Everyone Worth Knowing (27 page)

there was no chance my father would ever figure out how to

register for the free account that New York Scoop offered to readers.

As long as no one actually printed it out and showed it to

them, I was safe. At least for now.

12

"I'd like to open tonight's meeting with a toast to Bette," Courtney

said, raising her mojito above her head.

I'd been reading a text message from Kelly politely requesting

(read: ordering) that I "put in an appearance" at the
Mr. and Mrs.

Smith
premiere that was being overseen by Skye and Leo. The

movie would end at exactly eleven o'clock, which meant I could

stop by the after-party at Duvet and still be home by twelve-thirty

and asleep by one A.M.—which would be the earliest night in

weeks. I had just concluded my calculations when the sound of my

name made me snap to attention.

"Me? What have I done to deserve a toast?" I asked distractedly.

The group stared at me as though unable to comprehend my

stupidity. Janie spoke first. "Excuse me, do you think we live in a

vacuum? That our lives cease to exist outside this book club?"

I just stared, having a fairly good idea where this was headed,

but still trying to prevent it from happening.

Jill mashed some limes with sugar in a bowl before spooning

more of the muddled mixture into my drink. "Bette, we all read

New York Scoop, you know—hell, everyone reads it. And you appear

to be the featured story every day. When on earth were you

planning to mention that your boyfriend just happens to be
Philip

Weston?"
She said his name with a slow deliberateness and everyone

laughed.

"Whoa, girls, let's hold on a second here. He is
not
my

boyfriend."

"Well, that's not what Ellie Insider seems to think," Alex

chirped in. Her hair was an unsavory shade of puke green tonight

and I marveled at the thought that even the East Village punk

crowd was reading that horrific column.

"Yeah, that's true," Vika added thoughtfully. "You do seem to

be with him quite frequently. And why not? He's wildly, undeniably,

fabulously gorgeous."

I thought about that for a moment. He was indeed gorgeous, and

every woman between the ages of fifteen and fifty seemed to want

him desperately, so what was so wrong with letting everyone think

we were dating? Unless I told them, no one would really know that I

hadn't been back to Philip's apartment since the first time I accidentally

woke up there. In fact, they probably wouldn't even believe it if

I explained that we only saw one another (and were subsequently

seen together) because I was expected to stop by every Kelly &

Company event—whether I'd worked on it or not. I'd run into Philip

"accidentally" almost every other night for weeks. After all, it was my

job to throw the best parties, and it was Philip's self-designated responsibility

to attend each and every one.

Why explain that even though we only chatted briefly at these

events, he always seemed to throw his arm around my shoulders

(or put his hand on my ass or his drink in front of my chest or his

mouth on my neck) precisely when a photographer happened to

stroll by? It appeared to anyone who was watching that we were

inseparable, but what got labeled as "lots of hot-and-heavy

canoodling" was about as sexual as my nightly cuddles with

Millington. Why, I wondered, would anyone possibly want to hear

all of that?

I knew the answer. Because he was the It Boy du jour, and I

was making out with him.

"He is cute, isn't he?" I asked. Philip Weston might be one of

the more arrogant guys I'd ever met, but it was ridiculous to deny

that I was absurdly attracted to him.

"Urn,
yeah.
And let's not overlook the fact that he's the most

perfect Harlequin guy you could imagine existing in real life."

Courtney sighed. "I think I'm going to model the hero of my next

novel after him."

"After Philip?" It was difficult to envision any leading Harlequin

man whining and bitching about his thread count, but I supposed

the genre could use some updating for the new millennium.

"Bette! He's tall, handsome, and powerful. He's even foreign,

for Christ's sake," she pointed out while waving a copy of
Sweet

Savage Love
and pointing to the hulking man in a loincloth on the

cover. "And better looking than Dominick, which is remarkable

when you consider that Dominick is
drawn
to look as gorgeous as

humanly possible."

The girl had a point. Philip fit the ideal of the romantic hero

more closely than any guy I'd met before—except for that small,

nagging little problem of his personality.

I spent the rest of book club distracted, dreamily wondering if

I'd see Philip later at the after-party and what might happen.

I ducked out of the meeting early and changed before heading

to Duvet. Where, of course, the first person I saw upon walking inside

was Mr. Weston himself.

"Bette, love, come say hello to a few mates visiting from England,"

he said, planting a brief but admittedly delicious kiss directly

on my lips.

I couldn't help it; I looked over my shoulder. I had promised

myself I'd be more aware of the photographers, but I saw nothing

unusual, just the regular beautiful writhing masses.

