Everyone worth Knowing -Lauren Weisberger 6

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26
"I have to say, I think this one's my favorite," Will announced,
passing me a computer printout across the table. He didn't sound
particularly amused. He'd taken it upon himself to put together a
little collection of all the newspaper clippings that had mentioned
my name since I'd started at Kelly & Company and we were reviewing
them together, over brunch. The week before, I'd returned
from Turkey and what I'd thought was an incredibly successful
trip. No one had seemed the least bit clued in as to what had
really happened with either Philip or Sammy. It was becoming obvious
that I'd relaxed too soon.
Abby was apparently omniscient. Somehow she must've gotten
in touch with John, the fat photographer, because she'd managed
to take a tiny, partial truth and weave it into a hideous lie. She'd
published this particular gem on Friday, and this time I thought
Kelly would have a heart attack:
Publicist Bette Robinson is generating some publicity of her own,
sources say, while running a press trip to Istanbul last month.
Mostly known for her relationship with Philip Weston, Robinson
was reported to be intimately involved with Rick Salomon—better
known as the guy who brought us the Paris Hilton sex tape—in
the same hotel where she also shared a room with Weston. Can
readers look forward to a remake of this famous sex tape, this
time featuring everyone's favorite party planner in place of everyone's
favorite partier? Stay tuned.
The photo accompanying the darling little write-up was the
one taken of me as I opened the door of Sammy's room, holding

my sandals in one hand and running the other through my ratty,
bed-head hair. My mouth hung open unattractively, and my
makeup was smeared under my eyes. I looked just as slutty as
Paris, minus her fab body and clothes. A figure had been blurred
out in the background; upon closer inspection, it was clearly a
male with a sheet tied around his waist, but identifying him beyond
that was impossible. It was Sammy, of course—the bastard
photographer had just spent five straight days with him and knew
that perfectly well, but he clearly hadn't bothered to provide that
information when he sold the picture to Abby. I imagined she'd
spent little time trying to figure out who the guy was before picking
someone particularly damaging at random and assigning him
the role of my illicit, late-night paramour.
For the first time since I'd begun working for her, I saw that
Kelly was not pleased with the coverage. She'd asked me, fairly, if
there was any truth to the claim, and then followed up with questions
about why Abby had it out for me. I assured her that I'd
never met the Hilton sex-tape guy and certainly hadn't had sex
with him—either on camera or off—and she seemed to believe me.
Oddly enough, it never occurred to her to ask who the guy was if
it wasn't Mr. Paris Hilton, so I hadn't needed to lie. After this brief
question-and-answer session, Kelly instructed me to settle any animosity
with Abby since this kind of publicity was no longer helpful.
She reminded me that we were a mere four weeks from the
Playboy party, and there was to be no negative publicity, true or
not, surrounding my private life between now and then. I assured
her that I completely understood and vowed I'd put an end to it,
although as of yet, I had no realistic plan for doing so. I knew I
had to call Abby and confront her directly, but the thought of even
hearing her voice made me sick with dread.
Philip, of course, had kept his mouth shut; only I knew he was
relieved the photo was of my indiscretion—even if he did look like
a loser whose girlfriend openly cheated on him, or, as Will had
called him, a cuckold. At least it wasn't a shot of his little visit to
the other team. Philip and I had yet to even mention anything that
had happened that first night in Turkey. Not a word. Nada. Things

had resumed their normal pattern for the rest of the trip. Two days
of spa treatments and late-night debauchery. Eyeing but not touching
Sammy (Isabelle's Ambien didn't last long enough) and generally
making sure all the guests remained satisfied and out of
trouble. We finished out Turkey like we had started—pretending to
be together—although had anyone bothered to look closely, they
would've noticed that I didn't so much as nap in Philip's room.
In the week since we'd been home, Philip and I had seen each
other out, and neither of us denied it when people assumed we
were together. After the chaos of the photo, the "reconciliation"
gave me some wiggle room with Kelly. But I needed a low-drama
way out of this "relationship"—not just because of the tabloid pressure,
but because I really liked Sammy.
The good news was that every daily and weekly that mattered
had dedicated massive spreads to the group's carefully orchestrated
debauchery, and a very happy Association of Nightclub Owners
was certain there would soon be an unprecedented number of
American partiers. Only New York Scoop had printed the ugly
photo of me. Kelly seemed okay once she heard Philip and I had
"made up." Sammy had been extremely apologetic, although Isabelle
kept such a tight leash on him that we'd had little contact
since the trip. The only people who seemed truly devastated were
my parents.
My mother was so hysterical when she called that I had to
hang up on her mid-conversation and have Will call her back to
explain that you can't believe everything you read, especially when
it comes to gossip columns. He managed to placate her slightly,
but it didn't change the rather unsettling fact that even if I hadn't
been sleeping with the Hilton sex-tape guy, my parents had still
seen a photo of me taken right after I had quite obviously slept
with someone. They didn't understand what I was doing professionally
or personally . . . or why. While there'd been absolutely
nothing good about the situation, the worst of it seemed to be
over, and the only one who still seemed obsessed with it was Will.
It was Sunday, exactly one week after we'd returned from
Turkey, and I was at my usual brunch with Will and Simon. I was

