Everyone worth Knowing -Lauren Weisberger

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Chapter One - Chapter Five
1
How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?
—From "Baby, You're a Rich Man" (1967)
by John Lennon and Paul McCartney


Though I'd caught only the briefest glimpse from the corner of
my eye, I knew immediately that the brown creature darting across
my warped hardwood floors was a water bug—the largest, meatiest
insect I'd ever seen. The superbug had narrowly avoided skimming
across my bare feet before it disappeared under the bookcase. Trembling,
I forced myself to practice the chakra breathing I'd learned
during an involuntary week at an ashram with my parents. My heart
rate slowed slightly after a few concentrated breaths of re on the inhale
and lax on the exhale, and within a few minutes I was functional
enough to take some necessary precautions. First I rescued
Millington (who was also cowering in terror) from her hiding place
under the couch. Then, in quick succession, I zipped on a pair of
knee-high leather boots to cover my exposed legs, opened the door
to the hallway to encourage the bug's departure, and began spraying
the extra-strong black-market vermin poison on every available surface
in my minuscule one-bedroom. I gripped the trigger as though it
were an assault weapon and was still spraying when the phone rang
nearly ten minutes later.
The caller ID flashed with Penelope's number. I almost
screened her before I realized that she was one of only two potential
refuges. Should the water bug manage to live through the fumigation
and cruise through my living room again, I'd need to crash
with her or Uncle Will. Unsure where Will was tonight, I decided
it'd be wise to keep the lines of communication intact. I answered.
"Pen, I'm under attack by the largest roach in Manhattan. What
do I do?" I asked the second I picked up the phone.
"Bette, I have NEWS!" she boomed back, clearly indifferent to
my panic.
"News more important than my infestation?"
"Avery just proposed!" Penelope shrieked. "We're engaged!"
Goddammit. Those two simple words—we're engaged—could
make one person so happy and another so miserable. Autopilot
quickly kicked in, reminding me that it would be inappropriate—to
say the least—if I were to verbalize what I really thought. He's a
loser, P. He's a spoiled, stoner little kid in the body of a big boy. He
knows you 're out of bis league and is putting a ring on your finger
before you realize it as well. Worse, by manying him you will be
merely biding your time until he replaces you with a younger, hotter
version of yourself ten years down the line, leaving you to pick
up the pieces. Don't do it! Don't do it! Don't do it!
"Ohmigod!" I shrieked right back. "Congratulations! I'm so
happy for you!"
"Oh, Bette, I knew you would be. I can barely even speak, it's
just all happening so fast!"
So fast? He's the only guy you've dated since you were nineteen.
It's not like this wasn't expected—it's been eight years. I just hope he
doesn 't catch herpes at his bachelor party in Vegas.
"Tell me everything. When? How? Ring?" I rattled off questions,
playing the best friend role fairly believably, I thought, all things
considered.
"Well, I can't talk too long because we're at the St. Regis right
now. Remember how he insisted on picking me up for work
today?" Before waiting for my answer, she raced breathlessly
ahead. "He had a car waiting outside and told me it was just because
he couldn't get a cab, and said that we were expected for
dinner at his parents' house in ten minutes. Of course, I was a little
annoyed that he hadn't even asked if I wanted to go to dinner
there—he'd said he'd made reservations at Per Se, and you know
how tough it is to get in there—and we were having pre-drinks in
the library when in walked both our parents. Before I knew what
was happening, he was down on one knee!"
"In front of all your parents? He did the public proposal?" I
knew I sounded horrified, but I couldn't help it.
"Bette, it was hardly public. It was our parents, and he said the
sweetest things in the world. I mean, we never would've met if it
weren't for them, so I can see his point. And get this—he gave me
two rings!"
"Two rings?"
"Two rings. A seven-carat flawless round in platinum that was his
great-great-grandmother's for the real ring, and then a very pretty
three-carat ascher-cut with baguettes that's much more wearable."
"Wearable?"
"It's not as though you can roam the streets of New York in a
seven-carat rock, you know. I thought it was really smart."
"Two rings?"
"Bette, you're incoherent. We went from there to Per Se, where
my father even managed to turn off his cell phone for the duration
of dinner and make a reasonably nice toast, and then we went for
a carriage ride in Central Park, and now we're at a suite in the St.
Regis. I just had to call and tell you!"
Where, oh where, had my friend gone? Penelope, who'd never
even shopped for engagement rings because she thought they all
looked the same, who had told me three months earlier when a mutual
college friend had gotten engaged in the back of a horse-drawn
carriage that it was the tackiest thing on earth, had just morphed into
a very close approximation of a Stepford Wife. Was I just bitter? Of
course I was bitter. The closest I'd come to getting engaged was
reading the wedding announcements in T7je New York Times, aka the
Single Girls' Sports Page, every Sunday at brunch. But that was beside
the point.
"I'm so glad you did! And I can't wait to hear every last detail,
but you've got an engagement to consummate. Get off the phone
with me and go make your fiance happy. How weird does that
sound? 'Fiance.'"
"Oh, Avery's on a call from work. I keep telling him to hang
up"—she announced this loudly for his benefit—"but he just keeps
talking and talking. How has your night tbeen?"
"Ah, another stellar Friday. Let's see. Millington and I took a
walk over to the river, and some homeless guy gave her a biscuit
along the way, so she was really happy, and then I came home,
and hopefully killed what must be the largest insect in the tristate
area. I ordered Vietnamese, but I threw,, it out when I remembered
reading that some Vietnamese place near me was shut down for
cooking dog, and so now I'm about to dine on reheated rice and
beans and a packet of stale Twizzlers.i Oh, Christ, I sound like a
Lean Cuisine commercial, don't I?"
She just laughed, clearly having no words of comfort at that
particular moment. The other line clicked, indicating that she had
another call.
"Oh, it's Michael. I have to tell him. Do you care if I three-way
him in?" she asked.
"Sure. I'd love to hear you tell him." Michael would undoubtedly
commiserate with me over the entire situation once Penelope
hung up since he hated Avery even more than I did.
There was a click, which was followed by a brief silence and
then another click. "Everyone there?" Penelope squealed. This was
not a girl who normally squealed. "Michael? Bette? You guys both
on?"
Michael was a colleague of mine and Penelope's at UBS, but
since he'd made VP (one of the youngest ever) we'd seen much
less of him. Though Michael had a serious girlfriend, it took Penelope's
engagement to really drive the point home: we were growing
up.
"Hi, girls," Michael said, sounding exhausted.
"Michael, guess what? I'm engaged!"
There was the tiniest beat of hesitation. I knew that, like me,
Michael wasn't surprised, but he would be trying hard to formulate
a believably enthusiastic response.
"Pen, that's fantastic news!" he all but shouted into the phone.
His volume did much to compensate for the lack of any genuine
joy in his voice, and I made a mental note to remember that for
next time.
"I know!" she sang back. "I knew you and Bette would be so
happy for me. It just happened a few hours ago, and I'm so excited!"
"Well, we'll obviously have to celebrate," he said loudly. "Black
Door, just the three of us, multiple shots of something strong and
cheap."
"Definitely," I added, happy for something to say. "A celebration
is most definitely in order."
"Okay, honey!" Penelope called into the distance, our drinking
plans understandably of little interest. "Guys, Avery's off the phone
and is pulling on the cord. Avery, stop! I've got to run, but I'll call
you both later. Bette, see you at work tomorrow. Love you both!"
There was a click and then Michael said, "You still there?"
"Sure am. Do you want to call me or should I call you?" We'd
all learned early on that you couldn't trust that the third line had
disconnected and therefore always took the precaution of starting a
new call before talking shit about the person who'd hung up first.
I heard a high-pitched voice in the background and he said,
"Dammit, I just got paged. I can't talk now. Can we talk tomorrow?"
"Sure. Say hi to Megu for me, okay? And Michael? Please don't
go and get engaged anytime soon. I don't think I can handle you,
too."
He laughed. "You don't have to worry about that, I promise. I'll
talk to you tomorrow. And Bette? Chin up. He might be one of the
worst guys either of us has ever met, but she seems happy, and
that's all you can ask for, you know?"
We hung up and I stared at the phone for a few minutes before
twisting my body out the window in a futile attempt to see a few
inches of comforting river landscape; the apartment wasn't much,
but it was, thankfully, all mine. I hadn't shared it in the nearly two
years since Cameron had moved out, and even though it was so
long and narrow that I could stretch my legs out and almost touch
the opposite wall and even though it was located in Murray Hill
and even though the floorboards were warping slightly and the
water bugs had taken over, I had reign over my own private
palace. The building was a cement monstrosity on Thirty-fourth
and First, a multi-winged behemoth that housed such illustrious
tenants as one teenage member of a dismantled boy band, one
professional squash player, one B-list porn star and her stable of
visitors, one average Joe, one former childhood actress who hadn't
worked in two decades, and hundreds upon hundreds of recent
college graduates who couldn't quite handle the idea of leaving the
dorm or the fraternity house for good. It had sweeping East River
views, as long as one's definition of "sweeping views" includes a
construction crane, a couple of Dumpsters, a brick wall from the
building next door, and a patch of river approximately three inches
wide that is only visible through unfathomable acts of contortion.
All of this glory was mine for the equivalent monthly cost of a
four-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath single-family home upstate.
While still twisted on the couch, I reviewed my reaction to the
news. I thought I'd sounded sincere enough, if not downright ecstatic,
but Penelope knew ecstatic wasn't in my nature. I'd managed
to ask about the rings—plural—and to state that I was very
happy for her. Of course, I hadn't mustered up anything truly
heartfelt or meaningful, but she was probably too giddy to notice.
Overall: a solid B-plus performance.
My breathing had normalized enough to smoke another cigarette,
which made me feel slightly better. The fact that the water
bug hadn't resurfaced yet helped, too. I tried to assure myself that
my unhappiness stemmed from my genuine concern that Penelope
was marrying a truly terrible guy and not from some deep-rooted
envy that she now had a fiance when I didn't have so much as a
second date. I couldn't. It had been two years since Cameron had
moved out, and though I'd cycled through the requisite stages of
recovery (job obsession, retail obsession, and food obsession) and
had gone on the usual round of blind dates, drinks-only dates, and
the rarer full-dinner dates, only two guys had made third-date status.
And none had made fourth. I told myself repeatedly that there
wasn't anything wrong with me—and regularly made Penelope
confirm this—but I was seriously beginning to doubt the validity of
that statement.
I lit a second cigarette off the first and ignored Millington's disapproving
doggy stare. The self-loathing was beginning to settle
upon my shoulders like a familiar, warm blanket. What kind of evil
person couldn't express genuine, sincere happiness on one of the
happiest days of her best friend's life? How conniving and insecure
does one have to be to pray that the whole thing turns out to be a
giant misunderstanding? How did I get to be so wretched"?
I picked up the phone and called Uncle Will, looking for some
sort of validation. Will, aside from being one of the brightest and
bitchiest people on the planet, was my perpetual cheerleader. He
answered the phone with the slightest gin-and-tonic slur and I proceeded
to give him the short, less-painful version of Penelope's ultimate
betrayal.
"It sounds as though you feel guilty because Penelope is very
excited and you're not as happy for her as you should be."
"Yeah, that's right."
"Well, darling, it could be far worse. At least it's not some variation
on the theme where Penelope's misery is providing you with
happiness and fulfillment, right?"
"Huh?"
"Schadenfreude. You're not emotionally or otherwise benefiting
from her unhappiness, right?"
"She's not unhappy. She's euphoric. I'm the unhappy one."
"Well, there you have it! See, you're not so terrible. And you,
my dear, are not marrying that spoiled little brat whose only Godgiven
talents appear to be spending his parents' money and inhaling
large quantities of marijuana. Am I mistaken?"
"No, of course not. It just feels like everything's changing. Penelope's
my life, and now she's getting married. I knew it would happen
eventually, but I just didn't think eventually would be so soon."
"Marriage is for the bourgeoisie. You know that, Bette."
This triggered a series of mental images of Sunday brunches
through the years: Will, Simon, the Essex, me, and the Sunday
Styles section. We'd dissect the weddings for the duration of
brunch, never failing to collapse into evil giggles as we creatively
read between the lines.
Will continued. "Why on earth are you eager to enter into a
lifelong relationship, the only purpose of which is to strangle every
iota of individuality out of you? I mean, look at me. Sixty-six years
old, never married, and I'm perfectly happy."
"You're gay, Will. And not only that, but you wear a gold band
on the ring finger of your left hand."
"So what's your point? You think I'd actually marry Simon,
even if I could? Those same-sex, San Francisco city hall weddings
aren't exactly my scene. Not on your life."
"You've been living with him since before I was born. You do
realize that you are, essentially, married."
"Negative, darling. Either one of us is free to leave at any point,
without any messy legal or emotional ramifications. And that's why
it works. But enough of that; I'm not telling you anything you don't
already know. Tell me about the ring." I filled him in on the details
he really cared about while munching the remaining Twizzlers, and
didn't even realize I had fallen asleep on the couch until close to
3 A.M., when Millington woofed her desire to sleep in a real bed. I
dragged us both to my room and buried my head under the pillow,
reminding myself over and over that this was not a disaster.
Not a disaster. Not a disaster.

