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 25

When you’re twenty-seven and the phone rings in the middle of the night, you’re apt to think it’s some guy drunk-dialing an invitation to come over and ‘hang out’ rather than a work-related disaster that will surely change your life forever. Not so the night before the BlackBerry party. When my cell phone blared at three-thirty in the morning, I was certain I would have to deal.

‘Is this Betty?’ an older woman asked as soon as I’d flipped open the phone.

‘Hello? Who is this? This is Bette,’ I said, still groggy even though I’d already bolted upright and had a pen in hand.

‘Betty, this is Mrs Carter,’ the woman’s voice said.

‘I’m sorry. Could you say your name again, please?’

‘Mrs Carter.’ Silence. ‘Jay-Z’s mama.’

Aha! ‘Hi, Mrs Carter.’ I thought about the way I’d separated the invites on the party list and how Mrs Carter was the only person who was cross-referenced as ‘Celeb Mother.’

‘We are just so excited to be hosting your son and his whole pos – uh, his friends tomorrow. Everyone’s just really looking forward to it!’ I said, silently congratulating myself on the feigned sincerity I heard in my own voice.

‘Yes, dear, well, that’s why I’m calling. Is this too late? I figured a big party planner like yourself would definitely still be awake at midnight. I wasn’t wrong, was I, sweetheart?’

‘Um, no, not at all. Of course, I am in New York, so it’s three in the morning here, but please don’t worry about a thing. You could call me anytime. Is something wrong?’ Please no, please no, please no, I chanted silently, wondering what else I could add to the $150,000 paycheck, penthouse suites at the Hotel Gansevoort, and business-class plane tickets we’d thrown in for the man, his mom, his superstar girlfriend, and his nine closest friends. When I’d asked why they needed hotel rooms at all – even I knew Jay-Z had a palatial New York pad – his mom had laughed and said, ‘Just book it.’

‘Well, dear, my son just called and said he really doesn’t see the need to take a flight that early tomorrow. He was hoping you could book us all on something later.’

‘Something later?’

‘Yes, you know, a flight that gets in later than the one already—’

‘I understand what you mean,’ I said a little too sharply. ‘It’s just that the event starts at seven and as of now you’re all scheduled to land at two. If we make it any later, there’s a chance you won’t arrive in time.’

‘Well, I’m sure you’ll figure that all out, dear. I’ve really got to be getting some rest for our big travel day tomorrow – that LA-to–New York leg always tuckers me out – but just fax me the confirmation when it’s all fixed. Ta-ta now.’ And she hung up before I could say another word.

Ta-ta? Ta-fucking-ta? I threw my cell phone against the wall and felt absolutely no satisfaction when it made a weak bleating sound, right before the battery cover popped off and the screen went blank. Millington had buried her face under my pillow hoping to escape my wrath. I wondered if it wasn’t too late in life to develop a severe and all-consuming addiction to tranquilizers. Or painkillers. Or both. Blessedly, the airlines were open all night, and I was dialing American from my land line before I could damage any more of my belongings.

The operator who answered sounded just as tired and hassled as I felt, and I braced myself for what would surely be an unpleasant interaction.

‘Hi, I have an annoying question. I made reservations for a party of twelve to fly from LAX to JFK on your eight A.M. flight and I was hoping I could change them all to something just slightly later?’

‘Name!’ she barked, sounding not just disinterested, which I expected, but downright hostile. I wondered if she was going to ‘accidentally’ disconnect me just because she didn’t feel like dealing. I could almost understand.

‘Um, the reservation is actually under Gloria Carter. They’re all flying business class.’

There was a moment of heavy silence before she said, ‘Gloria Carter? As in the Gloria Carter? As in the mother of Jay-Z?’

How on earth people knew these things was a mystery to me, but I sensed a momentary advantage and went for it. ‘That’s the one. He’s flying to New York to perform, along with a few friends and his mother. Of course, if you’re based in New York and you could work this out, you’d be more than welcome to come by and hear him sing his set.’

