Читать книгу Lauren Weisberger 3-Book Collection: Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont - Лорен Вайсбергер, Lauren Weisberger, Lauren Weisberger - Страница 16

The sound of an angry male voice jolted me awake. I wondered briefly if there was actually someone standing above the bed, driving a shovel into my head. The throbbing was so steady it was almost comforting, until I realized that I was not, in fact, in my own bed. Nor was last night’s all-black-all-wrong outfit in sight; instead, I was wearing a pair of unnervingly tight gray Calvin Klein boxer briefs and a giant white T-shirt that read SPORTS CLUB LA. Don’t panic, I instructed myself, trying to make out the words of the faraway male voice. Think. Where were you and what were you doing last night? Considering that I was not in the general habit of blacking out and waking up in strange places, I congratulated myself on a good start. Let’s see. Elisa called, dinner at Cipriani’s, cab to Bungalow 8, everyone at a table, dancing with … some tan British guy. Shit. The last thing I remember is dancing with a nameless man in a club and now I’m in a bed – albeit a huge, comfortable one with extremely soft sheets – I don’t recognize.

‘How many times do I have to tell you? You simply cannot wash Pratesi sheets in hot water!’ The male voice was shouting now. I jumped out of bed and checked for escape routes, but a quick glance out the window told me we were at least twenty floors off the ground.

‘Yes, sir, I am sorry, sir,’ said a whimpering female voice with a Spanish accent.

‘I’m keen to believe that, Manuela, I really am. I’m a reasonable bloke, but this just cannot continue. I’m afraid I have to dismiss you.’

‘But, sir, if I can just—’

‘I’m sorry, Manuela, but my decision is final. I’ll pay you your wages for the rest of the week, but that will be all.’ I heard some rustling and muffled crying, and then there was nothing but silence until a door slammed shut a few minutes later.

My stomach sent me the signal that it wasn’t going to tolerate its hangover much longer, and I glanced around frantically to locate the bathroom. I was rooting around for my clothes, debating whether it was better for him to see me half-clothed or throwing up since there clearly wasn’t time to remedy both issues, when he walked in.

‘Hello,’ he said, barely glancing in my direction. ‘Are you feeling all right? You were fairly pissed last night.’

His appearance distracted me to such an extent that I actually forgot I was about to be sick. He looked even tanner than I remembered, which was only highlighted by a skintight white T-shirt, flowy white pants, and some of the straightest, brightest teeth I’ve ever seen in a British mouth. He was like Enrique in The Tycoon’s Virgin Bride, his looks utterly begging to be on a dust jacket.

‘Uh, yeah, I guess I was. This, uh, has never really happened to me before. I’m afraid I don’t even remember your name.’

He seemed to remember that I was an actual person and not a bed adornment, and sat down next to me on the pillow.

‘I’m Philip. Philip Weston. And don’t worry about it – I only brought you back here because I couldn’t get two taxis and didn’t want to maneuver to the East Side. Nothing happened. I’m not some rapist. I’m an attorney, actually,’ he said with not a little pride in a thick, upper-crust English accent.

‘Oh, well, thanks so much. I really didn’t think I drank that much, but I don’t remember anything after dancing with you.’

‘Yes, well, it happens. Stressful fucking morning so far, don’t you think? I loathe having my post-yoga calm shattered by rubbish like this.’

‘Yeah.’ He didn’t just wake up in a stranger’s bed, but I wasn’t feeling great about my arguing position.

‘My housekeeper was washing my Pratesi sheets in scalding-hot water. I mean, what bloody good are they if you have to double-check every move they make? Can you imagine what a disaster it would’ve been if I hadn’t spotted it?’

Gay. He was definitely gay. He wasn’t Enrique, but Enrique’s fey friend Emilio. This was a tremendous relief.

‘What would have happened, exactly?’ I washed my own sheets in hot water and dried them on high because it seemed like the best way to make them softer faster. But then again, I’d bought them at Macy’s and admittedly didn’t spend all that much time thinking about it.

‘What would have happened? Are you serious?’ He strode across the room and spritzed some Helmut Lang cologne on his neck. ‘She would’ve burned out the thread count, that’s what! Those sheets cost twenty-eight hundred pounds for a king set, and she would have destroyed them!’ He put the bottle down and began patting what I hoped was aftershave but was more likely moisturizer into his golden skin. I did a quick calculation: four thousand dollars.

