Everyone Worth Knowing (8 page)

and I think that dreary job of yours was suppressing it all."

He placed his huge, well-manicured hands around my middle and

almost shrieked. "What is this I see? A waist? By God, Simon, the

girl's got her figure back. Christ, you look like you've spent the last

few weeks getting lipoed in all the right places. Welcome back,

darling!" He raised one of the martinis that Simon had made for all

of us (Will was no longer permitted to make the drinks because of

his notoriously heavy-handed pouring) and simultaneously removed

the charcoal wool hat he'd been wearing since before I was

born.

Simon smiled and raised his glass as well, clinking ours

lightly so as not to splash any of the precious liquid. I, of course,

wasn't so careful and slightly soaked my jeans in the boozy mixture.

I would've licked it off the denim directly had I been alone. Ahem.

"There," Will announced. "It's official. So what will be next?

Writing for a magazine? A stint in fashion, perhaps? I hear
Vogue
is

hiring right now."

"Oh, come on." I sighed, resenting being made to think about

it at all.
"Vogue?
You think I'm in any way equipped or qualified to

work for that editor in chief—what's her name?"

Simon chimed in here. "Anna Wintour. And no on both

counts."

"No? Well, what about
Bazaar,
then?" Will asked.

"Will . . ."I looked down at my scuffed, ugly flats and back at

him again. I might have graduated from Birkenstocks and pigtail

braids, but I was still fully entrenched in the post-college Ann Taylor

work wardrobe.

"Oh, stop your whining, darling. You'll find something. Remember,

you're always welcome to join me, you know. If you get

truly desperate, that is." Will had been mentioning this as delicately

as possible since I was in high school, the offhand comment about

how much fun it would be to work together, or how I had natural

talent as a researcher and a writer. My parents had saved every

essay I'd ever written and sent copies to Will, who had sent me a

huge flower arrangement my sophomore year when I'd declared

myself an English major. The card had read
TO THE FUTURE COLUMNIST

OF THE FAMILY.
He mentioned often how he'd love to show me

the ropes because he thought it'd be something I could really get

into. And I didn't doubt that part. It was only that recently his

columns had become more like conservative rants and less like the

society-and-entertainment commentary readers had been slavishly

devoted to for years. He was a master at this very specific genre,

never bothering to cover outright gossip but also never taking himself

too seriously. At least until recently, when he'd written a thousand

words on why the United Nations was the devil incarnate (A

summary: "Why, in this age of super-technology, do all those

diplomats in New York City need to physically be here, taking up

all the best parking places and the best tables at restaurants,

adding to the non-Knglish-speaking environment in the city? Why

can't they just email their votes from their respective countries?

Why should we have to deal with gridlock and security nightmares

when no one listens to them anyway? And if they absolutely refuse

to work electronically from their home countries, why don't we

move the whole production to Lincoln, Nebraska, and see if they're

all still dying to come here to better the world?") Part of me would

love to learn his business, but it just seemed too easy. Hey, what

luck! Your uncle is a famous, highly syndicated columnist, and you

just happen to work for him. He had a small staff of researchers

and assistants who I knew would resent the hell out of me if I

stepped in and started writing right away. I was also worried about

ruining a good thing: since Will was my only family nearby, a dear

friend, and soon to be my entire social life now that Penelope was

getting married, it didn't seem like the best idea to work together

all day.

"According to my ex-boss, I haven't yet mastered the ideals put

forth in a single quote of the day. I'm not sure that's someone

you'd want working for you."

"Puh-lease! You'd be better than those kids in my office who

pretend to be fact-checking while they're updating their nerve.com

profiles with seductive pictures and grotesquely unoriginal comeons."

He snorted. "I applaud a complete and utter lack of work

ethic, you know. How else could I write such trash every day?" He

finished his drink with an appreciative swallow and pushed himself

off the leather divan. "Just something to consider, is all. Now, let's

go. We've got a dinner party to oversee."

I sighed. "Okay, but I can't stay the entire time. I've got book

club tonight."

"Really, darling? That sounds like it borders on social. What are

you reading?"

I thought quickly and blurted out the first socially acceptable

title that came to mind.
"Moby-Dick."

Simon turned and stared at me. "You're reading
Moby-Dick?
Are

you
serious?"

"Of course she's not." Will laughed. "She's reading
Passion and

Pain in Pennsylvania,
or something to that effect. Can't quite kick

the habit, can you, darling?"

"You don't understand, Will." I turned to face Simon. "No matter

how many times I've explained it to him, he refuses to understand."

