Everyone Worth Knowing (58 page)

I watched her hobble out on stilt-skinny legs and tried to figure

out what, exactly, had made that interaction so weird. But the

mention of a scrub reminded me of my own appointment, so I finished

breakfast and hit the spa for my pre-sightseeing massage,

adding on a paraffin pedicure for good measure. This one I had

earned.

26

"I have to say, I think this one's my favorite," Will announced,

passing me a computer printout across the table. He didn't sound

particularly amused. He'd taken it upon himself to put together a

little collection of all the newspaper clippings that had mentioned

my name since I'd started at Kelly & Company and we were reviewing

them together, over brunch. The week before, I'd returned

from Turkey and what I'd thought was an incredibly successful

trip. No one had seemed the least bit clued in as to what had

really
happened with either Philip or Sammy. It was becoming obvious

that I'd relaxed too soon.

Abby was apparently omniscient. Somehow she must've gotten

in touch with John, the fat photographer, because she'd managed

to take a tiny, partial truth and weave it into a hideous lie. She'd

published this particular gem on Friday, and this time I thought

Kelly would have a heart attack:

Publicist Bette Robinson is generating some publicity of her own,

sources say, while running a press trip to Istanbul last month.

Mostly known for her relationship with Philip Weston, Robinson

was reported to be intimately involved with Rick Salomon—better

known as the guy who brought us the Paris Hilton sex tape—in

the same hotel where she also shared a room with Weston. Can

readers look forward to a remake of this famous sex tape, this

time featuring everyone's favorite party planner in place of everyone's

favorite partier? Stay tuned.

The photo accompanying the darling little write-up was the

one taken of me as I opened the door of Sammy's room, holding

my sandals in one hand and running the other through my ratty,

bed-head hair. My mouth hung open unattractively, and my

makeup was smeared under my eyes. I looked just as slutty as

Paris, minus her fab body and clothes. A figure had been blurred

out in the background; upon closer inspection, it was clearly a

male with a sheet tied around his waist, but identifying him beyond

that was impossible. It was Sammy, of course—the bastard

photographer had just spent five straight days with him and knew

that perfectly well, but he clearly hadn't bothered to provide that

information when he sold the picture to Abby. I imagined she'd

spent little time trying to figure out who the guy was before picking

someone particularly damaging at random and assigning him

the role of my illicit, late-night paramour.

For the first time since I'd begun working for her, I saw that

Kelly was not pleased with the coverage. She'd asked me, fairly, if

there was any truth to the claim, and then followed up with questions

about why Abby had it out for me. I assured her that I'd

never met the Hilton sex-tape guy and certainly hadn't had sex

with him—either on camera or off—and she seemed to believe me.

Oddly enough, it never occurred to her to ask who the guy was if

it wasn't Mr. Paris Hilton, so I hadn't needed to lie. After this brief

question-and-answer session, Kelly instructed me to settle any animosity

with Abby since this kind of publicity was no longer helpful.

She reminded me that we were a mere four weeks from the

Playboy
party, and there was to be no negative publicity, true or

not, surrounding my private life between now and then. I assured

her that I completely understood and vowed I'd put an end to it,

although as of yet, I had no realistic plan for doing so. I knew I

had to call Abby and confront her directly, but the thought of even

hearing her voice made me sick with dread.

Philip, of course, had kept his mouth shut; only I knew he was

relieved the photo was of my indiscretion—even if he did look like

a loser whose girlfriend openly cheated on him, or, as Will had

called him, a cuckold. At least it wasn't a shot of his little visit to

the other team. Philip and I had yet to even mention anything that

had happened that first night in Turkey. Not a word. Nada. Things

had resumed their normal pattern for the rest of the trip. Two days

of spa treatments and late-night debauchery. Eyeing but not touching

Sammy (Isabelle's Ambien didn't last long enough) and generally

making sure all the guests remained satisfied and out of

trouble. We finished out Turkey like we had started—pretending to

be together—although had anyone bothered to look closely, they

would've noticed that I didn't so much as nap in Philip's room.

In the week since we'd been home, Philip and I had seen each

other out, and neither of us denied it when people assumed we

were together. After the chaos of the photo, the "reconciliation"

gave me some wiggle room with Kelly. But I needed a low-drama

way out of this "relationship"—not just because of the tabloid pressure,

but because I really liked Sammy.