She exhaled audibly and said, ‘No way! Really? I’m actually working out of our call center in Tampa right now, but my brother lives in Queens, and I just know he’d love to go.’

‘Well, let’s see what we can do about changing that flight. I don’t want them coming in too late – maybe just an hour or two later, max. Is that flight usually on time?’

‘Honey, LAX to JFK is never on time.’ I cringed. ‘But it’s usually not too bad. Let’s see, I’ve got a flight leaving Los Angeles at ten A.M. arriving Newark at four. Would that work?’

‘Yes, yes, that would work just fine. And you have twelve open seats?’ I asked hopefully, thinking that this woman just might be the best thing that ever happened to me.

She laughed. Or, rather, cackled. A bad sign. ‘Sure, I’ve got twelve seats open, but they’re not all business. The best I can do is four in business, six in first class, and two in coach. You’ll of course need to pay the difference for the first-class seats, which comes to, oh, let me see here … a total of seventeen thousand dollars. Does that work?’

It was my turn to laugh. Not that anything was actually funny, of course, but the only alternative was weeping. ‘Do I have a choice?’ I asked meekly.

‘You sure don’t,’ she said, sounding suspiciously like she was enjoying this. ‘And you should probably make up your mind soon because another business-class seat just disappeared.’

‘Book it!’ I practically screamed. ‘Book it right now.’

I gave her my corporate card number, rationalizing that it was better than telling Mrs Carter there were no later flights and having them cancel altogether, and fell back under the covers.

When the alarm blared static a couple hours later, I felt like I’d spent the night curled up on a hard cement floor. Blessedly, I’d already packed my outfit for the night’s party in a separate bag, so the only real task was to remain standing and fully conscious in the shower.

Figuring if there was ever a time to splurge for a cab it was now, I chased one halfway down my block and dove into it head-first. Not being stuck underground in the signal-free subway also allowed me to check a few of the morning’s websites from my brand-new BlackBerry, a gift from the company’s corporate department so I could ‘familiarize myself with their product.’ I pulled clips of the Shrek 3 premiere, the Grey Goose relaunch, and of course the New York Scoop column featuring Philip, me, and my pantsuit.

Naturally, the cab got stuck in gridlock less than three blocks from my apartment, and naturally I decided – against the cabbie’s advice – to remain in the temperature-controlled vehicle at all costs, regardless of how high the meter ran or how many minutes it took to cover an eighth of a mile. I needed to complete the check-list for the BlackBerry event. With Red Hots and an early-morning cigarette in hand (the cabbie had given me his blessing), I checked my cell phone to ensure that Mrs Carter hadn’t left a message in the four hours since I’d last spoken to her. To my great relief, she hadn’t called, but neither had Penelope, and that was disconcerting. My attempts to explain that it wasn’t what it appeared, that Philip had just shown up and I hadn’t lied to get out of her dinner, had sounded flat and pathetic even to my own ears, and I imagine to Penelope they sounded even less believable. The worst part of it all was that she and Avery had switched their tickets and were flying out tonight. I didn’t understand what the big rush was – especially since Avery wouldn’t be starting school for over a month – but I imagined it had something to do with Avery’s eagerness to embark upon a brand-new West Coast party circuit. That and the fact that Penelope would do anything to avoid spending Thanksgiving with either her or Avery’s parents. Penelope’s mother had dispatched her own domestic staff to collect their boxes and suitcases and ship them ahead, and Avery and Pen were set to fly out of JFK, with their carry-ons and each other. Michael was planning to see them off, but it wasn’t even an option for me.

The only message was from Kelly, a text reminding me to have my checklist filled out and on her desk first thing that morning so we could go over the last-minute stuff together. I unfolded its now-crumpled pages and pulled the pen cap off with my teeth. I stared at them for the few remaining minutes in the cab processing nothing. I’d have plenty of time before she got in, and the most important thing right now was to make sure Jay-Z and his entourage knew about the flight change and got on that plane with absolutely no problems.

