Everyone Worth Knowing (54 page)

galow 8 and act as a decent stepping-stone, then yes, I think it's

worth it."

"Fair enough," I said. "It sounds like a great opportunity."

"For now." He stood up, bought two more coffees, and placed

one in front of me. "Okay, your turn."

"My turn for what?" I asked, although I obviously knew where

this was going.

"What's your deal with Mr. Weston?"

"It's complicated."

He laughed again and rolled his eyes dramatically. "Uh-huh,

that's cute. Come on, I just gave you the whole sordid story. How

on earth did you end up dating him?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing, other than the two of you seem really—well, really

different."

"Different how?" I knew exactly what he was saying, but it was

fun to watch him squirm.

"Oh, come on, Bette, cut the bullshit. I know what it's like to

come from Poughkeepsie and join the cool crowd in New York,

okay? I get it. What I don't get is how you could actually like him.

You might be able to hang with this crew, but that doesn't make

you one of them. Which, by the way, is a very good thing."

I considered this for a moment before I said, "I'm not really

dating him."

"Every gossip column in Manhattan spots you together everywhere.

Hell, I see you with him at Bungalow constantly. You might

not call it dating, but I don't think he's quite figured that out yet."

"I honestly don't know how to explain it because I'm not sure I

understand it myself. It's almost like Philip and I have this mutual,

unspoken understanding to pretend we're together even though

we've never even really hooked up."

His head jerked up. "You what? That's impossible."

"It's not impossible. I'd be lying if I said I didn't wonder why

he doesn't seem interested, but I assure you, we haven't gone

down that road. . . ."

Sammy finished off his second little cup of coffee and ap-

peared to contemplate this. "So what you're saying is that you've

never had sex with him?"

I looked at him and was pleased to see that he cared.

"Not even close. And in the interest of full disclosure, I've actually

tried to seduce him a few times. There's always an excuse—

too much to drink, a late night with another girl. It's beyond

insulting when you think about it, but what can you do? The

amount of time I spend with him has a direct effect on my responsibilities

at work. Kelly's thrilled with the publicity he brings the

company, and all I have to do is smile for a few pictures. I never

thought I'd be doing this, but we have this fairly bizarre unspoken

agreement: I act like his girlfriend and he gives me a huge bump at

work. It's creepy, but in a weird way, it's totally equal. We're both

getting something we want from it." It was a relief to say aloud

what I hadn't yet described to anyone.

"I didn't hear a word you just said."

"Great. Thanks for listening. You're the one who asked, you

know."

"I sort of tuned out after you said you've never slept with him.

You're
really
not dating him?" he asked, spinning his empty cup in

little circles with his thumb.

"Sammy, you've seen the way Philip is. He's not capable of dating

anyone. I have absolutely no idea why he's picked me, and

frankly, it's okay for my ego. But I could never be with someone

like that. Even if he does have dynamite abs."

"Dynamite abs, huh? Better than these?" And before I knew

what was happening, he pulled up his shirt to reveal one tight

stomach.

"Damn," I breathed, reaching out a hand to pat the ripples. "I

might have to concede this one to you."

"Might?" he asked, letting his shirt drop but taking my hand

and pulling me closer. "Come here."

We kissed for real this time, getting as close to each other as

the mini-stools would allow, touching faces and hair and necks

while we tried to move even closer.

"It is not done here," a small man said, knocking twice on the

tabletop. "It is not right."

We pulled away, embarrassed by the reprimand, and straightened

ourselves. Sammy apologized to the man, who merely nodded

and moved on, and then turned to look at me.

"Did we just have our first public make-out?" he asked.

"Sure did." I laughed, delighted. "And I think that was more

than a make-out. It might have even qualified for all-out necking.

In the Grand Bazaar of Istanbul, no less."

"What better place is there?" he said, stepping aside to let me

stand. I started walking ahead of him out of the cafe, but he pulled

on my hand. "I'm not kidding around here, Bette. I'm not playing

with you." He looked at me.

"I'm not either, Sammy." I thought I might choke on the words,

but his smile allowed me to breathe again.

"I'd like to hug you right now, but I don't want to get flogged

for public indecency." Instead, he draped his arm over my shoulders.

"Let's just get through the rest of this trip, okay? We'll sneak

away when we can, but we shouldn't get caught."

I nodded, although all I really wanted to do was slip a week's

worth of Valium into Isabelle's and Philip's respective beverages

and watch them flail for a bit before settling into a nice, peaceful,

permanent rest. But no! That wasn't quite fair. Neither was deserving

of actual death. I silently conceded to spare both their lives if

they boarded one-way flights for the sub-Saharan African village of

their choosing. That would be acceptable.