‘Oh. I guess I didn’t understand. I, uh, I didn’t know sheets could be that expensive. But I’m sure if I paid that much for them, I’d be concerned, too.’

‘Yes, well, I’m sorry you had to endure all that.’ He pulled the T-shirt over his head to reveal a completely bare, perfectly sculpted chest. It was almost a shame he was gay, considering just how good-looking he was. He closed the bathroom door briefly and turned the shower on, and then a few minutes later he emerged wearing only a towel. Pulling a dress shirt and suit from the oak-paneled walk-in closet, he handed me my clothes in a neatly folded pile and discreetly left the room while I stripped.

‘Will you be all right getting home?’ Philip called from what sounded like a million miles away. ‘I must be off to work. Early meeting.’

Work. Jesus Christ, I’d completely and entirely forgotten that I was currently employed, but a quick check of the bedside clock reassured me that it was only a little after seven. He’d already been to yoga and back, and we couldn’t have possibly gotten home before three in the morning. I had a brief but intense flashback to the one and only time I’d gone to yoga. I’d been fumbling through my first class for thirty minutes when the teacher had announced thirty seconds into our current pose – the half-moon pose, to be precise – that it was equivalent to eight hours of sleep. I’d accidentally snorted and she’d asked me if there was a problem. Luckily I’d been able to restrain myself from asking what was really on my mind: namely, why had no one before enlightened us to the miracle of the half-moon pose? Why, for all these centuries, have humans wasted a third of their lifetimes sleeping when they could’ve just bent at the waist for one half of one minute? Instead, I mumbled something about it being a ‘really cool concept’ and sneaked out when she wasn’t looking.

Philip’s hallway was longer than the entire length of my apartment, and I had to follow the sound of his voice to find the right room. Colorful abstracts hung on the walls and the dark-stained wood floors – real wood, not New York parquet – highlighted the stark, metal-frame furniture. The entire place looked like a Ligne Roset floor sample, as though it had been plucked directly from the showroom and put back together in this guy’s apartment. I counted a total of three full bathrooms, two bedrooms, a living room, and a study (complete with floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases, two Mac G4 computers, and a wine rack) before I found him leaning against his granite counter-top, feeding blood oranges into a high-tech juicer. I didn’t even own a can opener.

‘You do yoga? I don’t know any guys who do yoga.’ Any straight guys, that is, I thought to myself.

‘Of course. It’s smashing strength training, and I love how it clears your mind as well. Very American, I suppose, but worthwhile nonetheless. You should try it with me.’ And before I knew what was happening, he lifted me up on the counter, pushed my knees apart so he could come closer, and began kissing my neck.

Instinctively, I jumped off the counter, which resulted only in my pushing even farther into him.

‘I thought, well, um, aren’t you …’

Two clear green eyes stared back at me, waiting.

‘It’s just that, uh, considering last night and the whole, you know, Pratesi thing and the yoga class …’

Still waiting. No help here.

‘Aren’t you gay?’ I held my breath, hoping he wasn’t still in the closet or, worse, out but self-hating.

‘Gay?’

‘Yeah, as in, liking guys.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Well, I don’t know, it just seemed—’

‘Gay? You think I’m a homosexual?’

I felt like I was roaming around on the set of some sort of reality TV show where everyone was in on the secret but me. Clues, so many clues, but no real information. I was trying to piece it all together as quickly as possible, but nothing was quite working out.

‘Well, of course, I don’t know you at all. It’s just that, well, you dress so nicely and seem to care a lot about your apartment and, uh, you have Helmut Lang cologne. My friend Michael wouldn’t even know who Helmut Lang is …’

He flashed those shiny teeth once more and tousled my hair like one would a toddler’s. ‘Perhaps you’re just spending time with the wrong blokes? I assure you, I’m very, very straight. I’ve just learned to appreciate the finer things. Come now, there’s time to give you a lift home if we hurry.’ He shrugged on a cashmere sweater and grabbed his keys.

We didn’t say anything at all in the elevator ride to the lobby, but darling Philip did manage to pin me against the wall and nibble on my lips, which somehow felt utterly disgusting and heart-stoppingly amazing all at once.