2
Just my luck that Penelope's engagement party fell on a Thursday
night—the night of my standing dinner date with Uncle Will
and Simon. Neither appointment could be denied. I stood in front
of my ugly, postwar, high-rise Murray Hill apartment building, desperately
trying to escape to my uncle's huge duplex on Central
Park West. It wasn't rush hour, Christmas, shift change, or torrentially
pouring, but a cab was nowhere to be found. I had been
whistling, screaming, and jumping skywards like a lunatic for
twenty minutes to no avail, when a lone cab finally pulled up to
the curb. The cabbie's response when I requested to go uptown
was "Too much traffic!" before he screeched off and disappeared.
When a second driver actually picked me up, I ended up tipping
him 50 percent out of relief and gratitude.
"Hey, Bettina, you look unhappy. Is everything okay?" I'd insisted
that people call me Bette, and most did. Only my parents
and George, Uncle Will's doorman (who was so old and cute he
could get away with anything), still insisted on using my full name.
"Just the usual cab hassle, George." 1 sighed, giving him a peck
on the cheek. "How's your day been?"
"Oh, just dandy as always," he replied without a hint of sarcasm.
"Saw the sun for a few minutes this morning and have been
happy ever since." Nauseating.
"Bette!" I heard Simon call from the lobby's discreetly hidden
mailroom. "Is that you I hear, Bette?"
He emerged from the mailroom in tennis whites, a racketshaped
bag slung over his broad shoulders, and picked me up in a
bear hug as no straight man ever had. It was sacrilege to skip a
weekly dinner, which in addition to being a good time also provided
by far the most male attention I received (not counting
brunch).
Will and Simon had developed lots of rituals in the almost
thirty years they'd spent together. They vacationed in only three
places: St. Barth's in late January (although lately Will had been
complaining that it was "too French"), Palm Springs in mid-March,
and an occasional spontaneous weekend in Key West. They drank
gin and tonics only out of Baccarat glasses, spent every Monday
night from seven until eleven at Elaine's, and hosted an annual holiday
party where each would wear a cashmere turtleneck. Will was
almost six-three, with close-cropped silver hair, and he preferred
sweaters with suede elbow patches; Simon was barely five-nine,
with a wiry, athletic build that he swathed entirely in linen, irrespective
of the season. "Gay; men," he'd say, "have carte blanche to
flout fashion convention. We've earned the right." Even now, moments
off the tennis court, he'd managed to don some sort of
white linen hoodie.
"Gorgeous girl, how are you? Come, come, Will is sure to be
wondering where we both are, and I just know that the new girl
has prepared something fantastic for us to eat." Always the perfect
gentleman, he took my exploding tote bag from my shoulder, held
the elevator door open, and pressed PH.
"How was tennis?" I asked, wondering why this sixty-year-old
man had a better body than every guy I knew.
"Oh, you know how it is, a bunch of old guys running around
the court, tracking down balls they shouldn't even try for and pretending
they've got strokes like Roddick. A little pathetic, but always
amusing."
The door to their apartment was slightly ajar and I could hear
Will talking to the TV in the study, as usual. In the old days, Will
had scooped Liza Minnelli's relapse and RFK's affairs and Patty
Hearst's leap from socialite to cult member. It was the "amorality"
of the Dems that finally pushed him toward politics instead of all
things glamorous. He called it the Clinton Clinch. Now, a few short
decades later, Will was a news junkie with political affiliations that
ran slightly to the right of Attila the Hun's. He was almost certainly
the only gay right-wing entertainment-and-society columnist living
on the Upper West Side of Manhattan who refused to comment on
either entertainment or society. There were two televisions in his
study, the larger of which he kept tuned to Fox News. "Finally," he
was fond of saying, "a network that speaks to my people."
And always Simon's retort: "Riiight. That huge audience of
right-wing gay entertainment-and-society columnists living on the
Upper West Side of Manhattan?"
The smaller set constantly rotated between CNN, CNN Headline
News, C-SPAN, and MSNBC, perpetrators of what Will referred to
as "The Liberal Conspiracy." A handwritten sign sat atop the second
TV. It read: KNOW YOI;R ENEMY.
On CNN, Aaron Brown was interviewing Frank Rich about the
media coverage surrounding the last election. "Aaron Brown is a
lily-livered milquetoast pantywaist!" Will snarled as he put down
his crystal tumbler and hurled one of his Belgian shoes at the TV.
"Hi, Will," I said, helping myself to a handful of the chocolatecovered
raisins he always kept in an Orrefors bowl on his desk.
"Of all the people qualified to discuss politics in this country,
to offer some insight or an intelligent opinion on how media coverage
did or did not affect these elections, and these idiots have to
interview someone from TJje New York Times? The whole place is
more bleeding than a rare steak, and I need to sit here and listen
to their opinion on this?"
"Well, not really, Will. You could turn it off, you know." I suppressed
a smile as his eyes stayed riveted ahead. I silently debated
with myself how long it would take for him to refer to The New
York Times as Izvestia, or to bring up the Jayson Blair debacle as
further proof that the paper's trash at best and a conspiracy against
honest, hardworking Americans at worst.
"What, and miss Mr. Aaron Brown's blatantly opinionated coverage
of Mr. Frank Rich's blatantly opinionated coverage of whatever
the hell they're talking about? Seriously, Bette, let us not forget that
this is the very same paper whose reporters simply create stories
when deadline looms." He took a swig and jabbed at the remote to silence
both televisions simultaneously. Only fifteen seconds tonight—
a record.
"Enough for now," he said, hugging me and giving me a quick
peck on the cheek. "You look great, honey, as always, but would it
kill you to wear a dress once in a while?"
He'd not so deftly moved to discussing his second-favorite
topic, my life. Uncle Will was nine years older than my mom and
both swore they'd been born to the very same set of parents, but it
seemed impossible to comprehend. My mother was horrified I'd
taken a corporate job that required me to wear something other
than caftans and espadrilles, and my uncle thought the travesty
was the suit as uniform instead of some killer Valentino gown or a
fabulous pair of strappy Louboutins.
"Will, it's just what they do at investment banks, you know?"
"So I've gathered. I just didn't think you'd end up in banking."
That again.
"Your people, like, love capitalism, don't they?" I teased. "The
Republicans, I mean—not so much the gays."
He raised his bushy gray eyebrows and peered at me from
across the couch. "Cute. Very cute. It's nothing against banking,
darling, I think you know that. It's a fine, respectable career—I'd
rather see you doing that than any of those hippie-dippy-save-theworld
jobs your parents would recommend—but you just seem so
young to lock yourself into something so boring. You should be
out there meeting people, going to parties, enjoying being young
and single in New York, not tied down to a desk in a bank. What
do you want to do?"
As many times as he'd asked me this, I'd never come around to
a great—or even decent—answer. It was certainly a fair question.
In high school I'd always thought I'd join the Peace Corps. My parents
had taught me that that was the natural step following a college
degree. But then I went to Emory and met Penelope. She
liked that I couldn't name every private school in Manhattan and
knew nothing about Martha's Vineyard, and I, of course, loved that
she could and did. We were inseparable by Christmas break, and
by the end of freshman year, I had discarded my favorite Dead
T-shirts. Jerry was long dead, anyway. And it was fun going to basketball
games and keg parties and joining the coed touch-football
league with a whole group of people who didn't regularly dread
their hair, or recycle their bathwater, or wear patchouli oil. I didn't
stand out as the eccentric girl who always smelled a little bit off
and knew way too much about the redwoods. I wore the same
jeans and T-shirts as everyone else (without even checking to see if
they originated in a sweatshop) and ate the same burgers and
drank the same beer, and it felt fantastic. For four years I had a
group of similar-minded friends and the occasional boyfriend,
none of whom were Peace Corps-bound. So when all the big companies
showed up on campus waving giant salaries and signing
bonuses and offering to fly candidates to New York for interviews,
I did it. Nearly every one of my friends from school took a similar
job, because when you get right down to it, how else is a twentytwo-
year-old going to be able to pay rent in Manhattan? What was
incredible about the whole thing was how quickly five years had
gone by. Five years had just vanished into a black hole of training
programs and quarterly reports and year-end bonuses, leaving
barely enough time for me to consider that I loathed what I
did all day long. It didn't help matters that I was actually good
at it—it somehow seemed to signify that I was doing the right
thing. Will knew it was wrong, though, could obviously sense it,
but so far I'd been too complacent to make the leap into something
else.
"What do I want to do? How on earth can I answer something
like that?" I asked.
"How can you not? If you don't get out soon, you're going to
wake up one day when you're forty and a managing director and
jump off a bridge. There's nothing wrong with banking, darling, it's
just not for you. You should be around people. You should laugh a
little. You should write. And you should be wearing much better
clothes."
I didn't tell him I was considering looking for work at a nonprofit.
He'd start ranting about how his campaign to un-brainwash
me from my parents had failed, and he'd sit dejectedly at the table
for the rest of the evening. I'd tried it once, just merely mentioned
that I was thinking of interviewing at Planned Parenthood, and
he'd informed me that while that was a most noble idea, it would
lead me straight back down the path to rejoining, in his words, the
World of the Great Unshowered. So we proceeded to cover the
usual topics. First came my nonexistent love life ("Darling, you're
simply too young and too pretty for your job to be your only
lover"), followed by a bit of ranting about Will's latest column ("Is
it my fault that Manhattan has become so uneducated that people
no longer wish to hear the truth about their elected officials?"). We
cycled back to my high school days of political activism ("The Incense
Era is blessedly over"), and then once again returned to
everyone's all-time favorite topic, the abject state of my wardrobe
("Ill-fitting, masculine trousers do not a date outfit make").
Just as he was beginning a small soliloquy on the far-reaching
benefits of owning a Chanel suit, the maid knocked on the study
door to inform us that dinner was on the table. We collected our
drinks and made our way to the formal dining room.
"Productive day?" Simon asked Will, kissing him on the cheek
in greeting. He had showered and changed into a pair of Hefesque
linen pajamas and was holding a glass of champagne.
"Of course not," Will responded, setting aside his dirty martini
and pouring two more glasses of champagne. He handed one to
me. "Deadline's not until midnight; why would I do a damn thing
until ten o'clock tonight? What are we celebrating?"
I dug into my Gorgonzola salad, grateful to be eating something
that hadn't originated in a street cart, and took a gulp of
champagne. If 1 could have somehow finagled eating there every
night without appearing to be the biggest loser on earth, I
would've done it in a second. But even I had enough dignity to
know that being available for the same people—even if they were
your uncle and his partner—more than once a week for dinner
and once for brunch was truly pathetic.
"What, we need to be celebrating something to drink a little
champagne?" Simon asked, helping himself to a few pieces of the
sliced steak their housekeeper had made for the main course. "Just
thought it would be a nice change. Bette, what are your plans for
the rest of the evening?"
"Penelope's engagement party. I'm going to have to head there
soon, actually. The mothers put the whole thing together before either
Avery or Penelope could veto it. At least it's at some club in
Chelsea, though, rather than somewhere on the Upper East Side—I
think that was their one concession to their children actually enjoying
themselves."
"What's the name of the club?" Will asked, although there was
little chance he knew anything about it if it wasn't dark, woodpaneled,
and filled with cigar smoke.
"She mentioned it, but I can't remember. Begins with a B, I
think. Here," I said, pulling a torn slip of paper from my bag. "It's
on Twenty-seventh between Tenth and Eleventh. It's called—"
"Bungalow 8," they replied in unison.
"How did you both know that?"
"Honey, it's mentioned so often in Page Six that you'd think
Richard Johnson owned the damn place," Will said.
"I read somewhere that it was originally modeled after the bungalows
at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and that the service is just as
good. It's just a nightclub, but this article described a concierge
who will cater to any whim, from ordering in a special kind of rare
sushi to arranging for helicopters. There are places that are hot for
a few months and then vanish, but everyone agrees that Bungalow
8 has staying power," Simon said.
"I guess sitting at the Black Door on my nights out isn't really
helping my social life," I said and pushed my plate away. "Do you
guys mind if I bail early tonight? Penelope wanted me there before
the hordes of Avery's friends and her family arrive."
"Run, Bette, run. Stop only to reapply your lipstick and then
run! And it wouldn't hurt a damn if you found yourself a dashing
young gentleman to date," Simon declared, as though there would
be roomfuls of gorgeous, eligible guys who were just waiting for
me to walk into their lives.
"Or even better, a dashing young bastard to play with for one
evening." Will winked, only half-kidding.
"You guys are the best," I said, kissing each one's cheek before