It took us over an hour to traverse the five-block stretch of

road back to the hotel. We made out, grabbed, touched, and

groped in every hidden doorway we could find, utilizing every private

or deserted alleyway, foyer, tree, or bench that would shield

us from disapproving eyes for a few minutes. By the time the

golden yellow exterior of the Four Seasons was visible from the

street, I'd managed to establish beyond a reasonable doubt that

Sammy wore Calvin Klein boxer briefs.

"You go in first. Do what you have to do to get through the

next few days—except touch Philip Weston in any way, shape, or

form. I loathe the idea of you sharing a room with him." He curled

his mouth down in a show of disgust and shivered a bit.

"Oh, yeah, and I'm thrilled with the thought of you crawling

into bed next to Isabelle, all the while telling her how gorgeous

she looks in her new La Perla." The mere thought made me nauseated.

"Go," he said, pressing his mouth to mine. "I'll see you at dinner

tonight, okay?"

"Okay," I said, giving him a quick kiss back. And then, despite

myself, I stammered, "I'll miss you." I grinned at the hotel doorman

and literally skipped through the lobby to the elevator, and then

from the elevator to my room. I barely even noticed Philip

sprawled on the bed, wearing only a towel and a silk eye mask.

"Where were you, love? I'm completely knackered. This hangover's

killing me, and you left me here all alone," he whined.

"Why don't you put together a cold compress for me? That'd be

brilliant."

"Why don't you get your own cold compress, Philip?" I asked

merrily. "I'm just dropping off this stuff on my way to the spa.

Take an Advil or two and be dressed and ready in the lobby by

seven forty-five, okay?" I slammed the door hard to make the loudest

possible noise and skipped all the way to the slick marble of

the hotel's Turkish bath. I told the spa receptionist to add a massage,

pedicure, and tall glass of mint tea to my scrub-down and

slowly undressed in the eucalyptus-scented steam room, thinking

of Sammy.

25

Since we were a dozen people with nothing to do but drink

and hang out, we sat at dinner that first night and played popculture

trivia. It wasn't called that, of course, nor was there any

mention of actually playing a game—never mind a trivia game—

because that would be very uncool, but the way we shot questions

back and forth indicated that it was, undeniably, just that. It reminded

me of the way Michael and Penelope would fire off
Beverly

Hills, 90210
questions to each other. "Who was the original

owner of the Peach Pit After Dark?" Michael would ask, leaning

forward as though he couldn't be more serious. "Um, like everyone

doesn't know that? Rush Sanders, Steve's dad. Given!" Penelope

would say with an exasperated eye roll. They'd continue for hours

("What hotel did Dylan live in with his father, Jack?" "What is the

name of the character in the inaugural season who accidentally

shot himself at his own birthday party?" "True or false: Donna slept

with Ray Pruit?"), each intent on proving they knew every scene,

every character.

I could hardly claim intellectual superiority over Elisa and Marlena

just because they could name all the members of Madonna's

Kabbalah group, especially when my own best friends could state

when, exactly, Mel Silver cheated on Jackie (Kelly's mom), and I

could recall the names of Trista and Ryan's wedding planner and

Angelina Jolie's adopted Cambodian son on command. That said,

I'd never seen a group who appeared so comprehensively bored,

indifferent, and uninterested play something with such fervor.

"Oh, like everyone on earth doesn't know that Marc Anthony

had two kids before he married J.Lo. That is, like, the most ele-

mentary information possible, but can you tell me the location of

the court where he filed for divorce?" Alessandra practically

shouted at Monica.

She huffed. "Puh-lease. You're joking. If you ever read anything

in your life you'd know that he filed in the Dominican Republic to

speed things up. What you probably don't know—because it's

hardly out there for the masses to read in those rags they publish

every other day—is the name of the boat George keeps at his Lake

Como house."

"George?" Oliver asked, as everyone leaned closer.

"Clooney," Marlena said. "Who else?"

"Ohmigod, I can't even listen to this anymore," Leo whined.

"You're all so pathetic."

I silently cheered Leo for his good sense, but I was premature.

"You all think any of this is relevant? Name three people Jade

Jagger used to date, and tell me which jewelry company she currently

works for."

Philip sighed and then listlessly clapped Leo on the back. "Leo,

chap, challenge us. That was singularly the worst question I could

ever think of—especially since every single person here was at the

grand opening of the Garrard store."

It went on like this through the entire meal, and it wasn't until

dessert that we'd begun wondering what a Turkish nightclub

would look like.

"Well, I'm sure not covering up any more than this. I know it's