‘Mmm, you’re delicious. Come here, let me taste you one last time.’ But before he could once again use my face as his own personal Chupa pop, the doors swept open and two uniformed doormen turned to witness our arrival.

‘Bugger off,’ Philip announced, walking ahead of me and raising his hand up, palm forward, to the grinning men. ‘I don’t want to hear it today.’

They snickered, obviously accustomed to the routine of Philip escorting strange women out of his apartment, and silently pulled open the door. It wasn’t until we stepped outside that I had any idea where we were: Christopher and Greenwich, all the way west, about a block from the river. The famous Archives building.

‘Where do you live?’ he asked, pulling a silver helmet out from underneath the seat of a Vespa, which was resting under a monogrammed tarp three feet from the building’s entrance.

‘Murray Hill. Is that okay?’

He laughed, not nicely. ‘I don’t know, you tell me. I sure wouldn’t clamor to live in Murray Hill, but hey, whatever turns you on.’

‘I meant,’ I said tightly, no longer even attempting to keep up with his psycho-style mood swings, ‘is it okay for you to drop me off? I can certainly take a cab.’

‘Whatever you want, love. No worries for me. My office is midtown east, so you’re right on the way.’ He occupied himself by fishing his keys from his pants pocket and securing his Hermès bag to the back of the bike. Scooter. ‘Let’s just get a move on, okay? People are needing me right now.’ He swung his legs over the bike and deigned to look my way. ‘So?’

I was momentarily speechless, until he actually snapped his fingers. ‘C’mon, sweetheart, decision time here. Ride or not? It’s not so difficult. You sure didn’t seem this indecisive last night. …’

I’ve always harbored the classic girl fantasy of having a real reason to slap some jerk across the face, and the opportunity had just presented itself in Technicolor. But I was dumbfounded by the finger snapping and the suggestion that something actually had happened last night, so I just turned my back and began walking down the block.

He called out, sounding almost worried, ‘You don’t have to be so sensitive, love. I was just kidding around. Absolutely nothing went down last night. Not you, not me. …’ I heard him chuckle at his own cleverness, but I just kept walking.

‘Fine. Be that way. I don’t have time for the drama right now, but I’ll track you down. Seriously, it’s not often a woman can resist my charms, so consider me duly intrigued. Leave your number with my doorman and I’ll give you a call.’ The Vespa’s engine caught and he sped away, and although I’d just been insulted and abandoned, I still felt like I’d somehow won … if he was telling the truth, of course, and I actually hadn’t slept with him in a wasted stupor.

The victory lasted all of forty minutes, during which time I jumped in a cab, raced home, took a washcloth-bath in the bathroom sink, and applied copious amounts of deodorant to my underarms, baby powder to my scalp, and scented moisturizer everywhere else. I raced around the apartment looking for clean clothes and wondered how I would ever manage to be a good mother when I couldn’t even remember to care for my own dog. Millington was sulking in the corner under the coffee table, punishing me for abandoning her the previous evening. She’d also peed on my pillow for good measure, but there wasn’t time to clean it up. I managed to wedge between the throngs of commuters and arrive at the office at exactly one minute after nine. I was fantasizing about devouring the only known hangover cure, a large street coffee and bacon, egg, and cheese on a buttered roll, when Elisa motioned me over. She’d saved a space near the sunniest window and appeared to be quite eager to talk to me.

The office was a giant rectangle, surrounded on all sides by sleek leather couches and sitting areas. There weren’t technically individual desks, just two giant, half-moon-shaped tables that formed a circle with two small breaks where the half-moons didn’t quite meet, allowing access to the shared faxes and printers in the middle. We each had our own laptop that we could either lock in the closet or take home at night, and workspace was doled out on a first-come-first-served basis every morning. We all scrambled to sit in the two or three spots around the circle where Kelly couldn’t see your computer screen from her office, and Elisa had managed to snag a few feet of prime space. I dropped my laptop on the table and very carefully removed the coffee from its paper bag, taking care not to spill a single golden drop. Elisa was practically panting.

‘Oh, Bette, sit the hell down already. Tell me everything, I can barely stand it.’

‘Tell you what? I had a great time last night. Thanks for inviting me.’