gathering my bag and cardigan. "You have no compunction whoring
out your only niece, do you?"
"Absolutely none," Will announced while Simon shook his
head gravely. "Go be a good tart and have some fun, for Christ's
sake, will you?"
There was a crowd—three deep and a block long—when the
cab pulled up in front of the club, and if it hadn't been Penelope's
party, I would've had the cabbie keep driving. Instead, I plastered
on a smile and strolled to the front of the forty-person line, where
a giant guy wearing a Secret Service earpiece stood, holding a clipboard.
"Hi, my name is Bette and I'm with Penelope's party," I said,
surveying the line and not recognizing a single face.
He gazed at me blankly. "Great, nice to meet you, Penelope. If
you could just wait in line like everyone else, we'll get you inside
as quickly as possible."
"No, this is Penelope's party, and I'm her friend. She asked me
to be here early, so it'd really be better if I could go in right now."
"Uh-huh, that's great. Listen, just step aside and—" He placed a
hand over his earpiece and appeared to listen intently, nodding his
head a few times and studying the line that now looped around
the corner.
"Okay, everyone," he announced, his voice causing immediate
silence among the barely dressed would-be partiers. "We're already
at capacity right now, as determined by the FDNY. We'll only be
letting people in as others leave, so either get comfortable or come
back later."
Groans all around. Well, this simply isn't going to work, I
thought. He must not understand the situation.
"Excuse me? Sir?" He peered at me once again, now visibly annoyed.
"You've obviously got a lot of people waiting to go in, but
it's my friend's engagement party, and she really needs me there. If
you only knew her mother, then you'd understand how imperative
it is that I get inside."
"Mmm. Interesting. Look, I don't care if your friend Penelope's
marrying Prince William. There's no way I can let anyone else in right
now. We'd be in violation of the fire code, and you certainly don't
want that." He backed off a bit. "Just hang out in line and we'll get
you in as soon as possible, okay?" I think he was aiming for soothing,
but it only served to incense me more. He looked vaguely familiar, although
I wasn't sure why. His faded green T-shirt was tight enough to
show that he was quite capable of keeping people out if he so desired,
but the slightly baggy, faded jeans that hung low on his hips
suggested he didn't take himself too seriously. Just as I was conceding
that he had the best hair I'd ever seen on a guy—longish, dark, thick,
and annoyingly shiny—he shrugged on a gray corduroy jacket and
managed to look even cuter still.
Definitely a model. I restrained myself from announcing something
super-snotty about what a power trip this must be for someone
who most likely hadn't made it past seventh grade, and
skulked to the back of the line. As repeated attempts to call both
Penelope's and Avery's cell phones went straight to voice mail, and
the front-door goon was only allowing in an average of two people
every ten minutes, I stood there for the better part of an hour. I
was fantasizing about the many ways I could humiliate or otherwise
harm the bouncer when Michael and his girlfriend slinked
outside and lit cigarettes a few feet from the door.
"Michael!" I shrieked, aware of how absolutely pathetic I
sounded, but not really caring. "Michael, Megu, over here!"
They both looked over the hordes of people and spotted me,
which probably wasn't hard considering I was screaming and waving
with zero dignity. They waved me over, and I practically ran to them.
"I need to get inside already. I've been standing outside this
goddamn hellhole forever, and that guy won't let me in. Penelope's
going to kill me!"
"Hey, Bette, great to see you, too," Michael said, leaning over
to kiss my cheek.
"Sorry," I said, hugging first him and then his girlfriend, Megu,
the sweet Japanese med student with whom he now shared an
apartment. "How are you guys? How on earth did you both get out
for this?"
"It happens like once every six months." Megu smiled, taking
hold of Michael's hand and tucking it behind her back. "The schedule
just falls into alignment for one twelve-hour period when I'm
not on call and he's not at work."
"And you came here? What, are you crazy? Megu, you're a
really good sport. Michael, do you realize what a girl you have
here?"
"Sure do," he said, gazing at her adoringly. "She knows Penelope
would kill me, too, if we didn't make an appearance, but I
think we're out. I've got to be at work in, oh, let's see, four hours
now, and Megu was hoping to sleep for a full six-hour block of
time for the first time in a few weeks, so we're going to bail. It
looks like people are headed inside now."
I turned to see a massive exchange of gorgeous people: one
crowd surged outside, apparently on their way to a "real" party in
TriBeCa, and another seeped in through the door when the
bouncer lifted the velvet rope.
"I thought you said I was next on the list," I said flatly to the
bouncer.
"Feel free to visit Princess Penelope," he told me, sweeping expansively
with one arm and adjusting his earpiece to hear what I'm
sure was crucial information with the other.
"See, there you go," Michael said, pulling Megu out into the
street with him. "Call me this week and let's grab a drink. Bring
Penelope—I didn't get a chance to even talk to her tonight, and it's
been forever since we all caught up. Tell her I said good-bye." And
they were gone, undoubtedly thrilled they'd managed to escape.
I turned around and saw that there were only a few people loitering
on the sidewalk, talking on cell phones, apparently indifferent
to whether they went inside. Just like that, the crowd had
evaporated, and I was finally being granted entry.
"Gee, thanks. You were extraordinarily helpful," I said to the
bouncer, brushing past his massive frame and walking through the
velvet rope he held open. I yanked open the giant glass door and
stepped into a dark foyer, where Avery was talking very closely to
a very pretty girl with very big breasts.
"Hi, Bette, where have you been all night?" he said, immediately
moving toward me and offering to take my coat. In the same
second Penelope bounded over, looking flushed and then relieved.
She was wearing a short black cocktail dress topped with a se-
quined shrug and extraordinarily high-heeled silver sandals, and I
knew immediately that her mother had dressed her.
"Bette!" she hissed, grabbing my arm and leading me away
from Avery, who immediately resumed his intense conversation
with the girl. "What took you so long? I've been suffering alone all
night."
I raised my eyebrows and looked around. "Alone? There must
be two hundred people here. All these years, and I didn't know
you had two hundred friends. This is quite the party!"
"Yeah, really impressive, right? Exactly five of the people in this
room are here to see me: my mother, my brother, one of the girls
from the real-estate department, my father's secretary, and now
you. Megu and Michael left, right?" I nodded. "The rest are Avery's,
of course. And my mother's friends. Where have you been?" She
took a gulp of her drink and passed the glass to me with slightly
shaking hands, as though it were a pipe and not a champagne
flute.
"Honey, I've been here for over an hour, as promised. Had a
bit of trouble at the door."
"You didn't!" She looked horrified.
"I did. Very cute bouncer, but a total creep."
"Oh, Bette, I'm so sorry! Why didn't you call me?"
"I did, a few dozen times, but I guess you couldn't hear your
phone. Listen, don't worry about it. Tonight's your night, so try
and, well, uh, enjoy it?"
"Let's get you a drink," she said, pulling a cosmopolitan from a
circling waiter's tray. "Do you believe this party?"
"It's crazy. How long has your mother been planning this?"
"She read in Page Six weeks ago that Gisele and Leo were seen
'canoodling' here, so I guess she called and booked it right after
that. She keeps telling me that these are the kinds of places I
should be patronizing because of their 'exclusive clientele.' I didn't
tell her that the one time Avery dragged me here the clientele was
basically having sex on the dance floor."
"It probably would've only encouraged her more."
"True." A model-tall woman wedged herself between us and
began air-kissing Penelope in a manner so insincere I actually
cringed, gulped my cosmo, and sneaked away. I got pulled into
some inane conversation with a few people from the bank who'd
just arrived and who looked a little shell-shocked to be away from
their computers, and I chatted as briefly as possible with Penelope's
mother, who immediately referenced both the Chanel suit
and the heels she was wearing and then pulled Penelope by the
arm to another cache of people. I surveyed the designer-clad
crowd and tried not to shrink in my outfit, which had been purchased
online from a combination of J. Crew and Banana Republic
at three in the morning a few months ago. Will had been particularly
insistent lately that I needed "going out" clothes, but the catalog
orders were not what he had in mind. I got the feeling that any
of these people could—and would—feel perfectly comfortable
roaming around naked. Even better than the clothes (which were
perfect) was the confidence, and that came from somewhere else
entirely. Two hours and three cosmos later, certifiably tipsy, I was
considering going home. Instead, I grabbed another drink and
ducked outside.
The line to get in had cleared up entirely; only the bouncer
who'd held me in club purgatory for so long remained. I was
preparing my snide remarks should he address me in any way
whatsoever, but he just grinned and returned his attention to the
paperback he was reading, which looked like a matchbook in his
massive hands. Shame he was so cute—but jerks always are.
"So, what was it about me that you didn't like?" I couldn't help
myself. Five years in the city and I'd tried to avoid places with
doormen or velvet ropes unless absolutely necessary; I'd inherited
at least a bit of my parents' egalitarian self-righteousness—or intense
insecurity, depending on how you looked at it.
"Pardon?"
"I mean, when you wouldn't let me in before, even though it's
my best friend's engagement party."
He shook his head and half-smiled to himself. "Look, it's nothing
personal. They hand me a list and tell me to follow it and do
crowd control. If you're not on the list or you show up when a
hundred other people do, I have to keep you outside for a little
while. There's really nothing more to it."
"Sure." I'd all but missed my best friend's big night because of
his door policy. I teetered a bit and then hissed, "Nothing personal.
Right."
"You think I need your attitude tonight? I've got plenty of people
who are far more expert at giving me a really fucking hard
time, so why don't we just stop talking and I'll put you in a cab?"
Perhaps it was the fourth cosmo—liquid courage—but I wasn't
in the mood to deal with his condescending attitude, so I turned
on my too-chunky heels and yanked the door open. "I hardly need
your charity. Thanks for nothing," I snapped and marched back inside
the club as soberly as I could manage.
I hugged Penelope, air-kissed Avery, and then beelined to the
door before anyone else could initiate any more small talk. I saw a
girl crouched in a corner, sobbing quietly but with a pleased
awareness that others were watching, and sidestepped a strikingly
stylish foreign couple who were making out furiously, and with
much hip grinding. I then made a big show of ignoring the meathead
bouncer who, incidentally, was reading from a tattered paperback
version of Lady Chatterley's Lover (sex fiend!) and threw
my arm in the air to hail a cab. Only the street was completely
empty, and a cold drizzle had just begun, practically guaranteeing
that a taxi was nowhere in my immediate future.
"Hey, you need some help?" he asked after opening the velvet
rope to admit three squealing, tottering girls. "This is a tough street
for cabs when it rains."
"No thanks, I'm just fine."
"Suit yourself."
Minutes were starting to feel like hours, and the warm summer
sprinkles had rapidly become a cold, persistent rain. What, exactly,
was I proving here? The bouncer had pressed himself against
the door to get some protection from the overhang and was still
reading calmly, as though unaware of the hurricane that now
whipped around us. I continued to stare at him until he looked up,
grinned, and said, "Yeah, you seem to be doing just fine on
your own. You're definitely teaching me a lesson by not taking one
of these huge umbrellas and walking a couple blocks over to
Eighth, where you'll have no trouble getting a cab at all. Great call
on your part."
"You have umbrellas?" I asked before I could stop myself. The
water had soaked entirely through my shirt and I could feel my
blanket-thick hair sticking to my neck in wet, cold clumps.
"Sure do. Keep 'em right here for situations just like this. But
I'm sure you wouldn't be interested in taking one of them, right?"
"Right. I'm just fine." To think I'd almost begun warming up to
him. Just then a livery cab drove by, and I had the brilliant idea to
call UBS's car service for a ride home.
"Hi, this is Bette Robinson with account number six-threethree-
eight. I need a car to pick me up at—"
"All booked!" barked back an angry-sounding female dispatcher.
"No, I don't think you understand. I have an account with your
company and—"
Click.
I stood there soaking wet, anger boiling inside me.
"No cars, huh? Tough," he said, clucking sympathetically without
looking up from the book. I'd managed to skim Lady Chatterley's
Lover when I was twelve and had already gleaned as much
about sex as possible from the combination of Forever, Wifey and
What's Happening to My Body? Book for Girls, but I didn't remember
anything about it. Perhaps that had to do with a poor memory,
or maybe it was the fact that sex hadn't even been a part of my
consciousness for the last two years. Or maybe it was that the plots
of my beloved romance novels crowded my thoughts at all times.
Whatever it was, I couldn't even recall something snide to say
about it, never mind clever. "No cars." I sighed. "Just not my night."
He took a few steps out in the rain and handed me a long executive's
umbrella, already unfurled, with the club's logo emblazoned
on both sides. "Take it. Walk to Eighth, and if you still can't
get a cab, talk to the doorman at Serena, Twenty-third between
Seventh and Eighth. Tell him I sent you, and he'll work it out."