bemoaning the lack of fact and truth in the piece when Will interrupted
me.
"Bette, darling, stop using the word truth when referencing
gossip columns. It makes you sound naive."
"Well, what am I supposed to do? Just be totally fine with the
fact that that vengeful bitch can make up whatever she wants
about me and they'll print it? It's a miracle and a blessing that I still
have my job."
"Is that so?" He raised his eyebrows and sipped from his
Bloody Mary, his pinky extended.
"You're the one who practically mandated I take this job, if I
remember. Said I needed more friends, to go out, to have a life.
Well, I've done just that."
"This," he said, holding up the picture for emphasis, "was not
what I meant. And you know it. Now, darling, I'm happy to support
you in anything that makes you happy, but I don't think it's a
stretch of an observation to say that this is not it."
Well, that one silenced me momentarily.
"So what do you propose I do?" I asked. "You thought banking
was a bore, and now you're disapproving of the job you picked for
me because some girl I knew in a previous life has it in for me?
That seems unfair."
He sighed. "Yes, well, darling, get over yourself. You're a big
girl now, and I'm sure you'll find something a little more—how
shall I put it?—discreet than your current lifestyle. Planning parties
and going out, having a drink or two, a little romp with a cute boy
is one thing, and I'm fully supportive of that. But dating some
spoiled brat to please your boss, getting your name and face plastered
across every rag in this city, and—not least—forgetting your
old uncle's birthday because you were too busy acting as an international
babysitter for a group of B-list stars and socialites is not
quite what I had in mind when I recommended that you take this
job."
Will's birthday. January 2. I'd forgotten.
Will motioned for the waiter to bring him another Bloody Mary.
"Darling, excuse me for a moment. I'm going to take this mobile

phone outside and see where Simon is. It's unlike him to be this
late." He placed his napkin on his chair and crossed the cavernous
room in a few easy strides, looking every bit the distinguished gentleman.
When he returned, he was smiling and composed. "How is
your love life, my dear?" he asked, as if we'd not been talking
about Philip at all.
"Haven't I said it enough? I have no interest in Philip."
"Darling, I wasn't talking about Philip. Whatever happened to
that hulking boy with whom you drove to Poughkeepsie? I rather
liked him."
"Sammy? How could you have liked him? You only met him for
thirty seconds."
"Yes, but in those thirty seconds he showed he was perfectly
willing to lie on my behalf. Now, that's a quality person if there ever
was one. So tell me, is there no interest there at all?" He peered at me
with an intensity Will rarely displayed about anything.
I weighed whether or not to tell him the entire Istanbul story
and then buckled. At least one person in my life should know I
wasn't a complete tramp. "Urn, yeah, I guess you could say that," I
mumbled.
"Say what? That you are interested in him? Or you're not?" He
winked.
I took a deep breath. "He was the guy in the picture. You just
couldn't see him."
Will looked like he was trying to suppress a huge smile. "He
was in Turkey with you? How did you arrange that, my dear?"
"It's sort of a long story, but suffice it to say that I didn't know
he was going to be there."
Will raised an eyebrow. "Really? Well, I'm pleased to hear that.
I am sorry it had to end up in the gossip columns, but I'm glad the
two of you have, ah, cemented your relationship."
I listened to Will prattle on for a bit about how he always envisioned
me being with someone like Sammy—the strong, silent
type—and how it was about time I found myself a proper
boyfriend who understood what was really important. And oh, by

the way, how does he lean politically? I happily answered all of his
questions, content to talk about Sammy if I couldn't be with him.
We'd just tucked into our omelets when Will brought up the single
subject I wanted to forget.
"Well, at least now there's a good reason why I couldn't see my
own niece until she'd been back in the country for a week. I'd be
offended if you were simply out gallivanting for work every night,
but now that there's a boyfriend in the picture . . . New relationships
must be coddled, and the beginning is the best time! Oh,
how I remember the beginning! You just cannot get enough of
each other. Every moment you're apart feels like torture. Which
lasts about two years, of course, at which point things do a full
one-eighty and you try to wrangle every possible moment alone.
But you've got plenty of time before that happens, darling. So tell
me, how has it been?"
I speared my eggs and pushed them around the plate before
dropping my fork altogether. "Actually, we haven't seen each other
since we've been back," I said, realizing how awful that sounded.
"It's not like there's anything wrong," I added quickly. "He's really
busy talking to some people about opening up a restaurant—
which is not his ultimate goal but seems to be a really good opportunity
right now—and we've talked on the phone a few times, but
I've also been so crazed getting everything together for the Playboy
party and, well, you know how it is."
I heard the words come out of my mouth and knew I sounded
like a delusional girl trying to convince herself and everyone else
that some guy really was interested, even though all outward signs
indicated otherwise. It was beyond upsetting that I hadn't seen
Sammy since we'd gotten home, but it was true that both of us had
been extraordinarily busy, and besides, it was hardly unusual not
to see a new guy for a week in New York City. Plus, I reminded
myself, he had called three times in seven days, and he always said
what a great time he'd had with me in Turkey, that he couldn't
wait for things to calm down so we could go on a real date. I'd
read enough romances to know that the worst possible thing I
could do would be to push or demand. So far everything had un-