‘Shut up!’ she was squealing, which appeared to be her only method of communication. ‘How was …’ Pause. Deep breath. ‘Philippe?’

‘Philippe? Don’t you mean Philip? He sure didn’t seem French to me.’

‘Oh, God, you are truly missing the point. He’s absolutely fabulous, don’t you think?’

‘Actually, I thought he was kind of a jerk,’ I said, which was partially true. This also made him tremendously intriguing, of course, but it didn’t seem necessary to admit that.

Elisa inhaled sharply and fixed her gaze on my face. ‘What did you say?’ she whispered.

‘I said, I thought—’

‘I heard you.’ She was nearly growling now. ‘I just can’t imagine why you’d say something like that. You sure looked like you were having fun when you were all over him on the dance floor. He’s pretty good, huh? Who said practice doesn’t make perfect?’

She very well could’ve still been talking about dancing, but something in her expression, now dreamy and slightly far-off, indicated otherwise.

‘Elisa, what do you mean?’

‘Oh, Bette, come on! This is Philip Weston we’re talking about here.’

‘And that should mean something to me?’

‘Ohmigod, Bette, this is so humiliating for you. Are you serious? You have no idea who he is?’ She began ticking things off on her fingers, one by one. ‘Graduate of Eton and Oxford, with a law degree from Yale? Youngest lawyer ever to be named partner at Simpson Thacher? Grandfather is a duke; father owns the majority of land between London and Manchester, with additional large chunks in Edinburgh? Trust fund large enough to rival the country’s national debt? Ex-boyfriend of Gwyneth, current boy toy of multiple Victoria’s Secret models, and crowned “Nightlife Adonis” by none other than Vanity Fair. Any of this ringing any bells?’ She was almost panting at this point.

‘Not really,’ I said, trying to synthesize everything she’d said while the sound of blood rushed through my ears. A duke? Gwyneth??

‘It’s so ironic,’ she mumbled to herself. ‘Every girl on the planet makes it her lifelong goal to have sex with Philip Weston and you go and do it without even knowing who he is? It’s almost too much.’

‘Have sex with him? What?’ If by ‘having sex’ you mean ‘listening as he fires the maid for gross neglect of $4,000 sheets,’ then yes, we had a mind-blowing night.

‘Bette! Give up the “I’m so innocent” routine. We all saw you last night!’

At that exact moment, it was impossible to comprehend anything other than the fact that the same man who used to have sex with Gwyneth Paltrow had not only seen me naked, but had also witnessed period underwear, unshaved legs, and a viciously overgrown bikini line.

‘Nothing happened,’ I muttered, wondering how quickly I could pack my bags, change my name, and move to Bhutan.

‘Riiiiight.’ She smiled lasciviously.

‘No, really. Granted, I woke up at his place, and granted, I was wearing his clothes, but absolutely nothing happened.’

She looked dumbfounded and disappointed. ‘How is that even possible? He’s much too gorgeous to resist.’

‘Did you sleep with him, Elisa?’ I asked teasingly.

She looked as though she’d been slapped. ‘No!’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest … I was just kidding, I didn’t think you had—’

‘Way to rub it in, is all. I’ve only been lusting after him forever now, but he barely even glances in my direction. I see him out all the time, of course, and he, like, totally knows who I am, so maybe it’s just a matter of time. …’ Her voice once again took on a dreamy quality.

I coughed and she snapped back to attention. I was just about to be flattered by the fact that Philip had taken me home last night when he could have had Elisa instead, but I didn’t have a chance to revel.

‘I mean, the boy will sleep with any decent-looking girl he can get his hands on, so I just don’t understand what’s wrong with me,’ she said tonelessly.

‘Any girl?’ I asked, still determined to hold on to the illusion that I might be his one and only.

‘Well, pretty much any hot girl, which is why I can’t understand why he doesn’t respond to me. Maybe he just doesn’t like his women thin.’

Ouch. Unintentional, but painful. I waited while she continued with her stock-taking.

‘Let’s see. Skye dated him, but that was years ago, way before he became who he is now. So did one of the List Girls – the pretty one – and that girl who was on the cover of Marie Claire last month, and a solid handful of the hottest girls at Condé Nast.’ She continued to tick off names of beautiful and social girls, some that I recognized from years of idly reading the gossip columns and party pages, but I could barely hear her. Luckily, she only hit about a dozen before Kelly bounded from her office and called for me to enter her animal-print hell – the whole room was done in a hallucinogenic mixture of zebra, leopard, and tiger fabrics, replete with oversized furry pillows and a giant, spotted shag rug.