I considered walking right past him and getting on the subway,
but the idea of riding around in a train car at one in the morning
was hardly appealing. "Thanks," I mumbled, refusing to meet what
would surely be his gloating eyes. I took the umbrella and started
walking east, feeling him watch me from behind.
Five minutes later, I was tucked in the backseat of a big yellow
taxi, wet but finally warm.
I gave the driver my address and slumped back, exhausted. At
this hour, cabs were good for two things and two things only:
making out with someone on your way home from a good night
out or catching up with multiple people in three-minute-or-less
cell-phone conversations. Since neither was an option, I rested my
wet hair on the patch of filthy vinyl where so many greasy, unwashed,
oiled, lice-ridden, and generally unkempt heads had
rested before mine, closed my eyes, and anticipated the sniffling,
hysterical welcome I would soon receive from Millington. Who
needed a man—or even a newly engaged best friend—when you
had a dog?

3
The week following Penelope's engagement party was nearly
unbearable. It was my fault, of course: there are many ways to piss
off your parents and rebel against your entire upbringing without
enslaving yourself in the process, but I was clearly too stupid to
find them. So instead I sat inside my shower-sized cubicle at UBS
Warburg—as I had every day for the past fifty-six months—and
death-gripped the phone, which was currently discolored by a
layer of Maybelline Fresh Look foundation (in Tawny Blush) and a
few splotches of L'Oreal Wet Shine lip gloss (in Rhinestone Pink). I
wiped it off as best I could while pressing the receiver to my ear
and rubbed my grubby fingers clean underneath the desk chair. I
was being berated by a "minimum," someone who only invests the
million-dollar minimum with my division and is therefore excruciatingly
demanding and detail-oriented in a way that forty-milliondollar
clients never are.
"Mrs. Kaufman, I truly understand your concern over the
market's slight decline, but let me assure you that we have everything
under control. I realize your nephew the interior decorator
thinks your portfolio is top-heavy with corporate bonds, but I assure
you our traders are excellent, and always looking out for your best
interests. I don't know if a thirty-two percent annual gain is realistic
in this economic environment, but I'll have Aaron give you a call as
soon as he gets back to his desk. Yes. Of course. Yes. Yes. Yes, I will
absolutely have him call you the moment he returns from the meeting.
Yes. Certainly. Of course. Yes. Naturally. Yes. A pleasure hearing
from you, as always. All right, then. Bye-bye." I waited until I heard
the click on her end and then slammed down the phone.

Nearly five years and I'd yet to utter the word no, as apparently
you need to have at least seventy-two months' experience before
being qualified to go there. I went to send Aaron a quick email
begging him to return Mrs. Kaufman's call so she would finally
stop stalking me and was surprised to see that he was back at his
desk, busily blast-emailing us his daily inspirational bullshit.
Good morning, folks. Let's remember to show our clients our
high energy levels! Our relationships with these good folks comprise
our whole business—they appreciate our patience and consideration
as much as our results-oriented portfolio handling. I'm
pleased to announce a new weekly group meeting, one that I
hope will allow us all to brainstorm ways we may better serve
our clients. It will be held each Friday at 7 a.m. and will provide
us with an opportunity to think outside the box. Breakfast is on
me, folks, so bring yourselves and your thinking caps and remember,
"Great discoveries and improvements invariably involve
the cooperation of many minds."—Alexander Graham Bell.
I stared at the email so long my eyes began to glaze over. Were
his insistence on using the word folks and his constant references
to "thinking outside the box" more or less annoying than his inclusion
of the phrase thinking caps? Did he craft and send these
emails just to add to the all-pervasive misery and hopelessness of
my days? I pondered this for a few moments, desperate to think
about anything other than the seven A.M. meeting announcement. I
managed to move beyond it long enough to field another frantic
call, this time from Mrs. Kaufman's nephew, that lasted a record
fifty-seven minutes, ninety percent of which he spent accusing me
of things that were entirely beyond my control while I said nothing
or, occasionally, just to switch things up, agreed with him that I
was, in fact, as dumb and useless as he claimed.
I hung up and resumed staring listlessly at the email. I wasn't
exactly sure how Mr. Bell's quote applied to my life or why I
should care, but I did know if I planned to escape for lunch, now
was my only chance. I'd abided by the no-leaving-for-lunch policy

my first few years at UBS Warburg and dutifully ordered in each
day, but lately Penelope and I had brazenly begun sneaking out
for ten, twelve minutes a day to retrieve our own takeout and cram
in as much whining and gossip as possible. An IM popped up on
my screen.
P.Lo: Ready? Let's do falafel. Meet at the 52nd Street cart in five?
I punched in the letter Y, hit Send, and draped my suit jacket
over the back of my chair to indicate my presence. One of the
managers glanced at me when I picked up my purse, so I filled my
mug with steaming coffee as additional proof that I hadn't left the
premises and placed it in the middle of my desk. I mumbled something
about the bathroom to my fellow cubicle dwellers, who were
too busy transferring their own facial grime to their telephones to
even notice, and walked confidently toward the hallway. Penelope
worked in the real-estate division two floors above me and was already
in the elevator, but like two well-trained CIA operatives, we
didn't so much as glance at each other. She let me exit first and circle
the lobby for a minute while she ducked outside and casually
strolled past the fountain. I followed as best I could in my ugly,
uncomfortable heels, the humidity hitting my face like a wall. We
didn't speak until we'd blended into the line of midtown office
drones who stood both quietly and restlessly, wanting to savor
their few precious minutes of daily freedom but instinctively getting
pissy and frustrated at having to wait for anything.
"What are you having?" Penelope asked, her eyes scanning the
three different carts of sizzling and highly aromatic ethnic food that
men in varying costumes and facial hair were steaming, slicing,
sauteing, skewering, frying, and heaving toward the hungry suits.
"It's all some sort of meat on a stick or dough-filled something,"
I said tonelessly, surveying the smoky meats. "Does it
matter?"
"Someone's in a great mood today."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot, I should be thrilled that five years of
slave labor have turned out so well. I mean, look at us, how glam-
orous is this?" I waved my arms expansively in front of us. "It's sad
enough we don't get to go out to lunch at some point in the middle
of a sixteen-hour workday, but it's fucking pathetic that we
aren't even permitted to pick out our food ourselves."
"This is nothing new, Bette. I don't know why you're getting so
stressed about it now."
"Just a particularly lousy day. If it's possible to distinguish one
from the next."

I wanted to say "Two rings?" but restrained myself as an overweight
woman wearing a skirt suit worse than mine and a pair of
white leather Reeboks over her tights spilled hot sauce down the
front of her embroidered, ruffled blouse. I saw myself in ten years
and nearly lurched forward with queasiness.
"Of course nothing happened, that's the whole point!" I all but
screamed. Two blond guys who looked fresh off the Princeton eating
club path turned and looked at me curiously. I thought about
composing myself for a minute since, well, they were both really
cute, but I soon remembered that these obscenely hot lacrosse
players were not only way too young, but most likely also had obscenely
gorgeous girlfriends eight years my junior.
"Seriously, Bette, I don't know what you're looking for. I mean,
it's a job, right? It's still work. It doesn't matter what you do, it's
never going to be like sitting at the country club all day long, you
know? Sure, it sucks to spend every waking minute at work. And I
don't exactly adore finance, either—I never fantasized about working
at a bank—but it's just not that bad."
Penelope's parents had tried to push her toward a position at
Vogue or Sotheby's as the final finishing school in the pursuit of
her Mrs. degree, but when she'd insisted on joining the rest of us
in corporate America, they'd acquiesced—it was certainly possible
to find a husband while working in finance, as long as she kept
her priorities straight, didn't display any overt ambition, and quit
immediately after the wedding. Truth be told, though, while she
whined and complained about the job, I think she actually liked it.
She handed over a ten-dollar bill to cover both of our "kebab"
plates, and my eyes were drawn to her hand like a magnet. Even I
had to admit the ring was gorgeous. I said as much, for the tenth
time, and she beamed. It was hard to be upset about the engagement
when she was so obviously giddy. Avery had even stepped it
up since the proposal and had managed to impersonate a real, caring
fiance, which of course had made her even happier. He'd met
her after work so they could go home together, and had even
brought her breakfast in bed. More important, he had refrained
from clubbing, his favorite pastime, for a full three weeks now, the
only exception being last week's soiree in their honor. Penelope
didn't mind that Avery wanted to spend as much time as humanly
possible wedged in between banquettes—or dancing on them—
but she wanted no part of it. On the nights he was out with friends
from his consulting firm, Penelope and I would sit at the Black
Door, dive-bar extraordinaire, with Michael (when he was available),
drinking beer and wondering why anyone would want to be
anywhere else. But someone must've clued Avery in that while it's
acceptable to leave your girlfriend home six nights a week, ditching
your fiancee is different, so he'd made a concerted effort to cut
back. I knew it would never last.
We retraced our steps to the building and sneaked back into
the office with only a single dirty look from the rule-abiding UBS
shoe-shine guy (who, incidentally, was also forbidden to leave during
lunch in case a pair of wing tips desperately needed a spitshine
between one and two P.M.). Penelope followed me back to
my cubicle and planted herself on the chair that was theoretically
for guests and clients, although I'd yet to host either.
"So, we set a date," she said breathlessly, digging into the fragrant
plate she balanced on her lap.
"Oh, yeah? When?"
"Exactly one year from next week. August tenth, on Martha's
Vineyard, which seems appropriate since that's where it all began.
We've been engaged for a few weeks, and already our mothers are
going berserk. I seriously don't know how I'm going to put up
with them."
Avery's and Penelope's families had been vacationing together
since the two were toddlers. There were scads of photos of the
whole lot of them sporting grosgrain flip-flops and cheap-chic L.L.
Bean monogrammed totes in Martha's Vineyard during the summer
and Stubbs and Wootton slippers during ski vacations in the
Adirondacks each year. She'd gone to Nightingale and he'd been at
Collegiate and both of them had spent a good chunk of their respective
childhoods being paraded around by their socialite mothers
to various benefits and parties and weekend polo matches.
Avery embraced it, threw himself on every junior committee of
every foundation that asked, went out six nights a week with his
parents' unlimited line of credit, and was one of those New
York-born-and-bred kids who knew everyone, everywhere. Much
to her parents' chagrin, Penelope had no interest whatsoever. She
repeatedly rejected the whole circuit, preferring to spend all her
time with a group of misfit artist types on scholarship, the kind of
kids who gave Penelope's mother night sweats. Avery and Penelope
had never really been close—and certainly not remotely romantic—
until Avery had graduated high school a year before her
and headed to Emory. According to Penelope, who'd always harbored
an intense secret crush on Avery, he'd been one of the most
popular kids in school, the charming, athletic soccer player who
got adequate grades and was hot enough to get away with being
really, really arrogant. From what I could tell, she'd always blended
into the background, like all exotically pretty girls do at an age
when only blond hair and big boobs count, spending a lot of time
getting good grades and trying desperately not to get noticed. And
it worked, at least until Avery came back for summer break after
his freshman year in college, looked across the hot tub at their
families' shared house in the Vineyard, and saw everything about
Penelope that was long and graceful and gorgeous—her doe-like
limbs and her stick-straight black hair and the eyelashes that
framed her enormously wide brown eyes.
So she did what every good girl knows is completely wrong—
for the reputation, the self-esteem, and the strategy of making him
call the next day—and slept with him then and there, mere minutes
after he leaned over to kiss her for the very first time. ("I just
couldn't help it," she'd said a million times while retelling the story.
"I couldn't believe that Avery Wainwright was interested in me!")
But unlike all the other girls I knew who'd had sex within hours of
meeting some guy and never heard from him again, Penelope and
Avery proceeded to attach themselves to each other, and their engagement
was little more than a much approved and applauded
formality.
"Are they being worse than usual?"
She sighed and rolled her eyes. " 'Worse than usual.' An interesting
phrase. I would've thought it was impossible, but yes, my
mother has managed to become even more unbearable lately. Our
last knock-down brawl was over whether or not you could rightfully
call something a wedding dress if it wasn't designed by Vera
Wang or Carolina Herrera. I said yes. She obviously disagreed. Vehemently."
"Who won?"
"I caved on that because, really, I don't care who makes the
dress as long as I like it. I figure I have to pick my battles very,
very carefully, and the one I will not be compromising on is the
wedding announcement."
"Define 'wedding announcement.'"
"Don't make me." She grinned and took a swig of Dr Pepper.
"Say it."
"Please, Bette, this sucks enough. Don't make me say it."
"C'mon, Pen. Own up. Go on, it'll get easier after the first time.
Just say it." I nudged her chair with my foot and leaned in to relish
the information.
She covered her perfect, pale forehead with her long, thin
hands and shook her head. "New York Times."
"I knew it! Will and I will be gentle, I promise. She's not kidding
around, is she?"
"Of course she's not!" Penelope wailed. "And naturally, Avery's
mother's dying for it also."
"Oh, Pen, it's perfect! You guys make such a cute couple, and
now everyone else can see it, too!" I cackled.
"You should hear them, Bette, it's hideous. Both of them are already
fantasizing about all those fancy private schools they can list
between them. Do you know I overheard my mother on the phone
the other day with the Weddings editor, saying that she'd like to include
all the siblings' schools as well? The woman told her that
they won't even discuss it until six weeks before, but that hasn't
discouraged anyone: Avery's mom already made an appointment
for the photo shoot and has all sorts of ideas about how we can
pose so that our eyebrows are level, which is one of the published
suggestions. The wedding is still a year away!"
"Yes, but these things require lots of advance planning and research."
"That's what they said!" she cried.
"What about eloping?" But before she could answer, Aaron
made a big show of knocking on my cubicle wall and waving his
arms to imitate regret at breaking up our "little powwow," as he irritatingly
called our lunches.
"Don't mean to break up your little powwow, folks," he said,
as both Penelope and I silently mouthed the words along with
him. "Bette, may I have a word with you?"
"No worries, I was just leaving," Penelope breathed, obviously
grateful for the chance to flee without talking to Aaron. "Bette, we'll
talk more later." And before I could say anything, she was gone.
"Saaaaaaaay, Bette?"
"Yes, Aaron?" He sounded so much like Lumbergh from Office
Space that it would have been funny had I not been on the receiving
end of his "suggestions."
"Weeeeell, I was just wondering if you had a chance to read
today's quote of the day?" He gave a loud, phlegmy cough and
raised his eyebrows at me.
"Of course, Aaron, 1 have it right here. 'Individual commitment
to a group effort—that is what makes a team work, a company
work, a society work, a civilization work.' Yeah, I have to say, that
one really spoke to me."
"It did?" He looked pleased. "That was yesterday's, but I'm glad
it had such impact."
"Sure. It was really appropriate. I learn a lot from all of them.
Why? Is something wrong?" I asked in my most ingratiatingly concerned
tone.