A quick scan of the Dirt Alert revealed good news for once. Page Six had upheld their end of the bargain and written about my party in a way that made it sound exclusive, exciting, and really, really cool:

We hear that Jay-Z will be making a surprise appearance at tonight’s party at Bungalow 8 to celebrate the launch of BlackBerry’s redesigned handhelds. While Bette Robinson of Kelly & Company declined to confirm, watchers insist that boyfriend Philip Weston’s friendship with the rapper ensures he’s the mystery guest. In a related tidbit, Mr Weston and friends were spotted at a Saturday-night birthday party canoodling with Brazilian models, the youngest of whom was a mere fourteen years old.

I couldn’t have been happier if they’d provided a web address for ordering the new BlackBerry: everything was exactly as I’d directed, and I knew Kelly would be deliriously excited when she saw it. I patted myself on the back, pleased with this mention, and thought back to one of Elisa’s mini-lessons to me.

‘Remember, there’s a big difference between scoop and favor,’ she’d said, spreading printouts of gossip columns all over the table at work.

I stared at them. ‘What? What do you mean?’

‘Well, look here.’ She pointed to a couple of sentences from an on-set stylist who’d first noticed that Julia Roberts needed to have her costumes let out because, the girl assumed, Julia was newly pregnant. Page Six had been the first to talk to the stylist, who’d been the first to notice this shift. ‘What is that – scoop or favor?’

‘You’re asking me?’

‘Bette, you need to know these things. How else are you going to get our clients the coverage they pay us for?’

‘I don’t know … it’s scoop,’ I said, choosing one of the words at random.

‘Right. Why?’

‘Elisa, I appreciate that there’s something important here, but I don’t know what it is. But if you’d tell me rather than quizzing me, it’d probably save us both a lot of time. …’

She’d rolled her eyes dramatically and said, ‘If you look carefully, there’s a difference between “scoop” and “favor.” Something juicy and revealing and slightly scandalous is “scoop.” A celebrity spotting at a party or in public, or a mention of somewhere they’ve been, is a “favor.” You can’t ask the columnists for all favors without giving them scoop. Information is currency, and the more you have of it, the more favors you get.’

‘So you’re saying that some publicist out there wanted her client’s name mentioned in the column and provided this bit about Julia Roberts in exchange?’ It sounded so sordid, but it certainly made sense.

‘Exactly. The publicist hand-delivered that stylist to Page Six and then made demands for coverage of her own.’

Well, that didn’t seem too hard. Perhaps Page Six might be interested in knowing that quite a few of the city’s most eligible bachelors had been keeping company with certain Brazilian girls who were not just underage, but who were years away from attending an R-rated movie without parental accompaniment. In fact, they had been interested, and when I followed up with the usual Tip Sheet we prepared for all the press – the blast-fax that went out with all the information about the party should anyone want to write about it – a researcher had expressed enthusiasm in possibly mentioning the BlackBerry party. Hmm, that wasn’t hard, now was it? Morally abject and devoid of all integrity? Absolutely. But difficult it was not.

By the time Kelly had descended upon the office at nine, I’d completed the checklist and triple-checked that the plane-change fax had gone through to Jay-Z’s compound and his mother’s compound, as well as to his publicist, agent, manager, and a half-dozen other handlers. I marched into her office at ten after nine with an entire file folder of schedules, contact information, and confirmation numbers and planted myself in the zebra-print loveseat directly underneath the window.

‘Are we all set for tonight, Bette?’ she asked, scrolling rapidly through her inbox while slugging back a liter of Diet Coke. ‘Tell me we’re good.’

‘We’re good,’ I sang, thrusting the Post under her nose. ‘And even better, considering this.’

She scanned the piece hungrily, her smile growing ever larger with each word she read. ‘Ohmigod,’ she murmured, barely swallowing a mouthful of soda. ‘Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod. Was this you?’