‘Hey there, Bette. How is everything?’ she said happily, closing the door and motioning for me to take a seat on a chair covered in what felt like actual skin and hair.

‘Uh, great. It’s been a great first week so far.’

‘I’m so glad! I think so, too!’ Biggest smile yet.

‘Uh, yeah. Seriously, I’m so happy to be here, and I promise I’ll get all this stuff down as quickly as possible so I can start actually contributing instead of just watching,’ I said with what sounded to me like a reasonable level of sobriety and coherence.

‘Uh-huh, that’s nice. So tell me about last night!’ She clasped her hands together and leaned forward.

‘Oh, right, last night. Yeah, I went to dinner with Elisa and Skye and Leo and a couple others and we had such a nice night. It’s a really great group of people you have here. Of course, I won’t always let them keep me out so late. …’ I laughed, trying to sound casual, since I wasn’t exactly used to discussing nights out with my boss. Aaron most certainly hadn’t been my go-to morning-after confidant, but Kelly seemed eager for it.

‘You mean, you won’t let them keep you out until the next morning …’ She grinned and let her words trail off.

Ahem. I suspected we were toeing the line between personal and professional, and I wasn’t about to cross it. ‘It was a great dinner! I just love everyone who works here.’ A slightly inane non sequitur, but it was the only thing that came to mind.

She leaned forward, brushing her side-swept bangs even more to the left, and placed her elbows on the rough-hewn wooden desk. ‘Bette, dear, you can’t expect to, ah, spend the night with Philip Weston and not have the entire world know about it. Here, look.’ She thrust a piece of computer paper across the table. My hands shook as I took it.

I recognized it immediately as that day’s edition of the column that Abby and Elisa had been talking about the night before, New York Scoop. It had been printed from the Scoop’s website and the headline read: MYSTERY GIRL CHECKS INTO WESTON’S HOTEL. The story went on to detail how Philip had been ‘accosted’ at Bungalow 8 the previous evening by a ‘pretty young thing’ who some sources ‘have fingered as a new hire at Kelly & Company. Keep it tuned right here to see if she resurfaces anytime soon …’ The byline at the bottom of the piece read ‘Ellie Insider.’ That’s a stupid name, I thought.

Despite the ‘pretty young thing’ semi-compliment that was undoubtedly supplied to fill space, my stomach dropped and I looked at Kelly in horror.

‘I’m working feverishly alongside half of Manhattan trying to figure out who Ellie Insider is. It’s fucking brilliant. Do you believe how quickly they get things posted? I suppose that’s the benefit of having it online, although I still can’t help feeling that these, these, blogs are just little diaries for people who can’t actually get published.’

‘Kelly, it’s so not what it looks like. I can explain. It’s just that after dinner, we—’

‘Bette, I know exactly what happened. And I’m thrilled!’

‘You are?’ I was certain this was just her convoluted way of firing me.

‘Of course! Look, this is an ideal scenario. Philip Weston, Bungalow 8, a mention for the office. The only thing I ask is that next time you make sure the real Page Six is watching, too. This is a solid mention, but the column’s still pretty new, and not completely up to par yet with its circ numbers.’

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. She didn’t seem to notice, though.

‘He’s amazing, isn’t he? Just between you and me, I’ve always had a thing for him.’

‘You have? For Philip?’

‘Ohmigod, girl, who hasn’t? He’s splendid. Not only is he all boldfaced mentions all the time, he also happens to look amazing without a shirt.’

Her face had taken on the same hazy expression as Elisa’s had earlier. ‘Did you date him?’ I asked, praying with all my energy that the answer was no.

‘Good lord, I wish! Closest I ever came to sleeping with him was watching him take his shirt off at a charity auction where the organizers were selling a date with him. Three hundred other women and I went berserk when he yanked it over his head. Very Coyote Ugly, if you can picture it: wonderful and pathetic all at the same time.’

I let my guard down and forgot – for a split second – that I was talking to my boss. ‘I saw that chest when he got out of the shower this morning, and it was every bit as beautiful as you say,’ I added before I could realize what this implied.