"Understand what, exactly? How my lovely and highly intelligent

English-major niece not only reads but obsesses over romance

novels? You're right, darling, I can't understand."

I stared at my feet, feigning unfathomable shame.
"The Very

Bad Boy
is brand new . . . and highly anticipated. I'm hardly

alone—it's one of the most preordered books on Amazon and had

a mailing delay of three weeks after publication!"

Will looked at Simon, shaking his head in disbelief. "Darling, I

just don't understand
why.
Why?"

Why? Why? How could I ever answer that question? It was

something I'd asked myself a million times. It had started innocently

enough, with the discovery of an abandoned copy of
Hot

and Heavy
in the back pocket of a plane seat during a flight from

Poughkeepsie to Washington, D.C. I was thirteen and old enough

to sense that I should hide it from my parents, which I did. The

damn thing was so good that I claimed a sore throat when we got

to the hotel and begged out of the NARAL march they were both

attending so I could finish reading it. I learned to recognize romance

novels instantly, ferreting out the right library shelves in

seconds, slipping them off the wire turn-carts at the bookstore and

quickly handing over my meager allowance in the pharmacy section

of the drugstore while my mother paid for her purchases up

front. I went through two or three a week, vaguely aware that they

were contraband and therefore keeping them hidden in the little

crawl space of my closet. I read them only after lights-out and always

remembered to restash them before falling asleep.

When I first discovered romances, I was embarrassed by the

obvious suggestions of sex on the cover, and of course by the

graphic depictions inside. Like any teenager, I didn't want my parents

to know that I knew anything about the subject, and sneaked

my reads only when they surely wouldn't see. But by the time I

was about seventeen, maybe a junior or senior in high school, I'd

come out of the closet. I'd accompanied my dad to a local bookstore

to pick up a special order he'd placed, and when it came

time for him to pay, I slid a copy of
Her Royal Bodyguard
onto the

counter, casually murmuring, "I didn't bring my wallet. Can you

buy this now and I'll pay you back when we get home?"

He'd picked it up and held it between two fingers as though it

were roadkill. The expression on his face indicated he found it

about as appetizing. A moment later, he laughed. "Bettina, come

now. Put this awful thing back wherever you found it and

select something worthwhile. I promised your mother we'd be

home in twenty minutes—we don't have time to play around anymore."

I persisted and he bought the book, if only to leave the store as

soon as possible. When he mentioned my purchase at the dinner

table that night, he sounded confused. "You don't actually
read

those things, do you?" he asked, his face scrunched up as though

he was trying to understand.

"Yes," I said simply, my voice not revealing the embarrassment

I felt.

My mother dropped her fork and it clattered on the plate. "You

do not." It sounded like she hoped it would be true if she stated it

forcefully enough. "You can't possibly."

"Oh, but I do," I sang in a halfhearted attempt to lighten the

mood. "And so do fifty million other people, Mom. They're relaxing

and
interesting. I mean, there's agony, ecstasy, and a happy

ending—who could ask for more?" I knew all the facts and figures,

and there was no denying they were impressive. The two thousand

romances published each year create a $1.5 billion industry. Twofifths

of American women buy at least one romance a year. More

than one-third of all popular fiction sold each year are romances. A

Shakespearean scholar (and Columbia professor) had recently admitted

she'd authored dozens of romances. Why should I be

ashamed?

What I didn't tell my parents then—or explain to Will or Simon

now—was how much I loved romances. Escape was part of it, of

course, but life wasn't so miserable that I had to revert to a fantasy

world. It was inspirational to read about two gorgeous people who

overcame all obstacles to be together, who loved each other so

much that they always found a way to make it work. The sex

scenes were a bonus, but more than that, the books always ended

happily, offering such optimism that I couldn't keep myself from

starting another immediately. They were predictable, dependable,

entertaining, and most of all, they depicted love affairs that I could

not deny—no matter how much feminism or political correctness

or women's empowerment my parents could throw at me—I desperately

wanted more than anything in the world. I was conditioned

to compare every single date in my life to The Ideal. I

couldn't help it. I wanted the fairy tale. Which, needless to say,

does not describe Cameron, or most New York liaisons between

men and women. But I wouldn't stop hoping—not yet.

Was I about to explain this to Simon? Clearly not. Which is why

I laughed and made some self-deprecating remark like "I just can't

handle the real stuff" whenever someone asked why I read the

books.

"Oh, whatever." I laughed lightly, not making eye contact with

Will or Simon. "It's a silly little thing 1 got into as a kid and haven't