It was all I could do not to do a little jig right there on the zebra-print shag carpet. ‘It was,’ I said quietly, confidently, although my insides were flipping with excitement.

‘How? They never cover events before they happen.’

‘Let’s just say I listened very carefully to Elisa’s valuable lesson on the concepts of scoop and favor. I think the BlackBerry people will be happy, don’t you?’

‘Fan-fucking-tastic, Bette. This is amazing!’ She began reading it for a third time and picked up the phone. ‘Fax this to Mr Kroner at BlackBerry immediately. Tell him I’ll call him shortly.’ She hung up and looked up at me. ‘Okay, we’re off to a perfect start. Give me an update on where everything stands.’

‘Sure thing. Tip sheets went out ten days ago to all the usual dailies and weeklies.’ I handed over a copy and continued while she surveyed it. ‘We have confirmed attendance for writers or editors from New York magazine, Gotham, the Observer, E!, Entertainment Weekly, the New York Post, Variety, and the Styles section. I approved a few people from the monthlies as a gesture of goodwill, even though they’ll never cover it.’

‘What about the Daily News?’ she asked. They were one of the papers that had just dropped Will’s column, and I’d felt like a traitor for even contacting them.

‘So far no one’s RSVP’d, but I’d be shocked if someone wasn’t there, so all the doormen have been instructed to allow admittance to anyone in possession of a business card from a legitimate media outlet.’

She nodded. ‘Speaking of which, we are controlling the door, correct? I will not have any of the Grey Goose people trying to bring randoms, will I?’

This was a slightly sticky point. Grey Goose had offered to sponsor the event and put up thousands of dollars’ worth of free booze in exchange for a logo on the invite and the press we’d promised would be there. They claimed they understood they wouldn’t be permitted to allow guests who weren’t prescreened by us and placed on the list in advance, but sponsors were notorious for dragging in dozens of their friends and associates because they thought it was their party, too. I’d discussed it with Sammy – unnecessary because he’d done hundreds of these and knew the drill – and he’d assured me that it wouldn’t be a problem.

‘Everyone will be trying their best to ensure that doesn’t happen. Sammy is the best and most senior bouncer at Bungalow, and he’ll be in charge of the door tonight. I’ve spoken with him.’ And simultaneously dreamed of draining the collagen right out of his girlfriend’s lips, I thought, but that was a different story.

Unlike Elisa, Kelly connected the name and the person immediately. ‘Excellent. I always thought he was bright, at least as far as bouncers go. What VIPs do we have confirmed?’

‘Well, obviously Jay-Z and crew. He requested that a whole contingent from his record label be invited, but most didn’t respond to invitations, so I don’t think many will show. Otherwise, we’ve got Chloe Sevigny, Betsey Johnson, Drew Barrymore, Carson Daly, Andy Roddick, Mary-Kate and Ashley, and Jon Stewart as definites. Also a handful of top-tier socialites. There might be more. When you’ve got an artist that big doing a private performance at a small venue … I’d be shocked if we didn’t get unannounced visits from Gwen or Nelly or anyone else who might be in town and around. The door has been informed.’

‘And who did the final vetting of the list?’

‘I went over it with both Philip and Elisa, with Mr Kroner at BlackBerry having final approval over everything. He seemed very, very happy with the projected attendees.’

Kelly finished off her bottle of Diet Coke and reached into the fridge underneath her desk to pull out another one. ‘What else? Give me the quick rundown on decorations, gift bags, interviews, chain of command.’

I could tell we were nearing the end, and I was thrilled, not just because I desperately needed another coffee and perhaps a second egg-and-cheese, but because I knew I was nailing this party and Kelly was impressed. I’d been working on it all day, every day since it’d been thrown in my lap, and even though I could recognize the ridiculousness of what we were doing, I liked it. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to work hard and do well, but it was damn nice.