Kelly’s head snapped around, and she stared at me with an odd combination of envy and urgency. ‘I’m assuming that when he calls you again, you’ll go out with him, right?’

This didn’t really sound like a question. ‘Oh, I’m not sure he’ll be calling,’ I mumbled, realizing that absolutely no one would believe we hadn’t slept together.

She peered at me intently and then broke into a wide grin. ‘Bette, sweetie, you might be the last person to realize this, but in your own unique way, you’re beautiful. And it’s a widely known fact that no one loves beautiful girls more than Philip Weston. Of course he will call. And you’ll say yes, right? And naturally, please invite him to all our events or stay out as late as you need to when you’re with him.’

I could feel a weird sense of elation – like a high school crush – rising in my chest.

‘Uh, sure. Okay, I’ll keep that in mind.’ Suddenly, I wanted to hug her.

‘Great. I’m so excited for you! Definitely keep me updated. Should we get started?’

‘Yes, let’s,’ I breathed, relieved to end this very strange discussion. ‘You were going to tell me about The List, right?’

‘Yes. The List. The single most crucial tool for ensuring a firm’s success. We’re nothing without the people we can provide for our clients, so I’ve spent years putting together one of the biggest databases in the industry. Pull your chair around so you can see.’

I yanked the furry stool to her side of the desk and settled in as she double-clicked an icon on her desktop. ‘Here it is,’ she purred. ‘My baby. The most comprehensive list of tastemakers ever, anywhere.’

The screen resembled a search page you might encounter on a personals or apartment-rental website. You simply chose your search requirements, ticked their adjacent boxes, and hit Find. There were four main locations you could browse – New York, Los Angeles, Miami, and the Hamptons – but smaller, less complete lists existed for another dozen cities in the United States, and about two dozen abroad. The search criteria appeared endless. In a vertical row starting in the upper-left-hand corner, they were listed, in no particular order: Art, Literary, Film Production, Newspapers, Fashion, Record Label, Social, Young Social, Media Elites, Finance, Magazines, Architecture, Retail, Miscellaneous.

‘You just key in the types of people you’re looking for and the program provides you with all the information. Here, watch.’ She quickly checked off ‘Literary’ and ‘Young Social’ and showed me the thousands of returns. ‘We know everything about everyone. Full name, home address, work address, all phones, faxes, pagers, emails, country houses, beach houses, international addresses, birthdays, spouse information, and details on both the children and their nannies. There’s also a subset – if you need to narrow it down even further – that tells you if a particular person is gay, straight, single, monogamous, or cheating, in addition to whether they party, travel, or get mentioned in gossip columns a great deal. It makes it pretty easy to hand-pick exactly who will be there when you know everything about their lives, you know?’

I just nodded, as there seemed no more appropriate response.

‘Here, let’s take your uncle, for instance.’ She typed his name into a search field and up popped all his relevant info: Central Park West address and phone, office information, his exact title at the paper and the name of the column, the number of years he’d been writing, his nationwide readership, his birthday, and a short sentence about how he traveled frequently to Key West and Europe. Under ‘cross-reference’ he was described as ‘Gay,’ ‘Literary,’ ‘Newspaper,’ and ‘Media Elite.’ I noticed there was no Christian Coalition Reactionary category, but I said nothing.

‘I’ve never seen anything like this.’ I was unable to tear my eyes from the screen.

‘It’s incredible, isn’t it? And that’s not all. If you’ll notice, there are no regular media people or celebrities in this database. We have separate ones for them since those are the two most crucial groups.’

‘Separate ones?’

‘Well, sure. Look.’ She closed down the first program and clicked on an icon that read ‘Press.’ ‘There are media elites – people like your uncle, Frank Rich, Dan Rather, Barbara Walters, Rupert Murdoch, Mort Zuckerman, Tom Brokaw, Arthur Sulzberger, Thomas Friedman, etcetera, etcetera, who of course you want at events because of their high profile, but you can’t honestly expect them to cover anything. They’re just like celebrities in their own right, which is why we need to have a completely separate database of real working media – all the people at the papers, magazines, TV, and radio who can actually give us the coverage we promise our clients. Of course, there’s always overlap. You can have a socialite who also happens to work in magazines or a film exec who writes reviews for a local paper, so we just cross-list everyone.’