folded organically, and while it would've been nice to have seen
him once or twice in the past week, this was not a major cause for
concern. After all, I was quite sure we had a long and beautiful future
together, so what would be the point of rushing things now?
"Mmm, I see." Will looked troubled for a moment but then uncrinkled
his forehead. "I'm sure you know what you're doing, darling.
Any plans to see him again?"
"Actually, yes. I have to stop by an In Style party tomorrow
night, and he'll be working. He asked me to get coffee with him
afterward."
This seemed to satisfy Will. "Excellent. Do send him my best."
He folded his hands together and leaned forward like an eager girlfriend
waiting for the latest update. "I command you to invite him
to brunch next Sunday," he said as Simon finally arrived.
"Sammy? Ooh, great idea! It'll just be the four of us. Give us a
chance to really meet this young man," Simon chimed in. Clearly,
my big secret relationship with Sammy was nothing of the sort.
"As great as that sounds, guys, Sammy cooks brunch on Sundays
at Gramercy Tavern, so he can't come to ours. Maybe another
time," I added when they looked crestfallen.
"Well, perhaps we'll make our way over there," Will said halfheartedly.
"I hear it's a decent meal."
Simon nodded unenthusiastically. "Yes, why don't we? That
sounds quite nice. At some point . . ."
And finally, blessedly, the conversation shifted to their upcoming
trip to the Caribbean, and I was left to sit silently, feigning interest
while I dreamed about my romantic, late-night coffee date
with my new boyfriend.

27
Monday was a blur. I was so excited to see Sammy after work
that I floated through the day in a dream-like state. I recalled not
one subject that we discussed during the morning meeting, and
even though I'd sat through the entire thing, I had to ask one of
the List Girls to make me a copy of the notes she took so I could
familiarize myself with what had been covered. The office was in
full mobilization mode now that the Playboy party was rapidly approaching,
and even though I was officially in charge, I couldn't
concentrate. I ducked out at lunch to get a manicure. At three, I
announced I was grabbing coffee, but I actually bolted to the tailor
to pick up the sexy cocktail dress I'd gotten over the weekend,
which was now newly shortened. By the time six o'clock rolled
around, I started mumbling lies and weaving unintelligible stories
about my parents, Uncle Will, a sick friend—anything that would
allow me to leave early and have a full couple of hours to get
home, decompress, and groom myself to within an inch of sanity. I
emailed Kelly and Elisa that I'd be able to check out the In Style
party that night and report back the next day, and then I walked
out of the office at exactly six-thirty.
The evening disappeared in a whirlwind of primping activity
(including shaving, scrubbing, plucking, filing, brushing, painting,
and moisturizing), and by the time the cab pulled up to Bungalow,
I was nearly breathless with anticipation. Will had hustled me off
to Bergdorf's after brunch the day before and insisted on buying
me the gorgeous Chaiken dress. It had a magical empire waist that
made my own midsection look nonexistent, a skirt that flowed
gracefully down to my knees. I'd never before owned a single item

quite that gorgeous or expensive; from the moment I'd zipped it on
an hour earlier, I just knew that the night was going to be special.
Sammy's expression as I stepped out of the taxi didn't disappoint.
I watched him as his eyes covered the distance from my
sparkly silver heels to the super-glam chandelier earrings Penelope
had bought me for my last birthday. His smile grew wider until he
finally finished looking and said, "Wow."' It was followed by something
that sounded like a low moan, and I thought I might die of
happiness.
"You like it?" I asked, resisting the urge to twirl around. By
some miracle, we were alone on the sidewalk, the last of a group
of smokers having just ducked back inside.
"Bette, you look absolutely beautiful," he said, and it sounded
like he actually meant it.
"Thanks! You look pretty good yourself." Breezy and light, I
kept reminding myself. Keep it breezy and light, and leave him
wanting more.
"Are we still on for later?" he asked, giving a "one-second" gesture
to two girls who'd just approached the velvet rope.
"Sure. I'm up for it if you are. . . ." My words were casual, but
it took tremendous control for me not to choke with hopefulness.
"Definitely. If you don't mind waiting, I can probably be out of
here by one. One-fifteen, latest. I know a good place nearby."
I breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn't going to cancel. No
matter that one A.M. was still a solid four hours away, or that I'd be
a zombie at work the next day. None of it mattered one tiny bit
because in a survivable period of time, I was going to be tucked
into a corner booth with my head resting on Sammy's strong, solid
shoulder, sipping my tiny espresso and laughing girlishly at the delicious
things he'd be whispering in my ear—things like how it was
time that each of us end whatever "situations" we had with Isabelle
and Philip so we could be together, fully and with honesty; how
he'd never met anyone who understood him as well as I did; and
how it was so incredible that we'd known each other as kids back
in Poughkeepsie. He'd tell me that it wouldn't be easy—us being
together, what with the social and professional pressures we'd both
face—but that we had something worth fighting for, and he was
ready and willing. I would pretend to think this all over, nodding
occasionally and cocking my head at certain words, as if to say,
"Why, I can see what you mean," and when I finally looked up at
him and agreed that yes, this was all sounding like a good idea, he
would pull me toward him and kiss me, at first softly and then
with more urgency. From that moment on we'd be together in
every sense of the word, best friends and lovers and soul mates,
and while there'd surely be challenges, we'd get through it all side
by side. I'd read the same story play itself out so many times in my
novels that I could barely believe I finally had my own real-life
version.
"Sure, that sounds great." And before he could change his mind
or say another word, I gracefully (I hoped) sashayed past him,
opened the door myself, and glided into the packed room.
One o'clock rolled around with surprising swiftness. I capitalized
on my good mood by circulating around the room, chatting
first with Elisa and then Davide and then a few guys I knew peripherally
through Avery. Nothing could ruin my night, not even
catching a glimpse of Abby, skulking in a darkened corner beside
the bar. She caught me looking at her and before I realized what
was happening, she was standing next to me, hugging me in greeting.
I pulled myself away and took a step back, examined her face
as though I were trying to place it, and then simply turned around
and walked away. For a split second she called out my name and
tried to follow me, but I stuck my right hand in the air as 1 walked
in the opposite direction, and by the time I reached Kelly &
Company's table, she had disappeared. I'd just calmly poured myself
a glass of champagne when Sammy walked over and motioned
that he could leave.
We walked for nearly ten blocks before reaching a tiny diner
that still had Christmas candles in its windows. He held the door
for me and then chose a small corner booth—just like I'd envisioned.
I blew on my hands to warm them, and when I wrapped
them around my mug of hot chocolate, Sammy placed his own
over mine.