‘Samantha Ronson is DJing and knows to keep things upbeat. Bungalow is taking care of the decorations, with instructions to keep it minimal, chic, and very, very simple. I’ll head over there this afternoon to check it out, but I’m really only expecting a few clusters of well-placed votives and, of course, the underlit palm trees. I think all the models we’ve got coming will be the primary attraction.’

At the word model, Kelly perked up even more. ‘How many and who are they?’ she asked with the efficiency of a drill sergeant.

‘Well, I invited all the supermodels as guests, as always, and then we went with that new company – what’s it called? Beautiful Bartenders. They hire out actors and models to tend bar and serve drinks. I saw a bunch of them working a Calvin Klein event two weeks ago and reserved a fleet of the guys, requesting that they all have long hair and wear head-to-toe white. They’re magnificent and really make a statement.’ Did I just say that? I thought.

‘As for everything else, the interns are putting together the gift bags now. They’ve got airplane bottles of Grey Goose, MAC lipstick and eye shadow, a copy of the current issue of US Weekly, a gift certificate for thirty percent off at Barney’s Co-op, and a pair of Kate Spade sunglasses.’

‘I wasn’t aware Kate Spade even made sunglasses,’ Kelly said, now nearly finished with the second liter of Diet Coke.

‘Neither was I. I guess that’s why she wants them in the gift bag.’ When she kept gulping, I figured I’d better wrap things up. ‘So that’s really it. I’ve touched base with Mr Kroner, and he understands exactly what he’s to highlight and avoid when talking to the press, and I’ll be there the entire night to oversee glitches. All in all, I expect everything should go very smoothly. Oh, and I’ve spoken with Philip and I think he understands that as host of this event, he shouldn’t be drinking entire bottles of vodka, ogling preteens, or doing drugs openly or with reckless abandon. I can’t guarantee he’ll actually play by the rules, but I assure you that he’s at least been informed as to what they are.’

‘Well, we’re all there to have a good time now, aren’t we? So I’m sure if Philip wants to have a little fun, too, we won’t be too uptight about that. Just keep it away from the press. Understood?’

‘Of course.’ I nodded solemnly, wondering how on earth I was supposed to keep the columnists and photographers away from the very person they’d been invited to see. I decided I’d deal with that later. ‘And Kelly? I can’t apologize enough about all that stuff in New York Scoop. I feel like I have a target on my back just because I’m supposedly dating Philip Weston. If I were paranoid, I’d think this Ellie girl was out to get me.’

She looked at me strangely, with an expression resembling pity, and I wondered if all the mentions were bothering her more than she’d let on. Kelly had brushed off every one of my apologies about the online column, swearing that any association with Philip Weston was a good one and that it had only succeeded in raising the profile of the company, but maybe she was tiring of the attacks. Which would make two of us.

‘Bette, I have something to tell you,’ Kelly said slowly. She pulled a new plastic liter bottle of Diet Coke from her under-desk fridge.

I could tell by the tone of her voice that this wasn’t good. Here it comes, I thought to myself. Here’s where I get fired for something that’s completely beyond my control. She looks so pained to have to do this – after all, she’s got such loyalty to Will, but I’ve obviously left her no choice. In an industry that revolves around the press, I’ve failed miserably. It’s actually her duty, her obligation, to fire me – she built this firm, and I walk in here and degrade it. How will I tell Will? Or my parents? I had already begun calculating how long it would take me to rework my résumé and begin applying for other jobs when Kelly took a swig and cleared her throat.

‘Bette, promise me that what I’m about to tell you will never leave this room.’

I audibly exhaled in relief. That didn’t sound like the beginning of a firing speech.

‘Of course,’ I said, the words tumbling out in rushed eagerness. ‘If you tell me never to mention it, then of course I won’t.’

‘I had lunch the other day with a woman from Ralph Lauren. I’m hoping very much to sign them – they’d be our biggest and most impressive account yet.’