I took the mouse from her and scrolled through the separate fields, noticing that the media database was broken down by demographic, so you could best pitch the specific people covering music, design, travel, lifestyle, fashion, entertainment, gossip, celebrity, sports, or social engagements.

‘This is absolutely incredible. How many are there total?’

‘Between all three databases, probably close to thirty-five thousand. You haven’t even seen the celeb one yet, which is our most important.’ Another couple clicks and a list of the world’s richest, most famous, and most beautiful people popped to the forefront.

‘This is the industry list. With each celeb, we’ve also listed their current publicist, agent, manager, assistants, and family information, in addition to birthdays, current and upcoming projects, and preferences – everything from airlines to flowers, waters, coffees, liquors, hotels, designers, and music. We update this one pretty much hourly.’

She opened the profile for Charlize Theron and I saw that she had homes in South Africa, Malibu, and the Hollywood Hills; was dating Stuart Townsend; would only fly American Airlines first class or private jet; was currently shooting a movie in Rome; was signed on for another film in five months; and maintained a staff of four, with her agent temporarily also acting as her publicist.

‘How do they all get updated? I mean, how could you possibly know all this stuff?’

Kelly threw her head back, clearly delighted by my shock. ‘Elisa introduced you to the List Girls, yes?’

I nodded.

‘It’s not the most glamorous job in the world, but they’ve got the right connections, and we give them lots of perks to read every single publication known to man – in print and online – and take from that whatever they can to fill in the blanks. There are three of them, and they’re all very socially connected family-wise, and they go out constantly anyway and meet people everywhere. Just this morning New York magazine came out with their Baby Power issue – the fifty kids in New York under the age of thirty who are the most accomplished in their fields. If they weren’t in there already, every one of them has now been entered into our database.’

‘Amazing. Really, Kell, it’s amazing.’

‘It sure is. Why don’t you put a practice list together? Let’s say we’re planning a party for Asprey to celebrate the opening of their second store in the United States. It’ll be held at the store on Fifth, and the company’s main concern is that Americans simply aren’t as familiar with the brand as the English are, and they’re looking for more name recognition. Pull five hundred total fits: four hundred regular attendees and a hundred mixed of celebs and targeted press. Of course, an actual event like that would only have a hundred to a hundred fifty, max, but this will just be an exercise.’

It had suddenly occurred to me that I still hadn’t dealt with my hangover, which was gearing up again in such a way that it demanded immediate attention.

‘Sure, I’ll have that to you on Monday?’ I asked as cheerily as possible, standing up carefully to avoid any extra queasiness.

‘Perfect.’ Kelly nodded. ‘Think about potential party favors, too. Oh, and Bette?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Do you have any plans to see Philip this weekend?’

‘Philip? Who’s Philip?’ I thought she was still talking about The List, but apparently we’d transitioned seamlessly back to my personal life.

‘Bette!’ She giggled. ‘That gorgeous super-stud whose bed you occupied last night? You will be seeing him, right?’

‘Oh, right, Philip. It wasn’t exactly like that, Kelly. It was more like—’

‘Oh, Bette, stop right there. You don’t owe me any explanations at all. It’s your life, you know,’ she pointed out, apparently seeing no irony whatsoever in the statement. ‘I just hope you’ll consider going out with him over the weekend, is all. Maybe have dinner at Matsuri or stop by Cain or Marquee?’

‘Uh, well, I’m not sure he’ll call me, but if he does, then well, I guess—’

‘Oh, he’ll call, Bette, he’ll call. I’m glad to hear you’re into the idea. Because frankly, you’d be crazy if you weren’t! I’m headed out early today, so have a great weekend, okay?’

‘Sure. Will do. You, too, Kelly,’ I said, inching closer to the door, still not really believing that I had just promised my boss I’d continue sleeping with a guy I hadn’t slept with yet. ‘See you Monday.’

She picked up the phone, smiled, and gave me a thumbs-up. I beelined for my area, near Elisa, but was stopped several times on the way by people grinning at me in knowing ways or calling out ‘Nice work’ or ‘Great work with Philip.’ Elisa had gone out to lunch (read: a liter of Fiji water, a Baggie of baby carrots, and a half-dozen Marlboro Lights), according to a note she left on my computer, so I picked up the phone and called Penelope.