"Bette, I have to ask you something," he said, his eyes meeting
mine directly.
I nearly gasped but was able to control my breath. Ask me
something? Ask me what? Ask me if I am dating anyone else because
you think now would be a good time to stop? Ask me if I can
actually see myself being your lifelong partner? We answer is yes,
yes, of course, Sammy, but isn't it a tad early for that discussion? I
was considering all of these possibilities and more when he said, "I
need to ask for your patience."
That sort of brought things to a grinding halt. My patience? I
didn't know for sure, but that didn't sound like the opening of a
commitment conversation to me. At least not the way it happened
in any self-respecting romance novel.
As usual, any previous command I had of the English language
had vanished.
"My patience?" I repeated.
"Bette, I want to make this work—more than anything—but I
need you to be patient with me. I got a phone call this morning
that blew me away."
"What kind of phone call?" I asked. This was definitely not
good news.
"From a lawyer. Some partner at a huge firm in midtown. He
said he represented some investors who might be interested in
backing a new restaurant. Apparently, they have a stake in a bunch
of different businesses, but no restaurants right now. They're looking
to get behind a hot new chef—his words, not mine—and
they're considering a few different options. He asked if it sounded
appealing to me."
Well, I don't know what I was expecting, but this wasn't it.
Luckily, I remembered that I was expected to react. "Congratulations!"
I said automatically. "That's just great news, don't you
think?"
He looked relieved. "I do—of course I do. It's just that if I want
to pursue this, I'm going to be crazy busy. They want me to write
up a pitch covering all my ideas on possible spaces, themes, decor,
even preferred prep and sous and pastry chefs. I'd have to give

them all that—and three entirely different menu proposals—in the
next month."
I finally understood the "patient" part.
He continued, "I barely have any time as it is with work and
class, but this is going to take every possible free second I can
find. The good news is that it'll allow me to put the brakes on the
whole Isabelle situation, which is a huge relief, but I'm going to be
busier than ever. I wouldn't ever ask you to wait for me, but, well,
if there's any way you could understand that—"
"Don't say another word," I said, leaning in toward him across
the table. "I understand completely, and I couldn't be happier for
you." I forced myself to say what I knew was right, and when I
was rehashing the conversation later on, back in my own apartment
with Millington on my lap, I congratulated myself on getting
the words out. It wasn't what I'd hoped to hear, that much was
sure, but like every single heroine I'd ever read about, I would
fight for what I wanted.
I managed to smile at Sammy even though he looked genuinely
distraught. "You'll be great," I said. We held hands across
the table, and I squeezed his as I said this. We finished our drinks
and I held back the tears until he put me in a cab. This was just
another small obstacle to overcome, and I was willing to do it.
Anything worth having was worth working for, and Sammy was
worth having. If patience was what it took, then patience was what
I had. Sammy and I were clearly meant to be together.

28
"Okay, everyone, this is it. Quiet down now, and let's get
started!" Kelly had just inhaled her fourth Diet Coke and ordered
her fifth as we settled in for our final meeting before the Playboy
party. We were at a secluded sectioned-off table at Balthazar,
Kelly's favorite lunch place and her preferred venue for working
meetings before big events. The food had just arrived; Kelly
pushed aside her Nicoise salad and stood up from the table, shaking
slightly with caffeine nerves.
"As you all know, tomorrow is D-day. We'll run through the
checklist together, but this is a mere formality. Why, you may ask, is
this a mere formality? Because everything—everything—will be executed
without a hitch. If there is ever a time for perfection, it's tomorrow
night. And just in case there's any doubt in anyone's mind, it
will be fucking perfect, because I won't have it any other way."
We were all nodding, accustomed to Kelly's pre-event pep rallies,
when there was a slight commotion at the door. Our table
turned to look, along with everyone else in the restaurant. Leo
spoke first.
"Ashlee and Jessica Simpson with"—he strained his neck to assess
the accompanying group—"that kid, what's his name? The one
Ashlee was dating on and off? Ryan something? And the girls' father."
"Who's on it?" Kelly barked.
"Got it," Elisa snapped back.
She pulled her cell phone from her massive peacock blue Marc
Jacobs Stella bag and began scrolling through numbers. She found
the one she was looking for and pressed Send. Ten seconds later
she was talking rapidly as we all listened.