I nodded as she continued.

‘Which is why it’s so crucial that you keep this under wraps. If the information gets out – if you tell anyone – she’ll know it’s me, and we’ll never get this account.’

‘I understand,’ I said solemnly.

‘It concerns New York Scoop …’

‘You mean Ellie Insider?’

Kelly looked at me. ‘Yes. As you know, that’s merely a pen name. She’s gone to great lengths to keep her identity secret so she can move around freely and talk to people without their knowing. I’m not sure if this name means anything to you, but the column is actually being written by a girl named Abigail Abrams.’

I’m not sure how, but I knew a split second before she uttered the name that it was going to be Abby’s. I’d never considered that the columnist was someone I’d known before – or even someone I’d met – but somehow, in that momentary flash, I was certain she’d utter Abby’s name. The realization hadn’t done anything to prepare me, however, and I couldn’t do anything but stare at Kelly, my hands tucked under my legs and that same breathless, suffocating feeling I’d had in fifth-grade gym class when the red rubber kickball struck my stomach and knocked the wind right out of me. How could I have been so clueless? How could I not have known? I struggled to breathe and make sense of what Kelly was saying. All the awful things that had been written – all the exaggerations and embellishments and inferences and outright lies – had come from none other than Abby, the self-proclaimed vortex of the media world. Why on earth does she hate me so much? I kept thinking with irrational repetition. Why? Why? Why? Of course we’d never liked each other; that much was obvious. But what could inspire her to try to ruin my life? What had I done?

Apparently, Kelly had interpreted my shock as cluelessness because she said, ‘Yeah, I didn’t recognize the name, either. Some nobody, I guess, which is actually very smart on their part – no one can be suspicious of someone they don’t know. The woman from Ralph Lauren is married to Abigail’s brother, and she swore me to secrecy. I got the feeling she just wanted to tell someone. Or maybe she’s testing my discretion. It doesn’t really matter. Don’t breathe a word of it to anyone, but just in case you run across that girl, you can make sure she gets the right pictures or information.’

I initially thought Kelly was telling me the columnist’s identity so I could avoid her at all costs, but this was clearly not her intention.

She continued. ‘Now you can feed her all sorts of stuff – be cool and casual and make it sound like scoop – and we’ll have an even better shot at getting the clients covered.’

‘Sounds good,’ I croaked. I couldn’t wait to get out of that office and reread every word Abby had written. How did she have any access at all? I thought bitterly about how she must have felt when she’d stumbled into a gold mine that first night at Bungalow 8, the night I’d met Philip. It was all starting to fall into place: she had been everywhere lately, always appearing out of the woodwork like a Pop-a-Weasel, ready with a nasty comment or a sneering look.

‘Okay, enough of that. Don’t worry about it too much right now. Just focus on making sure everything works for tonight. It’s going to be great, don’t you think?’

I murmured ‘great’ a few times and shuffled out of her office. I had already begun fantasizing about confronting Abby. There were a million possibilities, and each sounded delicious. It wasn’t until I was back at the circular table, staring at my laptop, that I realized I couldn’t do one damn thing about it. I couldn’t tell anyone I knew, least of all Abby.

I tried to focus. After cutting out the Page Six clipping and taping it to the center of the office’s shared circular desk, I logged on to see if the plane that would be bringing Jay-Z from LA to New York had actually left New York on time, which would highly increase the odds of its arriving in LA – and then coming back again – on schedule. So far, so good. I assigned two interns to take cars to Newark and stake out his arrival. This was not particularly necessary, since the Hotel Gansevoort was sending two stretch limos for them, but I wanted someone there to visually confirm that he’d arrived and gotten in his car without getting distracted by anything along the way. A quick call to Sammy – be still, my heart – confirmed that the setup was going smoothly. My to-do list complete, I tried to block out the thoughts of Abby’s viciousness. It was late afternoon, and the only thing left to do was, well, absolutely nothing.