‘Hey, how are you?’ she asked.

‘I’m fine. And you?’ I responded in my detonation voice, so quiet and uptight that it gave the impression something might blow up at any second.

‘Great. Thanks for inviting me to dinner last night. It was, uh, really interesting.’

‘So you hated it?’

‘No! Bette, I didn’t say anything like that. I didn’t hate it at all. It was just, uh, different from what we usually do. Hope you don’t mind that I bailed early, but I was exhausted. How was the rest of the night?’

‘Are you asking just to be polite or have you not seen the news today?’ I mentally crossed my fingers that she hadn’t heard.

‘Yeah, I’m just being nice. Avery forwarded it to me first thing this morning. It’s taken every last ounce of willpower not to call you. I want the full play-by-play. Start with “When I met him at Bungalow he was wearing a black ribbed shirt and black pants with a thirty-four-inch inseam and he bought me a Stoli Vanilla and Sprite.” Proceed at that detail level, please.’

‘Pen, I can’t really get into it here,’ I said tersely, looking up to notice that half of my coworkers were pretending to stare at their screens while listening to me intently.

‘Bette! You can’t be serious! You go and have sex with one of the hottest guys in the free world – Avery’s always talking about how every female in Manhattan worships him – and you can’t tell me about it?’

‘I didn’t sleep with him!’ I all but screamed into the phone. Skye and Leo – in addition to a few assistants – jerked their heads up and grinned at me in unison.

‘Whatever,’ I heard someone else whisper.

Leo just rolled his eyes as if to say, ‘Oh, dear God, we’re not all that stupid.’

And for a minute I was flattered. So what if it was slightly slutty to meet someone and sleep with him that very night? Better everyone considered it a possibility that Philip Weston would deign to have sex with me, I suppose, than just assume he’d taken me in for the night out of pity and a sense of obligation and spent as little time as possible actually in the bed I occupied.

‘Whoa,’ Penelope was saying. ‘Touchy, touchy. Okay, so you didn’t have sex with him. I believe you. The only question I have now is, why the hell not? I’m sure you don’t need me to remind you of your recent celibacy. What are you holding out for? He’s supposedly incredible!’

I finally laughed for what I realized was the first time all morning. Seriously, what was the big deal? If I wasn’t going to get fired for my rather public indiscretion – and that certainly didn’t seem to be an option – then why not just enjoy it?

‘I remember very little about what actually happened last night,’ I whispered, placing my hand over the receiver, ‘but I’ll tell you whatever I can dredge up when I get home tonight.’

‘Can’t. Avery and I have dinner at his parents’ house and I can’t seem to talk him out of it. What about tomorrow night? Can we meet for a drink at the Black Door?’

‘I’d love to, but I’m meeting the book club for dinner and drinks. Little Italy, I think.’

She sighed. ‘Well, we should probably make a plan now for the weekend after next since I’m in St Louis for work the next two weeks. Are you around?’

It felt strange to have plans with people other than my book club, Will, or Penelope, but work had already begun to seep into my weekends, too. I checked my rapidly filling calendar. ‘Yeah, totally, I just promised Kelly that I’d go with our group from here to scout a new location for the Playboy party. It’s still four months away, but everyone’s already panicking. Want to come?’

Penelope hesitated. I could tell she wasn’t into the idea, but she couldn’t really say no since she’d already admitted to being free. ‘Uh, sure. That sounds great. We’ll figure out the details this week. And of course, if you suddenly “remember” anything about last night, I’ll take that, too.’

‘Bitch,’ I shot back.

She just laughed.

‘You have fun with your future in-laws, you hear? Be sure to listen up when they tell you exactly how many grandchildren they want, broken down by gender and eye color. You do, after all, have certain obligations now. …’

It was good to hear her laughing again.

‘Bettina Robinson, I’m not sure you’re in a position to offer advice on such things right now, considering your rather tawdry exploits in the last twenty-four hours. … Talk to you later.’

‘Bye.’ I hung up the phone and decided that such a night and morning warranted a second bacon, egg, and cheese on a buttered roll. I still had to do that invitation list for five hundred and party favors, but I decided it could wait. My hangover could not.