The good news was that every daily and weekly that mattered

had dedicated massive spreads to the group's carefully orchestrated

debauchery, and a very happy Association of Nightclub Owners

was certain there would soon be an unprecedented number of

American partiers. Only New York Scoop had printed the ugly

photo of me. Kelly seemed okay once she heard Philip and I had

"made up." Sammy had been extremely apologetic, although Isabelle

kept such a tight leash on him that we'd had little contact

since the trip. The only people who seemed truly devastated were

my parents.

My mother was so hysterical when she called that I had to

hang up on her mid-conversation and have Will call her back to

explain that you can't believe everything you read, especially when

it comes to gossip columns. He managed to placate her slightly,

but it didn't change the rather unsettling fact that even if I hadn't

been sleeping with the Hilton sex-tape guy, my parents had still

seen a photo of me taken right after I had quite obviously slept

with someone. They didn't understand what I was doing professionally

or personally . . . or why. While there'd been absolutely

nothing good about the situation, the worst of it seemed to be

over, and the only one who still seemed obsessed with it was Will.

It was Sunday, exactly one week after we'd returned from

Turkey, and I was at my usual brunch with Will and Simon. I was

bemoaning the lack of fact and truth in the piece when Will interrupted

me.

"Bette, darling, stop using the word
truth
when referencing

gossip columns. It makes you sound naive."

"Well, what am I supposed to do? Just be totally fine with the

fact that that vengeful bitch can make up whatever she wants

about me and they'll print it? It's a miracle and a blessing that I still

have my job."

"Is that so?" He raised his eyebrows and sipped from his

Bloody Mary, his pinky extended.

"You're the one who practically mandated I take this job, if I

remember. Said I needed more friends, to go out, to have a life.

Well, I've done just that."

"This," he said, holding up the picture for emphasis, "was not

what I meant. And you know it. Now, darling, I'm happy to support

you in anything that makes you happy, but I don't think it's a

stretch of an observation to say that this is not it."

Well, that one silenced me momentarily.

"So what do you propose I do?" I asked. "You thought banking

was a bore, and now you're disapproving of the job
you
picked for

me because some girl I knew in a previous life has it in for me?

That seems unfair."

He sighed. "Yes, well, darling, get over yourself. You're a big

girl now, and I'm sure you'll find something a little more—how

shall I put it?—
discreet
than your current lifestyle. Planning parties

and going out, having a drink or two, a little romp with a cute boy

is one thing, and I'm fully supportive of that. But dating some

spoiled brat to please your boss, getting your name and face plastered

across every rag in this city, and—not least—forgetting your

old uncle's birthday because you were too busy acting as an international

babysitter for a group of B-list stars and socialites is not

quite what I had in mind when I recommended that you take this

job."

Will's birthday. January 2. I'd forgotten.

Will motioned for the waiter to bring him another Bloody Mary.

"Darling, excuse me for a moment. I'm going to take this mobile

phone outside and see where Simon is. It's unlike him to be this

late." He placed his napkin on his chair and crossed the cavernous

room in a few easy strides, looking every bit the distinguished gentleman.

When he returned, he was smiling and composed. "How is

your love life, my dear?" he asked, as if we'd not been talking

about Philip at all.

"Haven't I said it enough? I have no interest in Philip."

"Darling, I wasn't talking about Philip. Whatever happened to

that hulking boy with whom you drove to Poughkeepsie? I rather

liked him."

"Sammy? How could you have liked him? You only met him for

thirty seconds."

"Yes, but in those thirty seconds he showed he was perfectly

willing to lie on my behalf. Now, that's a quality person if there ever

was one. So tell me, is there no interest there at all?" He peered at me

with an intensity Will rarely displayed about anything.

I weighed whether or not to tell him the entire Istanbul story

and then buckled. At least one person in my life should know I

wasn't a complete tramp. "Urn, yeah, I guess you could say that," I

mumbled.

"Say what? That you are interested in him? Or you're not?" He

winked.

I took a deep breath. "He was the guy in the picture. You just

couldn't see him."

Will looked like he was trying to suppress a huge smile. "He

was in Turkey with you? How did you arrange that, my dear?"

"It's sort of a long story, but suffice it to say that I didn't know

he was going to be there."

Will raised an eyebrow. "Really? Well, I'm pleased to hear that.

I am sorry it had to end up in the gossip columns, but I'm glad the

two of you have, ah, cemented your relationship."

I listened to Will prattle on for a bit about how he always envisioned

me being with someone like Sammy—the strong, silent

type—and how it was about time I found myself a proper

boyfriend who understood what was really important. And oh, by

the way, how does he lean politically? I happily answered all of his

questions, content to talk about Sammy if I couldn't be with him.