"Nothing's wrong, per se, it's just that I couldn't find you for
nearly ten minutes before, and while that doesn't sound like much,
I'm sure to Mrs. Kaufman—who was waiting on an update—it feels
like an eternity."
"An eternity?"
"I just don't think that when you're away from your desk for
such long periods of time that you can adequately be providing
our clients, like Mrs. Kaufman, with the kind of attention we pride
ourselves on here at UBS. Just a little something to think about for
next time, okay?"
"I'm really sorry. I was just picking up lunch."
"I know that, Bette. But I don't have to remind you that company
policy says employees shouldn't be taking time out to pick it
up. I have a whole drawer full of delivery menus if you'd care to
look at them."
I remained silent.
"Oh, and Bette? I'm sure Penelope's supervisor needs her just
as much as I need you, so let's try to keep those powwows to a
minimum, okay?" He flashed me the most patronizing smile imaginable,
revealing thirty-seven years' worth of splotchy, stained
teeth, and I thought I'd vomit if he didn't stop immediately. Ever
since watching Girls Just Want to Have Fun for the first time when
I was twelve, I've never been able to get Lynne Stone's rumination
out of my mind. She's escorting Janey home after Janey skips choir
practice to rehearse with Jeff (and of course gets caught by the
evil, rotating-closet-owning bitch, Natalie), and she says, "Whenever
I'm in a room with a guy, no matter who it is—a date, my
dentist, anybody—I think, 'If we were the last two people on earth,
would I puke if he kissed me?'" Well, thanks to Lynne, I can't help
wondering it, either; the unfortunate outcome, though, is that I envisioned
myself kissing Aaron and felt ill.
"Okay? How does that sound?" He shifted nervously from foot to
foot and I wondered how this anxious, socially inept man had managed
to climb at least three levels above me in the corporate hierarchy.
I'd watched clients physically recoil when he went to shake
their hands, and yet he glided up the ladder like it was lubricated in
the very oil he used to slick back his few remaining strands of hair.

All I wanted was for him to disappear, but I made a crucial
miscalculation. Rather than just agreeing and going back to my
lunch, I said, "Are you unhappy with my performance, Aaron? I try
really hard, but you always seem displeased."
"I wouldn't say I'm unhappy with your performance, Bette. I
think you're doing, well, um, just fine around here. But we all seek
to self-improve now, don't we? As Winston Churchill once said—"
"Just fine? That's like describing someone as 'interesting' or saying
a date was 'nice.' I work eighty-hour weeks, Aaron. I give my
entire life to UBS." It was useless to try to highlight my dedication
in an hours-worked formula since Aaron beat me by at least fifteen
hours every single week, but it was true: I worked damn hard
when I wasn't shopping online, talking to Will on the phone, or
sneaking out to meet Penelope for lunch.
"Bette, don't be so sensitive. With a little more willingness to
learn and perhaps a bit more attention paid to your clients, I think
you've got the potential to get promoted. Just keep the powwows
to a minimum and really throw your heart into your work and the
results will be immeasurable."
I watched the spittle form on his thin lips as he mouthed his favorite
phrase, and something inside me snapped. There was no
angel on one shoulder or devil on the other, no mental list of pros
and cons or quick scans of potential consequences, ramifications,
or backup plans. No solid thoughts of any sort whatsoever—just an
all-pervasive sense of calm and determination, coupled with a
deep understanding that I simply could not tolerate one additional
second of the present situation.
"All right, Aaron. No more powwows for me—ever. I quit."
He looked confused for a minute before he realized I was completely
serious. "You what?"
"Please consider this my two weeks' notice," I said with a confidence
that was beginning to waver slightly.
Appearing to consider this for a minute, he wiped his sweaty
brow and furrowed it a few times. "That won't be necessary," he
said quietly.
It was my turn to be confused. "I appreciate it, Aaron, but I
really do have to leave."
"I meant that the two weeks won't be necessary. We shouldn't
have much trouble finding someone, Bette. There are loads of
qualified people out there who actually want to work here, if you
can imagine that. Please discuss the details of your departure with
HR and have your things packed by the end of the day. And good
luck with whatever you'll be doing next." He forced a tight smile
and walked away, seeming self-assured for the first time in the five
years I'd worked for him.
Thoughts swirled in my head, coming too fast and from too
many directions for me to actually process them. Aaron had balls—
who knew! I'd just quit my job. Quit it. With no forethought or
planning. Must tell Penelope. Penelope engaged. How would I get
all my stuff home? Could I still charge a car to the company? Could
I collect unemployment? Would I still come to midtown just for the
kebabs? Should I burn all my skirt suits in a ceremonial living-room
bonfire? Millington will be so happy to hit the dog run in the middle
of the day! Middle of the day. I would get to watch The Price Is
Right all the time if I wanted. Why hadn't I thought of this before?
I stared at the screen a while longer, until the gravity of what
had just happened settled in, and then I headed straight to the restroom
to freak out in the relative privacy of a stall. There was laidback
and there was plain fucking stupid, and this was quickly
beginning to resemble the latter. I breathed a few times and tried
uttering—coolly and casually—my new mantra, but whatever came
out sounding like a choked cry as I wondered what the hell I'd
done.

4
"Christ, Bette, it's not like you maimed someone. You quit your
job. Congratulations! Welcome to the wonderful world of adult irresponsibility.
Things don't always go according to plan, you know?"
Simon was trying his best to soothe me while we waited for Will to
get home because he couldn't tell that I was already completely relaxed.
The last time I'd felt this zen, I thought, might have been the
ashram retreat. "It's just kind of eerie, not having any idea what to
do next." It was that same involuntary calm-cum-paralysis.
Though I knew I should be more panicked, the last month had
actually been pretty great. I'd intended to tell everyone about quitting,
but when it came time to actually make the calls, I was overtaken
by an all-consuming combination of ennui, laziness, and
inertia. It's not like I couldn't tell people I quit—it was just a matter
of dialing and announcing—but the effort of explaining my reasons
for leaving (none) and discussing my game plan (nonexistent)
seemed utterly overwhelming each time I picked up the phone. So
instead, in what I'm sure was some sort of psychologically distressed/
avoidance/denial state, I slept until one every day, spent
most of the afternoon alternately watching TV and walking Millington,
shopped for things I didn't need in an obvious effort to fill the
voids in my life, and made a conscious decision to start smoking
again in earnest so I'd have something to do once Conan was over.
It sounds comprehensively depressing, but it had been my best
month in recent memory and might have gone on indefinitely had
Will not called my work number and spoken to my replacement.
Interestingly, I had lost ten pounds without trying. I hadn't ex-
ercised at all save for the treks to hunt and gather my food, but I
felt better than ever, or certainly better than I had working sixteenhour
days. I'd been thin all through college but had packed on the
pounds quite efficiently as soon as I'd started work, having no time
to exercise, choosing instead to down a particularly disgusting
daily diet of kebabs, doughnuts, vending-machine candy bars, and
coffee so sugar-heavy my teeth felt permanently coated. My parents
and friends had politely ignored my weight gain, but I knew I
looked terrible. Annually I'd declare my New Year's resolution of
more dedicated gym-going; it usually lasted a solid four days before
I'd kick my alarm clock and claim the extra hour for sleep.
Only Will repeatedly reminded me that I looked like hell. "But,
darling, don't you remember how scouts would stop you on the
street and ask you to model? That's not happening anymore, is it?"
Or "Bette, honey, you had that no-makeup, fresh-faced, all-natural
girl thing working so well a few years ago—why don't you spend a
little time trying to revisit that?" I heard him and knew he was
right—when the button on the single pair of Sevens I owned nestled
so far into my fleshy stomach that it was sometimes difficult to
locate, it was hard to deny the extra poundage. That unemployment
made me thinner was telling. My skin was clearer, my eyes
brighter, and for the first time in five years the weight had melted
off my hips and thighs but stayed squarely put in my chest—surely
a sign from God that I wasn't supposed to work. But of course I
wasn't supposed to enjoy being shiftless and lazy, so I was trying
to demonstrate the appropriate combination of chagrin, regret, and
distress. Simon was buying it.
"I think a cocktail is exactly what's in order right now. What
can I make you to drink, Bette?"
Little did he know that I'd taken to drinking alone. Not in that
desperate, solitary, "I must drink to deal, and if I happen to have
no company, well then, so be it" sort of way, but in the liberated
"I'm an adult and if I'd like a glass of wine or a sip of champagne
or four shots of vodka straight up" way, well then, why the hell
not? 1 pretended to consider his offer before saying, "How about a
martini?"
Uncle Will swooped in at that moment and, as he usually did,
charged the air with an energy that was immediate and intense.
"Ab fab!" he announced, stealing the phrase from his sneaked sessions
of BBC-watching, which he relentlessly denied. "Simon,
make our little banker-no-longer an extra-dry martini with Grey
Goose and three olives. I'll have my usual. Darling! I'm so proud of
you!"
"Really?" He hadn't sounded too thrilled when he'd left me a
message earlier that day, ordering me to be at the apartment that
night for drinks. ("Bette, darling, your little game is up. I just spoke
to the terrified little mouse who now claims to occupy your cubicle,
which makes me wonder what, exactly, you're doing at this
moment. Highlights, I'm hoping? Perhaps you've taken a lover. I'll
expect you tonight at six on the dot so you may provide us with all
the gory details. Plan on accompanying us to a little dinner party
afterward at Elaine's." Click.)
"Darling, of course I am! You finally left that dreadful bank.
You are an absolutely intoxicating creature, so fascinating, so fabulous,
and I think that dreary job of yours was suppressing it all."
He placed his huge, well-manicured hands around my middle and
almost shrieked. "What is this I see? A waist? By God, Simon, the
girl's got her figure back. Christ, you look like you've spent the last
few weeks getting lipoed in all the right places. Welcome back,
darling!" He raised one of the martinis that Simon had made for all
of us (Will was no longer permitted to make the drinks because of
his notoriously heavy-handed pouring) and simultaneously removed
the charcoal wool hat he'd been wearing since before I was
born.
Simon smiled and raised his glass as well, clinking ours
lightly so as not to splash any of the precious liquid. I, of course,
wasn't so careful and slightly soaked my jeans in the boozy mixture.
I would've licked it off the denim directly had I been alone. Ahem.
"There," Will announced. "It's official. So what will be next?
Writing for a magazine? A stint in fashion, perhaps? I hear Vogue is
hiring right now."
"Oh, come on." I sighed, resenting being made to think about
it at all. "Vogue? You think I'm in any way equipped or qualified to
work for that editor in chief—what's her name?"

