Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (95 page)

‘Why wouldn't he be thrilled? As long as she's discreet and doesn't embarrass him and is available when he needs her for his work functions, I imagine he's psyched not to have to go to all her social shit and tell her how hot she is and discuss at length whether he prefers her in Stella McCartney or Alexander McQueen. He's the one who signs my checks, actually. He's a decent guy.'

I didn't quite know how to respond to any of this, so I sat, trying to think of something inoffensive to say.

‘It's just a job that happens to pay really, really well. If I ever want to open my own place, I can't turn down a six-figure salary for hanging out with a pretty woman a few hours a week.'

‘Six figures? Are you
kidding
?'

‘Not in the least. Why else do you think I would do this? It's beyond humiliating, but I've got my eyes on the prize. Which, incidentally, might be closer than I thought.' He popped a cookie in his mouth and chewed.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, nothing's definite, but a few guys from CIA approached me last week about going in with them and opening a place together.'

‘Really?' I moved closer. ‘Tell me about it.'

‘Well, it'd be more of a franchise situation, I guess you'd say, rather than a whole new place. It's by the people who own Houston's, and there are a few of them already on the West Coast. They say they do really well. It's a pretty basic American menu – not really any chance to do anything creative, since the concept and the menu are nonnegotiable, but it would be all mine. Or at least, mine and theirs.' He sounded about as excited as someone who'd just been told they had a sexually transmitted disease.

‘Well, it sounds great,' I said, trying to inject my voice with some level of enthusiasm. ‘Are you excited about it?'

He appeared to think about this for a few seconds and then sighed. ‘I'm not sure
excited
is the right word, but I think it's a good opportunity. It's not quite what I had in mind, but it's a step in the right direction. It's crazy to think I'd be able to incorporate my own personal vision for a place at this point in my career – it's just not realistic. So to answer your question, do I have some burning desire to own one-third of an Upper East Side Houston's restaurant? Not really. But if it'll allow me to stop working at Bungalow 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 appeared 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 café, 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.

Since we were a dozen people with nothing to do but drink and hang out, we sat at dinner that first night and played pop-culture 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 elementary 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 a Muslim country and all that, but I'm dressed as conservatively as my wardrobe will permit,' Isabelle announced, casting her eyes down to her outfit. Her halter dress looked as though it were made of metal; it left her entire back bare, and part of her ass, although anything truly obscene was covered, and it did actually reach to her knees. In front it dipped down to her belly button, but the material still clung to her perfect breasts just next to the nipples. Upon closer inspection, I decided she must've taped it there. Silver, open-toed stiletto sandals and an alligator clutch completed her look.

‘Do you think they even have Cristal there?' Davide asked with urgency. ‘They do have bottle service, don't they, Bette?'

I was about to tell him that he would probably survive the night regardless of the presence or lack of magnums of Cristal, but Kamal, who'd been listening quietly with no expression whatsoever, leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Friends, I assure you that you will find everything to your satisfaction. Tonight's venue will surely please you, as we have arranged it all.'