"Hi, this is Elisa from Kelly & Company. Yeah, exactly. Anyway,
1 just got word that the girls are in town, and we would love to
host them at our Playboy party tomorrow." It was assumed that the
person on the other line knew all about the party. After all, who
didn't?
Elisa smiled and gave Kelly a knowing look while pointing at
her phone. "Yes, of course. No, I understand entirely. We'll be willing
to provide a completely private fifteen-minute arrival window
so they won't share the carpet with anyone else, and naturally
they'll be escorted to their own table in the VIP section."
She paused to listen and then said, "The girls will have a personal
concierge all night, so anything they need can be arranged
immediately. I can guarantee they'll be subjected to absolutely no
interviews; however, if they'd be so kind as to pose for a few select
photographers, it would be our pleasure to cover the cost of
their hotel suites, hair and makeup, transportation, and, if required,
wardrobe selection."
Another pause, and then a frown. "Yes, of course they'll both
be there. Mm-hmm, I'd be happy to set that up for you." Her excitement
had subsided and she was now clearly faking it. "Great!
I'll be in touch first thing tomorrow morning so we can arrange all
the details. I so look forward to seeing them tomorrow night. Fabulous!
Ciao!"
"Well done!" Kelly said as our group broke into light applause,
reminding me again that Kelly was, as far as bosses go, pretty
great. "What was their final request that you said we could accommodate?"
Elisa gritted her teeth. "Oh, the publicist mentioned how both
girls have crushes on Philip Weston. She wanted to know if he
would come over and meet them."
Kelly screeched. "Of course! Too easy! Bette, you and Philip
will greet those girls the moment they walk in and show them to
their seats. Tell Philip to flirt, flirt, flirt. Elisa, have Bette call and
follow up with the publicist tomorrow, okay? Speaking of which,
Bette, how are we doing with your end?"
I could feel Elisa staring at me, and I sensed the look wasn't
filled with love. "Uh, everything seems to be in order." My focus
was the midnight surprise. I'd been working on it nonstop for the
past month, ironing out every minute detail, and I was finally confident
it was going to be spectacular. Kelly had approved my plan
but insisted it stay between us, since she didn't want to risk anything
being leaked to the press. As a result, no one but the two of
us and Hef himself had any idea what was happening at midnight.
"The midnight show is a go—I expect everything will run smoothly
there."
Elisa yawned loudly.
I continued. "I've credentialed all the press with passes that are
impossible to copy, alter, or fake, and each will be sent by messenger
to its recipient exactly one hour before start time. Here are
copies of the press grid"—I paused here to pull out a stack of papers
and pass them around the table—"with every reporter and
photographer who will be in attendance; what, if anything specific,
they're most interested in covering; who they tend to feature the
most; the people and places each will or will not be able to access;
and, of course, their drink preferences."
Kelly nodded and studied the sheet. "Are escorts listed on
here?"
"Certainly. Everyone from the office will take turns, according
to my schedule, escorting various members of the press to ensure
they're exposed to the people we'd like them to meet."
"I had a final meeting yesterday with the production company
we're using, and I'm comfortable with how that side is shaping
up," Elisa interjected. "Their plans for bar layout, bartenders, lighting,
risers, music, decorations, and catering all seem to mesh with
our instructions and the client's preferences."
Kelly pushed the lettuce around on her plate and then changed
her mind, choosing to sip her chardonnay instead. "Okay, that's
good," she murmured. "But back to this press situation for a
minute. Bette, did you touch base with all the photo editors to let
them know they have our full cooperation with anything they
might need?"
"I did. I had a couple of the interns call them at the beginning

of the week, and they reached everyone by Wednesday. All in all, I
think we're in great shape."
The lunch meeting continued like this for another hour before
Kelly gave us the rest of the afternoon off to go home, attend
grooming appointments, try to relax, and mentally prepare ourselves
for the following evening. I'd already planned to stay in that
night—with Millington and a huge bowl of extra-buttered microwave
popcorn—and watch bad movie after bad movie on TNT,
so I was ecstatic to hear that I had the afternoon off, too. Of
course, the extra time would mean even more opportunity to think
about Sammy. It hadn't been too much of a problem the past couple
of weeks because I'd been swamped with prep work, but I
shuddered to think of how much I could obsess if given a little
free time.
Kelly paid the check and everyone was saying good-bye when
Elisa pulled me aside.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" she asked.
"Sure, what's going on?"
"Look, I know that things have gotten a little weird between us,
but I really think we should do our best to work together tomorrow
night. Neither of us wants to spend the whole night working,
so we need to figure out a system where only one of us is on and
the other can relax. And then switch. You know?"
I was surprised to hear her acknowledge that there was tension
between us, but I was glad she no longer seemed so annoyed.
"Sure, sounds good. I can't imagine there's going to be much time
tomorrow to do anything besides deal, but we can try, you know?"
This was apparently all she needed to hear. "Great. That
sounds great. See you tomorrow, Bette!"
I watched as she tightened her fringed scarf around her emaciated
neck and ducked into the cold street. Strange girl, I thought,
watching her hail a cab. I waited until her taxi had pulled away before
heading outside myself. I had all afternoon to myself for the
first time in recent memory, and I didn't want to waste a single second
of it.