"Hi," I said, noticing (a) he looked even more like fictional

Dominick when he was standing in front of me, and (b) Courtney

was right: Philip was better-looking. "Can I meet you over there in

a minute? I've got to find Kelly and make sure everything's okay."

"Sure, love. Will you bring me a cocktail when you come back?

That'd be smashing!" And he scampered off to play with his

friends, as happy as a little boy at the playground.

I managed to check in with Kelly, ask Leo and Skye if they

needed anything, wave to Elisa as she made out with Davide, introduce

myself to two potential clients (the much-worshipped designer

Alvin Valley and someone who Kelly described to me as "the most

sought-after stylist in Hollywood"), and bring Philip a gin and tonic,

all in less than an hour. So much for what might happen with

Philip. He was busy entertaining his "blokes." The dull headache I'd

managed to ignore since morning had suddenly become sharper,

and I knew it couldn't be another late night. I slipped out the door

shortly thereafter and was home by twelve-fifteen (a solid fifteen

minutes ahead of schedule) and unconscious by twelve-thirty, after

deciding that silly nighttime rituals like teeth-brushing and facewashing

could easily be neglected. When my alarm went off six

and a half hours later, I was not looking good.

I grabbed the Dirt Alert before rushing out and read it as I inhaled

a large coffee and a buttered cinnamon-raisin bagel on the

subway. Unsurprisingly, New York Scoop was the first clipping of

the day's packet and, again, there was a huge picture—a closeup,

actually—of Philip kissing me the night before. Only the back

of his head was visible, but somehow the camera had zoomed in

on my face and caught me with some sort of faraway, dreamy

look caused by my eyes being only partially open while they

gazed adoringly at him. Or drunkenly, depending on how one

might interpret my half-blink. I probably should have expected it,

but since I'd never even spotted a camera, the full-page photo

made me physically recoil. That day's scoop was extra memorable.

As predicted, I'd graduated from being "Philip's gal pal" and "the

new girl" and "party girl" and "PR maven-in-training" to warranting

my own identity. Right there, under the picture—just in case

there was anyone left in New York State who didn't know my

whereabouts at all times—was my name, spelled in big, bold letters,

and a caption that read:
APPARENTLY, SHE'S HERE TO STAY
. . .
BETTINA

ROBINSON KNOWS HOW TO PARTY.
The feeling was a weird

mixture of embarrassment at having anyone see me in such a state,

indignation at the misrepresentation of it all, and a faint but persistent

misery at the realization that I no longer had anything remotely

resembling privacy.

The walk from the subway to the office felt six miles longer

than the actual three blocks it was, and it was made incrementally

worse when I overheard two perfect strangers talking about

Philip's "new girlfriend, what's her name?"

By the time I'd dropped my laptop bag on the circular table,

the entire staff had surrounded me.

"I suppose you've all seen it already?" I asked no one in particular,

flopping into a leather work chair.

"It's really nothing we don't already know," Kelly pointed out,

sounding disappointed. "It just says here that one Mr. Philip Weston

has been seen so frequently in the company of one Ms. Bettina

Robinson that it would only be fair to consider them an item."

"An item?" I asked, incredulous. In my horror at seeing the picture

and the caption, I'd simply forgotten to read the accompanying

text.

"Oh, yes, it says here that an unnamed source claims that the

two of you spend nearly every night together, after partying at all

the hot spots like Bungalow and Marquee."

"We are not dating," I insisted.

"The pictures are right here, Bette. And it very much appears

that you are, thank God." Kelly turned her twenty-inch flat-screen

Mac monitor toward the group so we could all enjoy the photos of

Philip and me.

My personal and professional lives had become not only intertwined

but completely dependent on one another. Any idiot could

see that my connection with Philip had made me an accepted part

of the team with a swiftness that made my head hurt.

"Well, it's just that
dating
is kind of a strong word," I said awkwardly.

Why did no one understand?

"Well, whatever you're doing, Bette, just keep on doing it. Do

you know we've been hired to represent BlackBerry solely because

you're dating Mr. Weston?"

Solely?
I thought.

"Surprise, Bette! We got a call from their internal PR company

just this morning. They want us to introduce their new BlackBerry

to New York's younger set, and picked us because we clearly have

access to that world. BlackBerry's already huge, of course, with the

Wall Street crowd, and everyone who's anyone—and most people

who aren't—in Hollywood already has one, but they haven't hit as

big with the younger crowd. We will do our best to change that, of

course. And I'm happy to report that I'm putting you in charge of

all the logistics, reporting to me only for approval."

"In charge?" I stammered.

"Their account rep told us how much she'd love to have you