Simon chimed in here. "Anna Wintour. And no on both
counts."
"No? Well, what about Bazaar, then?" Will asked.
"Will . . ."I looked down at my scuffed, ugly flats and back at
him again. I might have graduated from Birkenstocks and pigtail
braids, but I was still fully entrenched in the post-college Ann Taylor
work wardrobe.
"Oh, stop your whining, darling. You'll find something. Remember,
you're always welcome to join me, you know. If you get
truly desperate, that is." Will had been mentioning this as delicately
as possible since I was in high school, the offhand comment about
how much fun it would be to work together, or how I had natural
talent as a researcher and a writer. My parents had saved every
essay I'd ever written and sent copies to Will, who had sent me a
huge flower arrangement my sophomore year when I'd declared
myself an English major. The card had read TO THE FUTURE COLUMNIST
OF THE FAMILY. He mentioned often how he'd love to show me
the ropes because he thought it'd be something I could really get
into. And I didn't doubt that part. It was only that recently his
columns had become more like conservative rants and less like the
society-and-entertainment commentary readers had been slavishly
devoted to for years. He was a master at this very specific genre,
never bothering to cover outright gossip but also never taking himself
too seriously. At least until recently, when he'd written a thousand
words on why the United Nations was the devil incarnate (A
summary: "Why, in this age of super-technology, do all those
diplomats in New York City need to physically be here, taking up
all the best parking places and the best tables at restaurants,
adding to the non-Knglish-speaking environment in the city? Why
can't they just email their votes from their respective countries?
Why should we have to deal with gridlock and security nightmares
when no one listens to them anyway? And if they absolutely refuse
to work electronically from their home countries, why don't we
move the whole production to Lincoln, Nebraska, and see if they're
all still dying to come here to better the world?") Part of me would
love to learn his business, but it just seemed too easy. Hey, what
luck! Your uncle is a famous, highly syndicated columnist, and you
just happen to work for him. He had a small staff of researchers
and assistants who I knew would resent the hell out of me if I
stepped in and started writing right away. I was also worried about
ruining a good thing: since Will was my only family nearby, a dear
friend, and soon to be my entire social life now that Penelope was
getting married, it didn't seem like the best idea to work together
all day.
"According to my ex-boss, I haven't yet mastered the ideals put
forth in a single quote of the day. I'm not sure that's someone
you'd want working for you."
"Puh-lease! You'd be better than those kids in my office who
pretend to be fact-checking while they're updating their nerve.com
profiles with seductive pictures and grotesquely unoriginal comeons."
He snorted. "I applaud a complete and utter lack of work
ethic, you know. How else could I write such trash every day?" He
finished his drink with an appreciative swallow and pushed himself
off the leather divan. "Just something to consider, is all. Now, let's
go. We've got a dinner party to oversee."
I sighed. "Okay, but I can't stay the entire time. I've got book
club tonight."
"Really, darling? That sounds like it borders on social. What are
you reading?"
I thought quickly and blurted out the first socially acceptable
title that came to mind. "Moby-Dick."
Simon turned and stared at me. "You're reading Moby-Dick? Are
you serious?"
"Of course she's not." Will laughed. "She's reading Passion and
Pain in Pennsylvania, or something to that effect. Can't quite kick
the habit, can you, darling?"
"You don't understand, Will." I turned to face Simon. "No matter
how many times I've explained it to him, he refuses to understand."
"Understand what, exactly? How my lovely and highly intelligent
English-major niece not only reads but obsesses over romance
novels? You're right, darling, I can't understand."

I stared at my feet, feigning unfathomable shame. "The Very
Bad Boy is brand new . . . and highly anticipated. I'm hardly
alone—it's one of the most preordered books on Amazon and had
a mailing delay of three weeks after publication!"
Will looked at Simon, shaking his head in disbelief. "Darling, I
just don't understand why. Why?"
Why? Why? How could I ever answer that question? It was
something I'd asked myself a million times. It had started innocently
enough, with the discovery of an abandoned copy of Hot
and Heavy in the back pocket of a plane seat during a flight from
Poughkeepsie to Washington, D.C. I was thirteen and old enough
to sense that I should hide it from my parents, which I did. The
damn thing was so good that I claimed a sore throat when we got
to the hotel and begged out of the NARAL march they were both
attending so I could finish reading it. I learned to recognize romance
novels instantly, ferreting out the right library shelves in
seconds, slipping them off the wire turn-carts at the bookstore and
quickly handing over my meager allowance in the pharmacy section
of the drugstore while my mother paid for her purchases up
front. I went through two or three a week, vaguely aware that they
were contraband and therefore keeping them hidden in the little
crawl space of my closet. I read them only after lights-out and always
remembered to restash them before falling asleep.
When I first discovered romances, I was embarrassed by the
obvious suggestions of sex on the cover, and of course by the
graphic depictions inside. Like any teenager, I didn't want my parents
to know that I knew anything about the subject, and sneaked
my reads only when they surely wouldn't see. But by the time I
was about seventeen, maybe a junior or senior in high school, I'd
come out of the closet. I'd accompanied my dad to a local bookstore
to pick up a special order he'd placed, and when it came
time for him to pay, I slid a copy of Her Royal Bodyguard onto the
counter, casually murmuring, "I didn't bring my wallet. Can you
buy this now and I'll pay you back when we get home?"
He'd picked it up and held it between two fingers as though it
were roadkill. The expression on his face indicated he found it

about as appetizing. A moment later, he laughed. "Bettina, come
now. Put this awful thing back wherever you found it and
select something worthwhile. I promised your mother we'd be
home in twenty minutes—we don't have time to play around anymore."
I persisted and he bought the book, if only to leave the store as
soon as possible. When he mentioned my purchase at the dinner
table that night, he sounded confused. "You don't actually read
those things, do you?" he asked, his face scrunched up as though
he was trying to understand.
"Yes," I said simply, my voice not revealing the embarrassment
I felt.
My mother dropped her fork and it clattered on the plate. "You
do not." It sounded like she hoped it would be true if she stated it
forcefully enough. "You can't possibly."
"Oh, but I do," I sang in a halfhearted attempt to lighten the
mood. "And so do fifty million other people, Mom. They're relaxing
and interesting. I mean, there's agony, ecstasy, and a happy
ending—who could ask for more?" I knew all the facts and figures,
and there was no denying they were impressive. The two thousand
romances published each year create a $1.5 billion industry. Twofifths
of American women buy at least one romance a year. More
than one-third of all popular fiction sold each year are romances. A
Shakespearean scholar (and Columbia professor) had recently admitted
she'd authored dozens of romances. Why should I be
ashamed?
What I didn't tell my parents then—or explain to Will or Simon
now—was how much I loved romances. Escape was part of it, of
course, but life wasn't so miserable that I had to revert to a fantasy
world. It was inspirational to read about two gorgeous people who
overcame all obstacles to be together, who loved each other so
much that they always found a way to make it work. The sex
scenes were a bonus, but more than that, the books always ended
happily, offering such optimism that I couldn't keep myself from
starting another immediately. They were predictable, dependable,
entertaining, and most of all, they depicted love affairs that I could

not deny—no matter how much feminism or political correctness
or women's empowerment my parents could throw at me—I desperately
wanted more than anything in the world. I was conditioned
to compare every single date in my life to The Ideal. I
couldn't help it. I wanted the fairy tale. Which, needless to say,
does not describe Cameron, or most New York liaisons between
men and women. But I wouldn't stop hoping—not yet.
Was I about to explain this to Simon? Clearly not. Which is why
I laughed and made some self-deprecating remark like "I just can't
handle the real stuff" whenever someone asked why I read the
books.
"Oh, whatever." I laughed lightly, not making eye contact with
Will or Simon. "It's a silly little thing 1 got into as a kid and haven't
quite given up yet."
Will found this understatement particularly hysterical. "Silly little
thing? Bette, darling, you belong to a book club whose sole
mission is to examine and more deeply appreciate your selected
genre?" he howled.
This much was true. Until the book group, no one in my life
had understood. Not my parents, my uncle, my friends in high
school or college. Penelope merely shook her head every time she
spotted one in my apartment (which, by the way, wasn't hard, considering
I had over four hundred of them stashed in boxes, closets,
under-bed bins, and occasionally—when the cover wasn't too embarrassing—
on shelves). I knew the facts said that whole armies of
women read them, but it was only two years ago that I'd met
Courtney at a midtown Barnes & Noble. I'd just left work and was
reaching for a romance from the circular wire rack when I heard a
girl's voice behind me.
"You're not alone, you know," it said.
I'd turned around to see a pretty girl about my age with a
heart-shaped face and naturally pink lips. She looked like a china
doll with ringlets reminiscent of Nelly's from Little House on the
Prairie, and her other features were so delicate they looked like
they might crack at any moment.
"Excuse me? Are you talking to me?" I asked, quickly covering

my copy of Every Woman's Fantasy with an oversized English-
Greek dictionary that resided nearby.
She nodded and moved in closer to whisper, "I'm just saying,
you don't have to be embarrassed any longer. There are others."
"Who said I'm embarrassed?" I asked.
She peered down at my now-shielded book and raised an eyebrow.
"Look, my name's Courtney and I'm hooked on them, too.
I've got a college degree and a real job and I'm not afraid to admit
that I love these goddamn books. There's a whole group of us, you
know. We meet once or twice a month to talk about them, have a
few drinks, convince each other that it's okay to do what we do.
It's part book club and part therapy session." She rooted through
her Tod's shoulder bag and found a crumpled receipt. She uncapped
a Montblanc pen with her teeth and scrawled an address in
SoHo and an email address.
"Our next meeting is this Monday night. Come. I've included
my email address if you have any questions, but there's not much
to know. We're reading this"—she discreetly flashed a copy of
Who Wants to Marry a Heartthrob?—"and we'd love to have you."
Perhaps it's a sign of true addiction that I actually showed up at
a stranger's apartment a week later. I soon learned that Courtney
had been right. Each of the other girls was smart and cool and interesting
in her own way, and each loved romances. Except for
one set of twin sisters, none of the women were friends or colleagues
from the outside; all had stumbled upon the group in
much the same way I had. I was surprised and somewhat delighted
to see that I was the only one who was out about my habit:
not one of the other girls had yet revealed to husbands or girlfriends
or parents the real content of their book club. In the two
years since I'd joined, only one had admitted her reading preferences
to her boyfriend. The ridicule she endured from him was
life-changing; she eventually broke up with him after realizing that
no man who truly loved her (like a hero in a romance novel, it
was implied) could ever mock her so mercilessly for something she
enjoyed. We'd seen each other through new jobs and weddings
and even one lawsuit, yet if we'd run into one another on the
street or at a party, there'd be nothing more than a curt hello and a
knowing look. After missing last week's meeting, I'd been looking
forward to tonight's session all week, and I was not about to let
Will ruin it for me.
Simon, Will, and I piled immediately into a car, but when we
pulled up to the restaurant at Eighty-eighth and Second, we were
clearly not the first to arrive.
"Brace yourselves!" Simon managed to hiss just before Elaine
waddled over.
"You're late!" she barked, pointing to the back room, where a
few people had gathered. "Go deal with your people, I'll bring you
back your drinks."
I followed them to the back room of the casual but legendary
restaurant and looked around. Books covered every square patch
of wall space and competed only with framed and autographed
photographs of what seemed like every author who'd published in
the twentieth century. The woody and familiar ambience might just
feel like a regular neighborhood joint had I not been able to recognize
the handful of people who'd already clustered around the
table set for twenty: Alan Dershowitz, Tina Brown, Tucker Carlson,
Dominick Dunne, and Barbara Walters. A waitress handed me a
premixed dirty martini and I began slurping at it immediately,
downing the last drop just as the table filled completely with an
eclectic group culled primarily from the media and politics.
Will was offering a toast for Charlie Rose, whose new book we
were all gathered to celebrate, when the only other woman under
forty leaned over and said, "How'd you get roped into this one?"
"Niece of Will, given no choice."
She laughed softly and placed her hand on my lap, which
made me very nervous until I realized she was trying to discreetly
shake my hand. "I'm Kelly. I put together this little dinner party for
your uncle, so I guess I'm sort of obligated to be here, too."
"Nice to meet you," I whispered back. "I'm Bette. I was just sitting
at their apartment earlier and somehow ended up here. It
seems like a very nice dinner, though."
"Honestly? Not really my scene, either, but I think it works for
your uncle's purpose. Good group of people, everyone who
RSVP'd actually showed—which never happens—and Elaine held
up everything on her end, as usual. All in all, I'm pretty happy with
the outcome. Now if we can just keep them all from getting too
drunk, I'll say the evening was perfection."
The group quickly polished off the first round of cocktails and
was now tucking in to the salads that had appeared before them.
"When you say you 'put this on,' what does that mean, exactly?" I
asked more out of an effort to just say something rather than any
genuine interest, but Kelly didn't seem to notice.
"I own a PR company," she said, sipping a glass of white wine.
"We represent all sorts of clients—restaurants, hotels, boutiques,
record labels, movie studios, individual celebrities—and we do
what we can to increase their profile through media placements,
product launches, stuff like that."
"And tonight? Who do you represent here? Will? I didn't know
he had a PR person."
"No, tonight I was hired by Charlie's publisher to put together a
dinner of media elites, those journalists who are recognizable in
their own right. The publisher has internal PR people, of course,
but they don't always have the connections to put on something
this specialized. That's where I come in."
"Got it. So how do you know all these people?"
She just laughed. "I have an office full of people whose job it is
to know everyone worth knowing. Thirty-five thousand names, actually,
and we can get in touch with any one of them at any time.
It's what we do. Speaking of which, what do you do?"
Thankfully, before I could piece together some appropriate
white lie, Elaine discreetly beckoned for Kelly from the doorway,
and she scooted out of her chair and strolled to the front room. I
turned my attention to Simon, who was seated on my left, before
noticing that a photographer was subtly snapping photos without a
flash from a crouching position in the corner.
I remembered the first media dinner Will had dragged me to,
when I was fourteen and visiting from Poughkeepsie. We'd been
at Elaine's that night, too, also for a book party, and I'd asked