29
I'd just finished You've Got Mail and was halfway through
Can't Buy Me Love when the phone rang. I was surprised to see
Penelope's number come up on caller ID—surprised and thrilled.
I'd given her the bare-bones rundown on Sammy, but she had no
idea how much I adored him. I'd managed to read between the
lines of her upbeat soliloquies to determine that Avery wasn't
around a whole lot, that she still hadn't found a job, and that the
couples they were hanging out with weren't exactly her type, but
she wouldn't admit any of this outright. Left with not much to say,
we emailed each other silly forwards and texted stupid things and
spoke very occasionally about safe subjects, but I couldn't remember
the last time I'd received a good, old-fashioned, late-night call
from my best friend.
"Hey, B, how are you? Sorry to be calling so late, but the time
difference really sucks and I figured you might still be up. Avery's
out of town again and I don't really have anyone else out here to
call and bother, so you're the lucky winner tonight!"
Her voice sounded hollow and I wished we were closer. "Pen,
I'm so glad you called! How are you?"
"I didn't wake you, did I?"
"Hardly. Just watching bad movies. What's going on with you?
It's so good to hear from you."
"Is your British trust-fund boyfriend there?" she asked.
Had everything been normal, Penelope would have already analyzed
a hundred times over with me what Sammy's "being patient"
meant, and would have reassured me repeatedly that it was
only a matter of time before he and I would be together. Now, de-

spite knowing about Sammy, she didn't even seem to understand
that I wasn't actually dating Philip.
"Pen, he's not my boyfriend, you know that. Philip and I are expected
to go to the Playboy party together, but only for the photos."
"Right, of course. When is that? That's a big deal, right?"
"It's tomorrow night! It's stressful because we've been working
on it forever now and I'm pretty much first-in-command, after
Kelly. But so far it seems like everything's in line. If the photographers
behave themselves and the Bunnies all show up, we should
be okay."
We continued on like this for a few minutes, neither of us acknowledging
that we had huge knowledge gaps about each other's
lives.
"So what do you plan to do about Abby and the fact that she
keeps printing those lies about you?" she asked, sounding like the
old Penelope for the first time all night.
I'd been trying not to think about it, but when I did, the
anger—the feeling of being violated—was enough to drive me
mad. "I still can't figure out why she hates me so much. It's torture
not being able to confront her. Do you think people really believed
that I was having an affair with the Hilton sex-tape guy? I don't
even know his name!"
"No one does," she said, clucking quietly. "I have no idea what
her problem is, although I guess it's not such a stretch to imagine
her printing all this trash about you when she used to steal
people's papers in college and pass them off as her own, right? Do
you remember sophomore year when she skipped her grandmother's
funeral because they were interviewing new columnists
for the paper? The girl is seriously disturbed. Avery always said
she's the type who'd sell out her own parents to get ahead, and I
think he's right. He slept with her, of course, so I guess he'd
know."
"What? Avery had sex with Abby? I didn't know that."
"I'm not totally sure, but I'm assuming he has. All of his friends
did. Hell, every guy we know did her in college. I think I'd rather
not know for sure, but if I had to bet . . ."

I swallowed a wave of nausea at the thought and mustered the
energy to say, "So how is that fiance of yours, anyway? You said he
was out of town?"
Her sigh said more than any of the words that followed. "He's
fine, I guess. I haven't seen a lot of him, that's for sure. I thought it
would change once he was back in school and had to be on campus
every day, but it's only given him more free time to stay out
late. He's met a whole new crew of friends, so I guess that's good."
"Do you like any of their girlfriends?"
She snorted. "What girlfriends? They're all twenty-two-year-old
kids, right out of school. He acts like he's the godfather and they're
his acolytes. It's slightly disturbing, but how can I say anything?"
Well, that made two of us. I tried to steer the conversation to
something more neutral. "I'm sure it's just a period of adjustment.
Are you guys at least exploring the city? I know LA's no New York,
but there's got to be something to do there, right?"
"I go to the beach occasionally. Shop at Whole Foods, signed
up for yoga, doing the whole Jamba Juice thing. Interviewing a lot.
I know something will come up, but so far there's been nothing interesting.
Avery'll be back the day after tomorrow, so maybe we'll
take a little road trip to Laguna. Or Mexico again—that was nice. If
he doesn't have to study the entire time." She sounded so listless
that I wanted to cry for her.
"Where is he, honey? How long has he been gone?"
"Oh, he's just back in New York for a few days. Family business
of some sort—a meeting with his trust administrator and accountant
or something like that. I'm not sure what, exactly, but I
had an interview today, so he said he could handle it alone and
there was no reason for me to fly all the way across the country."
"Got it. Well, I wish you were here to come with me to the
Playboy party. I'd put you on Bunny patrol, have you scout the
room and make sure all their tails stay attached. Sounds awesome,
huh?"
"Sure does. Bette, I miss you a lot."
"I miss you, too, Pen. And if you feel like it, get on a plane and
come home for a visit. You didn't move to Guam, you're just on

the left coast. If you're feeling a little homesick, we'd love to see
you for a visit. Maybe you and me and Abby can go out for lunch
and then read in the paper the next day that we were both seen
having sex with the Giants' entire defensive line. Doesn't that
sound fab?"
She laughed and I wanted to hug her. "To tell you the truth,
I'm not necessarily opposed to having sex with the entire team.
That's not bad, is it?"
"It's sure not, honey, it's sure not. Listen, I've got to try and
sleep a little because tomorrow's going to be brutally long, but can
we talk when the party's finally over?"
"Sure. It's just so good to hear your voice. Good luck getting
through tomorrow night with no major scandals. I love you, B."
"I love you, too, Pen. Things are going to get better from here,
I promise. I miss you, and I'll talk to you soon."
I placed the receiver back on its base and crawled into bed to
finish the movie, happy just knowing that Penelope and I would
somehow be okay.

