ah, I've got something to tell you."

Oh, Christ. There was no possible way that was a good sign,

none whatsoever. I chided myself for my premature enthusiasm,

for thinking that the fact that Sammy had called—and on my birthday,

no less—meant anything more than he was just being friendly

and making good on a promise between old friends. It was those

goddamn Harlequins—they were the problem. I vowed to quit

those miserable things: because they just made it too easy to maintain

totally unreasonable expectations. I mean, Dominick or Enrique

never said "I've got something to tell you" before asking the

woman of their dreams to marry them. Those were clearly the

words of a man about to announce that he was in love—just

not with me. I didn't think I could handle even a whiff of bad

news.

"Oh, really?" I managed to say, folding my arms across my

chest in an unconscious attempt to brace myself for the news.

"What's that?"

Another strange look crossed his face, and then we were interrupted

by the waiter placing the check in front of Sammy. "Sorry to

rush you out, guys, but we're closing now for a private party. I'll

take this as soon as you're ready."

I wanted to scream. Hearing that Sammy was in love with a

swimsuit model cum Mother Teresa was going to be hard