Simon, "Is it weird that there's someone taking pictures of us eating
dinner?"
He'd chuckled. "Of course not, dear, that's precisely why we're
all here. If there's no photo in the party pages, did the party really
happen? You can't pay to get the kind of press he and his book
will receive from tonight. That photographer is from New York
magazine, if I remember correctly, and as soon as he leaves, another
one will slip right in. At least, everyone hopes so."
Will had begun teaching me that night how to talk to people.
The key was to remember that no one cares what you do or think,
so sit down and immediately begin asking questions to the person
on your right. Ask anything, feign some sort of interest, and follow
up any awkward silences with more questions about them. After
years of instruction and practice I could manage a conversation
with just about anyone, but I didn't enjoy it that night any more
than I had as a teenager, so I said my good-byes and ducked out
after the salad course.
The book club meeting was at Alex's apartment in the East Village.
I jumped on the 6 train and scrolled through my iPod playlist
until settling on "In My Dreams" by REO Speedwagon. When I got
off the train at Astor Place a very petite woman who resembled a
school librarian literally body-checked me. I apologized for my role
in the incident (being there) with a sincere "Excuse me," at which
point she whipped around with the most contorted, demon-like
face and screamed, "EXCUSE ME? MAYBE THAT WOULDN'T HAVE
HAPPENED IF YOU WALKED ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE SIDEWALK!"
and then walked away muttering profanities. Obviously
she could use a few hours with The Very Bad Boy, I thought.
When I had walked the long six avenues east, I rang the bell at
Alex's building on Avenue C and began the dreadful climb. She
claimed her studio was a sixth-floor walk-up, but considering a
Chinese laundry occupied the ground floor and the numbers didn't
begin for one full flight up, it was technically seven floors off the
ground. She was your stereotypical East Village artiste, with headto-
toe black clothes, ever-changing hair color, and a small facial
piercing that appeared to rotate regularly from lip to nose to brow.
An East Village artiste with a passionate dedication to romantic
fiction for women. She obviously had the most to lose if any of
her peers found out—a sort of artistic street cred, if you will—
and so we all agreed to tell her neighbors, if asked, that we were
there for a Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting. "You're more comfortable
telling them you're a sex addict than a romance reader?" I'd
asked when she'd given us the instructions. "Clearly!" she'd answered
without a moment's hesitation. "Addiction is cool. All creative
people are addicted to something." And so we did as she
wished.
She looked more punk than usual in a pair of rocker-chic
leather pants and a classic faded CBGB T-shirt. She handed me a
rum and Coke and I sat on her bed and watched her apply another
six or so coats of mascara while we waited for the others. Janie
and Jill were the first to arrive. They were fraternal twins in their
early thirties; Jill was still in school, getting some sort of advanced
degree in architecture, and Janie worked for an advertising agency.
They'd fallen in love with Harlequins as little girls, when they
would sneak-read their mom's copies under the covers at night.
Following closely behind them was Courtney, my original link to
the group and an associate editor at Teen People who not only read
every romance novel ever written but who just so happened to
enjoy writing them as well; and finally, Vika, a half-Swedish, half-
French import with an adorable accent and a coveted job as a
kindergarten teacher at an Upper East Side private school. We were
clearly a motley crew.
"Anyone have any news before we dive in?" Jill asked as the
rest of us slurped down our drinks as swiftly as the syrupy-sweet
liquid would allow. She always took charge and tried to keep us
on track, an utterly useless gesture considering our meetings more
closely resembled group therapy than any sort of literary exploration.
"I quit my job," I announced merrily, holding up my red plastic
Solo cup.
"Cheers!" they all called while clinking cups.
"It's about time you left that nightmare," Janie said.

Vika agreed. "Yes, yes, your boss will not be missed, of this I
am sure?" she asked in her sweet but odd accent.
"No, that's for sure, I won't be missing Aaron."
Courtney poured her second drink in ten minutes and said,
"Yeah, but what are we going to do for a quote of the day now?
Can someone forward them to you?"
At the second meeting I'd attended, I'd begun sharing the joy
and wisdom of Aaron's inspirational quotes with the entire group.
After introductory remarks, I'd read the best one from the previous
few weeks and we'd all crack up. Lately, the girls had begun coming
prepared with their own anti-quotes, nasty or sarcastic or
mean-spirited little epigrams that I might take back to the office
and share with Aaron, if I were so inclined.
"Which reminds me," I announced grandly, pulling a printout
from my bag, "I received this one a mere three days before I left,
and it's one of my all-time favorites. It says, 'Teamwork: Simply
stated, it is less me and more we.' That, my friends, is insightful."
"Wow." Janie sighed. "Thanks for sharing. I'm definitely going
to try to figure out how to have less me and more we in my life."
"Me, too," said Alex. "That goes nicely with a little quote I recently
stumbled upon. It's from our friend Gore Vidal. 'Whenever a
friend succeeds, a little something in me dies.'"
We all laughed until Janie interrupted with a rather shocking
announcement. "Speaking of bosses . . . I, uh, I had an incident
with mine."
"An incident?" Jill asked. "You didn't tell me anything!"
"Well, it just happened last night. You were asleep when I got
home, and I'm only seeing you for the first time now."
"I'd like you to explain the 'incident,' please," Vika said with
raised eyebrows.
"We, uh, sort of hooked up," she said with a coy smile.
"What?" Jill was shrieking at this point, staring at her sister with
a combination of horror and delight. "What happened?"
"Well, he asked if I wanted to grab dinner after we pitched a
new potential client. We went for sushi and then drinks. . . ."
"And then?" I prompted.

"And then more drinks, and then the next thing I know, I'm
naked on his couch."
"Oh, my God." Jill began to rock back and forth.
Janie looked at her. "Why are you so upset? It's not such a big
deal."
"Well, I just don't think it's going to do great things for your career,"
she replied.
"Well then, you obviously don't know how talented I can be in
some areas, do you?" Janie smiled wickedly.
"Did you sleep with him?" Alex asked. "Please say yes. That
would really make my whole night. Investment banker Bette up
and quits her job with no backup plan and you screw your boss?
I'd feel like I was finally starting to have some influence around
here."
"Well, I don't know if I'd say we actually had sex," Janie said.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Alex asked. "You either
did or you didn't."
"Well, if he weren't my boss, I probably wouldn't have even
counted it. Just in and out a few times—nothing major."
"That's more than I've done in two years," I said.
"Interesting. What I'm wondering is just how many other guys
fall into the not-major-enough-to-count category. Janie? Wanna fill
us in?" Courtney asked. Alex returned from her fridge-and-hot-plate
kitchen with a tray of shot glasses, each filled to the brim.
"Why even bother to talk about The Very Bad Boy when we
have our own very bad girl right here?" she said and passed the
glasses around the room.
We were off and running.