30
"Check, one-two-three, check. Can everyone hear me? Count
off. One . . ."I called into my earpiece, waiting for everyone else
to call their numbers and let me know that the headphones were
working. When Leo called out number sixteen, I knew we had
everyone, and I took a deep breath. Guests were just beginning to
show up and I was frantically trying to stem the tide of problems
that wouldn't seem to stop. All my cool confidence and perfect
plans from the day before were starting to seep away, and it was
getting harder to quell my panic.
"Skye, can you hear me?" I hissed into the microphone that
crawled stealthily out of my ear and stopped right above my top lip.
"Bette, honey, I'm right here. Calm down, everything's just
fine."
"I'll calm down when you tell me that the step-and-repeat is finally
finished. It looked like shit ten minutes ago."
"I'm standing outside, and it's all good. Thirty feet of Playboy
Bunny logos on cardboard, just waiting for celebs to step in front
of it for pictures. They put the finishing touches on it just a minute
ago, and it should be dry in another few minutes. No worries."
"Elisa? Do we have the final schedule for press set up and with
security? Sammy from Bungalow 8 is in charge of the VIP entrance,
so he needs to know which photographers are allowed where." I
was barking orders like a lunatic and hating the sound of my own
voice more with eveiy passing minute. I hadn't hesitated when I'd
said Sammy's name, though, and that was progress. He'd kissed
me on the cheek when I'd arrived a few hours earlier and whispered
"Good luck," and it was all I could do not to faint. The only

thing getting me through the night was the knowledge that we
would be in the same room for the next six hours.
"Check. ET and Access Hollywood have prime placement. E!
was still wavering on whether they were coming—they're pissy
they didn't get the exclusive—but if they send someone, we're
ready. All of those plus CNN, MTV, and a guy who's doing a party
documentary for Fox and has clearance from some big-name studio
head are being allowed inside; regular tabloid paparazzi will
remain outside. Everyone's been briefed on who's who and who's
VIP enough to use this entrance. There's just one question. Who's
Sammy?"
I couldn't very well point out over the mic that Sammy was
hooked up to our system and listening to every word we were saying—
nor that the mere sight of him set my nerves on fire. "Elisa,
very cute. Just give him the list, okay?" I prayed she would drop it
at that, but in her hunger-induced perma-haze, she persevered.
"No, seriously, Bette. Who's Sammy?" she whined. "Oh, wait,
he's head of the production crew, right? Why does he need a finalized
VIP list?"
"Elisa, Sammy is in charge of security tonight. We weren't
thrilled with the idea of using Sanctuary's gestapo door people, so
Sammy was kind enough to help us out. He should be out front,
going over the last-minute details. Just get him a list." I thought that
would be the end of it, but of course Elisa wasn't finished.
"Oh, wait! Sammy. Isn't he that guy Isabelle was keeping on
commission? Totally! I remember now. He was in Istanbul with us,
wasn't he? She had him racing around like a slave all weekend.
You thought they were—"
"What? Elisa? I can't hear you. I'm talking to Danny right now,
so I'm muting my headphones. Back in a few." I tore the headphones
off and collapsed on one of the banquettes, trying not to
imagine what Sammy had just thought of that little exchange.
"What up?" the ever-articulate Danny asked from his post at the
bar. He was ogling the Bunnies as they scampered from place to
place, preparing themselves for the onslaught of grabby men and
jealous women.

"Nothing, nothing. I think we're actually ready, don't you?"
"Word."
"Is there anything you can think of that I'm missing?"
He downed his third beer in five minutes. "Nope." He belched.
I looked around and was pleased with what I saw. The club
had been transformed to the perfect space for celebrating fifty
years of centerfolds. We had two entrances set up, one for VIPs
and one for everyone else, each shrouded in a black tent with
plenty of red carpet and logos. The security guys would all be
wearing suits and subtle earpieces so as to remain as inconspicuous
as possible. After entering an outside tent, each guest would
be admitted to a long hallway shrouded in black, which culminated
in a sweeping staircase adorned with filmy black curtains.
Upon climbing the stairs and stepping through the curtains, they'd
find themselves on a raised stage of sorts, a platform where everyone
could watch as they descended the stairs into the main room.
An eighty-five-foot bar occupied the left side of the room, where
thirty-five female bartenders in hot pants, bikini tops, and bunny
ears would be mixing drinks all night long. The wall behind the
bar was covered in a floor-to-ceiling collage of Playboy centerfolds
from the last fifty years: each was in full color and blown up to
double poster size, and they were stuck together in no apparent
pattern (save for the abundance of pre-bikini wax shots). We'd
placed the VIP area on the far right side, a roped-off section of
black velour banquettes and RESERVED signs resting next to the bottle
chillers on each glass table. Gleaming from the exact center of
the room was a circular stage shaped like a massive, multitiered
cake. The bottom two tiers would provide dancing space for the
Bunnies at the midnight performance, and the top level would be
uncovered to reveal our surprise guest. A huge, 360-degree dance
floor wrapped around the cake-shaped stage and was adorned
with low velour benches around its perimeter.
"Hey, how is everything?" Kelly asked, twirling to show off her
ultra-tight, ultra-short, barely opaque wrap dress. "You like it?"
"You look amazing," I said and meant it.
"Bette, I'd like you to meet Henry. Henry, this is one of my
brightest stars, Bette."