5
Another three weeks slipped by in much the same manner as
my first month of unemployment, made only slightly less pleasurable
by the daily phone calls from Will and my parents, who
claimed to just be "checking in." Here's how it usually went:
Mom: Hi, honey. Any new leads today?
Me: Hi, Mom. I'm pounding the pavement. There's a lot that
sounds promising, but I haven't picked the perfect thing yet.
How are you and Dad?
Mom: We're fine, dear, just worried about you. You remember
Mrs. Adelman, right? Her daughter is the head of fund-raising for
Earth Watch and she said you're welcome to call her, that they
could always use more dedicated, qualified people.
Me: Mmm, that's great. I'll look into that. [Channel flip to ABC as
Oprah begins.] I better get moving. I have some more cover letters
to write.
Mom: Cover letters? Oh, of course. I don't want to keep you.
Good luck, honey. I know you'll find something soon.
Aside from those seven painful minutes every day when I insisted
I was fine, the job search was fine, and I was sure I'd find
something soon, everything actually was terrific. Bob Barker,
Millington, an apartment full of trashy paperbacks, and four bags
of Red Hots a day kept me company as I languidly surfed online
job sites, making the occasional printout and the even more occasional
application. I sure didn't feel depressed, but it was kind of
hard to judge, especially since I rarely left my building and thought
of little besides how to maintain my current lifestyle without ever
getting another job. You hear people all the time making statements
like "I was only out of work for a week and I went crazy! I
mean, I'm just the kind of person who needs to be productive,
needs to make a contribution, you know?" Nope, I didn't know.
My cash flow was in jeopardy, of course, but I figured something
would turn up eventually, or I'd throw myself at the mercy of Will
and Simon. It would be silly to waste time worrying when I could
be learning genuinely valuable life lessons from Dr. Phil.
Collecting the mail killed a solid ten minutes each day. Although
I knew that the mail came at two each afternoon, I usually
wasn't motivated to fetch it until late evening, when I would grab
the armful of bills and catalogs and bolt for the elevator. Thirteenth
floor. Unlucky thirteen. When I'd hesitated before seeing the apartment
for the first time, the broker had sneered, saying something
like, "What, do you believe in astrology, too? You can't seriously be
concerned about something so ridiculous . . . not when it's got
central air-conditioning at this price!" And since it seemed to be a
distinctly New York phenomenon to be abused by the people you
paid to perform a service, I'd immediately stammered out an apology
and signed on the dotted line.
Today, luckily, my mailbox contained the latest issue of In
Touch, which would occupy at least another hour. After retrieving
it, I unlocked the door, scanned the floor for potential water bugs,
and braced for the usual hysterics from Millington. She always
seemed convinced that this was the day I would abandon her forever
and met my homecoming with a frenzy of wheezing, snorting,
sniffing, jumping, sneezing, and submissive peeing so frantic
that I wondered if she might one day die from the excitement of
it all.
Remembering the half-dozen training manuals that the breeder
had thrown in "just in case," I made a big show of ignoring her, casually
setting down my bag and tossing my coat and calmly making
my way over to the couch, where she immediately leapt into
my lap and stretched herself upward to begin the ritual licking of
my face. Her little wet tongue worked its way from my forehead to
underneath my chin, incorporating an unsuccessful attempt at getting
inside my mouth, before the kissing stopped and the sneezing
began. The first one sprayed across my neck, but she managed to
collapse before the real groove got going and she sneezed a giant
wet spot onto the front of my skirt.
"Good girl," I muttered supportively, feeling slightly guilty that I
was holding her in midair at arm's length while her entire body
shook, but a Newlyweds rerun was starting and the sneezing could
last for ten minutes. I'd just recently reached the point where I could
look at Millington and not think of my ex-boyfriend Cameron, which
was definitive and welcome progress.
Penelope had introduced Cameron and me at some barbecue
Avery had thrown when we were both two years out of school. I'm
not sure if it was the shiny brown hair or the way his butt looked in
his Brooks Brothers khakis, but I was smitten enough not to notice
his tendency toward vicious name-dropping or the vile way he
picked his teeth after each meal. For a while, at least, I fell madly in
love with him. He spoke lovingly of bonds and trades, his prepschool
lacrosse days, and weekend jaunts to the Hamptons and Palm
Beach. He was like a sociological experiment—a not-so-rare but
alien creature—and I just couldn't get enough of him. Of course, it
was doomed from the start—his family was a permanent fixture in
the Social Register; my parents had once been on the FBI's dangerous
agitators list due to protest activities. But when paired with my
job in banking, his aggressive preppiness went far in showing my
parents that I wasn't dedicating my life to Greenpeace. We moved in
together a year after meeting, when both our rents went up at the
exact same time. We'd been living together for exactly six months
when we realized that we had absolutely nothing in common beyond
the apartment, our jobs in finance, and friends like Avery and
Penelope. So we did what any doomed-for-failure couple would do
and immediately went shopping for something that could bring us
closer together, or at least give us something to talk about other than
whose turn it was to plead with the landlord for a new toilet seat.
We opted for a four-pound Yorkie, priced at $800 per pound, as
Cameron calculated for me more than once. I threatened to kill him
if he announced one more time that he had, in fact, ordered entrees
at Peter Luger bigger than this dog, and repeatedly reminded him
that it had all been his idea. Oh, sure, there was the small issue of my
being allergic to anything with fur, alive or stuffed, animal or outerwear,
but he'd thought that one through, too.
"Cameron, you've seen me around dogs before. I don't know
why you'd want to subject me—or yourself—to that again." I was
thinking of the first time I'd met his family for a winter weekend in
the Adirondacks. They'd rounded out the picture-perfect WASP
gathering—real fire in the fireplace! no remote control! no storebought
logs!—with tartan-plaid J. Crew pajamas, free-standing decorative
wooden mallards, enough alcohol to warrant a liquor
license, and two loping, oversized golden retriever puppies. I
sneezed and watered and hacked to such an extent that his permanently
tipsy mother ("Oh, dear, another glass of sherry should clear
that right up!") began making passive-aggressive "jokes" about
being contagious and his openly drunk father actually set down his
gin and tonic long enough to offer me a ride to the ER.
"Bette, don't worry about a thing. I've looked into all of that,
and I've found us the perfect dog." He looked smug and satisfied,
and I mentally counted the days until the lease was up. One hundred
seventy. I occasionally tried to recall what had attracted us in
the first place, what had existed before the icy detente that had become
the hallmark of our relationship, but nothing really specificemerged.
He had always been a little dim, something that all the
private schools had managed to mask but not repair. He was undeniably
cute in that clean-cut, Abercrombie-catalog-boy way, and he
did know how to pump out the charm when he needed something,
but mostly I remember it just being easy: we had the same
friends, the same fondness for chain-smoking and complaining,
and a nearly identical pair of salmon-colored pants. Could a good
romance have been modeled after my relationship with Cameron?
Well, no, I don't suppose so. But his unspectacular, watered-down
version of companionship in those weird, early postcollege years
felt perfectly adequate.
"I don't doubt it's a very special dog, Cameron," I said slowly,
as though I were speaking to a third-grader. "The problem is that
I'm. Allergic. To All. Dogs. You understand that sentence, don't
you?" I smiled sweetly.
He grinned, undeterred by the best bitchy, condescending tone
I could muster. Impressive. He really was serious about this. "I've
made some calls, done some research, and I've found us—drum
roll, please!—a hypoallergenic dog. Can you say 'hypoallergenic'?
C'mon, B, repeat after me, 'hypo—'"
"You found us a hypoallergenic dog? What, do they breed them
to be that way? The last thing I need in my life is some genetic mutation
of an animal that will most likely send me straight to the
hospital. No way."
"Bette, don't you see? It's perfect. The breeder promised that
since Yorkies have real hair, not fur, it's impossible to be allergic to
them. Even for you. I made an appointment for us to pick one out
on Saturday—they're in Darien, right near my office, and they
promised to reserve at least one boy and one girl so we could
have our pick."
"I have to work," I said listlessly, already vaguely aware that
adding responsibility to this particular relationship was only going
to sabotage it faster. Perhaps we should have just ended it then,
but December's such a tough time to find apartments, and the
place really was a decent size, and well, dogs are cute and distracting
. . . so I agreed. "All right, Saturday it is. I'll go to the office
Sunday instead, and we can go pick out our hypoallergenic dog."
He bear-hugged me and told me all about his plans to rent a
car and maybe visit a few nearby antiques stores (this coming from
the boy who'd argued tirelessly to retain his beanbag chair when
we'd combined our stuff) and I wondered if maybe, just maybe,
this little genetic mutation of a dog was the answer to all our problems.
Wrong.
So very, very wrong.
Well, that's misleading. The dog certainly didn't fix anything
(surprise, surprise), but Cameron was right about something:
Millington turned out to be hypoallergenic after all. I could hold
her, snuggle her, rub her furry little mustache right against my
face without so much as a hint of an itch. The problem was that
the dog herself was allergic to everything. Everything. Somehow,
her tiny little puppy sneezes seemed endearing when she was
tucked among her littermates in the breeder's kitchen. It was
adorable . . . the only little-girl puppy had caught a little cold, and
we were there to nurse her back to vibrant puppy health. Only the
cold didn't go away, and little Millington didn't stop sneezing. After
three weeks of round-the-clock care and nursing—Cameron
chipped in, I'll give him credit there—our little ball of joy wasn't
improving, even with the nearly $3,000 we'd spent on vet consultations,
antibiotics, special food, and two late-night emergency-room
visits when the wheezing and choking got particularly terrifying.
We were missing work, screaming at each other, and bleeding
money in the process—my banking and his hedge-fund salaries
were barely enough to cover the dog's expenses. Final doggy diagnosis:
"Highly reactive to most household allergens including, but
not limited to, dust, dirt, pollen, cleaning fluids, detergent, dyes,
perfumes, and other animal hair."
The irony was not lost on me. I, the most allergic person on
earth, somehow now owned a dog that was allergic to absolutely
everything. It would've probably been funny if Cameron, Millington,
or I had slept more than four consecutive hours in three
weeks, but we hadn't, and it wasn't. What would most people do in
this situation? I remember asking myself as I lay awake on the first
night of the fourth sleepless week. A sane couple in a functional
relationship would simply shuttle the dog right back" to the breeder
and take a long vacation somewhere warm and laugh about what
would surely become a fond memory and funny future party story.
So what did I do? I hired an industrial cleaning service to remove
every piece of hair, every particle of dirt, every smudge from every
surface so the dog could breathe, and I asked Cameron to leave
once and for all, which he did. Penelope told me eight months
later—with what I thought was a little more excitement than the
event required—that he'd gotten engaged to his new girlfriend
while wearing a kilt on a golf course in Scotland, and that they

were moving to Florida, where her family owned a small island.
That clinched it: everything worked out exactly as it was meant to.
Two years later, the dog had learned to tolerate the smell of Wisk,
Cameron toasted fatherhood in the family tradition with a stiff gin
and tonic, and I had someone so excited to see me each night that
she peed upon my arrival home. Everyone's a winner.
Millington finally stopped sneezing and settled into a narcoleptic
nap beside me, her little body pushed against the side of my
leg, rising and falling with her rhythmic breathing, in tune to the
TV that I constantly kept on for background noise. After Newlyweds,
I stumbled across a Queer Eye marathon. Carson picked
through some straight guy's closet with a pair of salad tongs, describing
items as "So Gap '87," and I realized they'd probably be
just as horrified to check out my closet—as a girl, I was probably
expected to do a little better than the off-the-rack Ann Taylor suits,
one measly pair of Sevens, and the cotton tank tops that constituted
my "going out" clothes.
The phone rang a little after eleven P.M. I held it and stared, patiently
waiting for the caller ID to register my caller. Uncle Will: to
screen or not to screen? He always called at odd hours on his
deadline nights, but I was too exhausted from my day of nothingness
to deal with him. I stared at it a moment longer, too lazy to
make any real decision, but the machine had already answered.
"Oh, Bette, pick up the goddamn phone," Will said into the
machine. "I find this caller-revealing feature highly offensive. At
least have the savoir faire to brush me off once we're midconversation—
anyone can look at a little computer screen and decide
not to answer; the impressive accomplishment is extricating
yourself from the real-time situation of actually speaking with the
person." He sighed. I laughed.
"Sorry, sorry, I was in the shower," I lied.
"Sure you were, darling. In the shower at eleven P.M., just getting
ready to go out for the night, huh?" he teased.
"Would that be so hard to believe? I have gone out before, you
know. Penelope's party? Bungalow 8? The only person in the Western
Hemisphere who didn't know where it was? Any of this ringing

a bell for you?" I took another bite of my Slim Jim, a snack I'd
been inhaling since I'd discovered how much they horrified my
parents.
"Bette, that was so long ago I barely remember it," he pointed
out thoughtfully. "Look, darling, I didn't call to give you a hard
time again, although I fail to see any reason why an attractive girl
your age should be sitting home alone at eleven on a Thursday
night, chewing imitation meat sticks and talking to a five-pound
dog, but that's neither here nor there. I just had the most brilliant
idea of all. Do you have a minute?"
We both snorted. I clearly had nothing but. "You've got it all
wrong. I'm talking to a four-pound dog."
"Bette, listen to me. I don't know why I didn't think of this earlier,
I'm positively idiotic for not seeing the potential, but tell me,
darling, what did you think about Kelly?"
"Who's Kelly?"
"The woman you sat next to at Charlie's dinner at Elaine's. So,
what do you think?"
"I don't know, she seemed really nice. Why?"
"Why? Darling, you are positively brain-dead these days. What
do you think about working for Kelly?"
"Huh? Who's working for Kelly? I'm so confused."
He sighed. "Let's take this slowly. Being that you are currently
out of a job and seem to be enjoying that fact a little too much, I
was thinking that perhaps you would like to work for Kelly."
"Planning parties?"
"Darling, she does a lot more than just plan parties. She
chitchats with club owners and trades on gossip she has about
other people's clients to the columnists so they'll write good things
about her own clients and sends gifts to celebrities to convince
them to attend her events so the press will as well—all the while
looking very pretty when she goes out every night. Yes, the more I
think about it, the more I'd like to see you in event-planning. How
does that sound?"
"I don't know," I said. "I was thinking it might be good to do
something, uh, you know, something sort of . . ."

"Meaningful?" he offered, pronouncing the word the same way
one might say "murderous."
"Well, yeah. I mean, not like that, not like the parents," I mumbled.
"But I do have a meeting at the Meals on Wheels headquarters
tomorrow. Just a change of pace, you know?"
He was quiet for a moment and I knew he was weighing his
words carefully. "Darling, that sounds lovely, of course. It's always
sweet to make the world a better place. However, I would be remiss
if I didn't remind you that rerouting your career path in that
direction puts you at risk of falling back into your Patchouli Rut.
You remember what that was like, don't you, darling?"
I sighed. "I know, I know. It just seemed like it might be interesting."
"Well, I can't necessarily say that planning parties would be as
interesting as helping the needy, but it would be a hell of a lot
more fun. And that, darling, is not a crime. Kelly's company is
new, but easily one of the best—boutique-y, very impressive client
list, and a great place to meet all sorts of wildly shallow and selfinvolved
people and get the hell out of that hole in which you've
recently sequestered yourself. Are you interested?"
"I don't know. Can I think about it?"
"Of course you may, darling. I'll give you twenty-four hours to
debate all the pros and cons of accepting a job where you can
party for a living. I expect you'll make the right decision." He
clicked down the receiver before I could say another word.
I went to sleep late that night and spent the entire next day
procrastinating. I played with the puppies at the pet shop on the
corner, made a pit stop at Dylan's Candy Bar, and alphabetized
the paperbacks visible in my apartment. Admittedly, I was curious
what the job would entail. There was a part of it that seemed
really appealing, the chance to meet some new people and not
sit at a desk all day long. Years of banking had taught me to be
very good with details, and decades of Will-prompted socializing
had ensured I could pretty much talk to anyone about anything—
and actually seem interested, even if I was crying with boredom
inside. I always felt a little awkward, a bit out of place, but I could

keep my mouth moving at all costs, which went a long way toward
making people think I had some social skills. And of course,
the mere thought of printing more resumes and pleading for interviews
sounded significantly more dreadful than organizing parties.
All of this, combined with the fact that my checking account
had just dipped below the minimum required amount, made PR
sound like a dream.
I called Will.
"Okay. I'll write to Kelly and ask for some more information
about what it entails. Can you just give me her email address?"
Will snorted. "Her what?" He refused to buy so much as an answering
machine, so a computer was definitely out of the question.
He typed all his columns on a clanking typewriter and had one of
his assistants key it into Microsoft Word. When it came time for
him to edit, he'd stand over her shoulder, press his finger to the
computer screen, and command her to delete, add, and expand
the text as he watched.
"The special computer address where I can write her an electronic
letter," I said slowly.
"You're adorable, you really are. Bette, don't be ridiculous.
Why would you need that? I'll have her call you to set a starting
date."
"Don't you think we're getting a little ahead of ourselves, Will?
It might be better if I sent her a resume first, and then if she likes
it, we can take it from there. That's how it usually works, you
know."
"Yes, I've heard that," he said, sounding more and more disinterested.
"Time wasting at its best. You'd be perfect for the job because
you've honed those banking skills—detail-oriented, anal-retentive,
deadline-adherent. And I know she's a great girl because she used to
be my assistant. I'll just give her a little call and let her know how
lucky she'd be to have you. Not a thing to worry about, my dear."
"I didn't know she was your assistant!" I said, mentally trying to
calculate Kelly's age.
"Indeed. I had her straight out of college. Hired her as a favor
to her father. Best thing I ever did—she was bright and motivated

and got me organized, and I, in turn, trained her from scratch. She
went on to work at People and then switched to PR. She'll welcome
you aboard. Trust me."
"Okay," I said with not a little hesitation. "If you think so."
"I know so, darling. Consider it done. I'll have her call you to
discuss the details, but I anticipate no problems whatsoever. As
long as you edit that wardrobe of yours to eliminate all skirt suits—
and anything that looks like a skirt suit—I think everything will be
just fine."