A pleasant-looking but entirely nondescript man of about
forty—medium height, average build, brown hair—reached out his
hand and revealed one of the warmest smiles I'd ever seen. "So
nice to meet you, Bette. Kelly's told me a lot about you."
"All good, I hope," I said without an ounce of creativity. "Having
fun, I hope? Things should really get going soon."
They both laughed and looked at each other with such enthusiastic
affection that it was impossible not to hate them.
By ten o'clock the party was fully under way. Hef took up the
two most prominent VIP tables with his six girlfriends and drank
Jack Rabbits, some combination of Jack Daniel's and Diet Coke.
Scattered at tables around him were assorted celebs and their entourages:
James Gandolfini, Dr. Ruth, Pamela Anderson, Helen
Gurley Brown, Kid Rock, Ivanka Trump, and Ja Rule all appeared
content enough with the unlimited drinks and the platters of
bunny-shaped chocolates and strawberries that we'd provided for
them. The commoners were just starting to hit that point where
they'd had a few drinks and were ready to dance, and the Bunnies
were in full circulation, brushing up against every guy and most of
the girls in the room. They were captivating to watch. Nearly two
hundred of them in bunny ears, black satin bustiers, and thongs
pulsated through the room, shaking their bottoms to emphasize
their bunny tails and pushing their pelvises forward to show off the
little horse-race ribbons that announced their names and hometowns.
What the men didn't realize was that the real party was in
the downstairs ladies' room, where the Bunnies gathered to smoke,
chat, and make fun of the gaping men. They had to unzip their
bustier outfits and completely climb out of them in order to pee,
and they weren't able to get dressed again without help. I leaned
against a wall, staring, waiting for a stall to open, as one blond girl
reached out and cupped another Bunny's huge, pillow-like breasts
with two hands. She admired them for a few seconds before asking—
boobs still in hand—"Real or created?"
The fondled one giggled and gave a little shimmy. "Girlfriend,
these are entirely store-bought." Then she squatted, leaned forward,
and mashed her breasts as tight as they'd go against her
chest while motioning for the fondler to zip her up. When she
straightened up again, the black satin barely covered her nipples,
and she looked like she might just topple forward from the weight
imbalance. They finished their sneaked cosmos, left the empty
glasses on the sink, and half-ran, half-hopped back upstairs to rejoin
the party.
When I made it back myself, I did another cursory check over
the headphones with everyone to see that all was progressing as
planned, and there were blessedly few emergencies: a fallen disco
ball that hadn't hit anyone, a couple of minor fights that Sammy
and his crew had already dismantled, and a shortage of maraschino
cherries due to hungry Bunnies who were reportedly grabbing
them from behind the bar by the fistful. Elisa seemed to be sober
and in control of the VIP lounge, while Leo had managed to keep
his pants on long enough to patrol the bar and dance floor. There
was only an hour to go until the midnight surprise and it was time
for me to focus on that.
The surprise midnight performance had been my baby, something
I'd been working on especially hard since returning from
Turkey, and I was desperate for it to go well. At that moment, only
Kelly, the head PR person from Playboy, and Hef himself knew
what to expect, and I couldn't wait to see everyone's reactions. I
was just getting ready to triple-check with Sammy and his staff at
the door that they knew to refuse admission to Abby if she tried to
get in when I heard his voice crackle on the headset.
"Bette? Sammy here. Jessica and Ashlee just pulled up."
"Copy, I'll be there in a second." I grabbed a gin and tonic
from the main bar to bribe Philip with, but I couldn't find him anywhere.
Not wanting the sisters to go unescorted, I sent the announcement
out over the headset for anyone who saw Philip to
meet me at the front door, then dashed there just as they were
stepping out of the Bentley we had sent to fetch them.
"Hi, guys," I said, rather ungracefully. "We're all so glad you
could make it. Come on in, and I'll show you around." I guided
them down the red carpet, squinting through the flashbulbs.
They posed like pros for their required fifteen minutes, jutting
out their hips and putting their arms around each other and walk-

ing jauntily in their matching five-inch silver heels before following
me past Sammy (who winked) and straight to the VIP section. I
beckoned to the gorgeous guy we'd hired to attend to their every
need and bolted off to find Philip, who had, as of yet, remained
elusive.
Although I radioed out numerous SOS messages and patrolled
the room myself a number of times, I couldn't seem to find him
anywhere. I was just getting ready to send someone into the men's
room to see if he was inside doing God knows what when I
glanced at my watch. It was five minutes to twelve, and the show
would be starting any minute. I raced upstairs and signaled the DJ,
who cut off "Dancing Queen" halfway through and played an electronic
drumroll. This was the signal. Hef extricated himself from his
gaggle of girlfriends and climbed slowly to the second tier of the
stage, tapping once on the microphone before booming, "Thank
you all for coming." He was cut off by the frantic, screaming
cheers of the crowd, who clapped and yelled and chanted, "Hef,
Hef, Hef!"
"Yes, thank you. Thank you all so much for coming to celebrate
with me and my crew"—he paused briefly to wink at the
crowd, which invited all-out hooting—"fifty years of important stories,
celebrated writers, and, of course, beautiful girls!" The crowd
continued to holler throughout the speech, reaching an almost
deafening level when he thanked everyone for a final time and
made his way back to the front-and-center tables where his
women awaited. A few people thought it was over and started to
head back to the bar or the dance floor, but they froze in place
when the DJ began to play "Happy Birthday to You." Before anyone
realized what was happening, a tiny, circular stage—just big
enough for one person to stand on—began to rise from the center
of the cake. It moved upward until the shadow of a woman could
be seen behind the sheer curtain that covered it as everyone stood,
rooted to the floor, their necks craning toward the ceiling. When
the mini-platform stopped about three stories above the crowd, the
gauzy white material simply melted away and standing there in a
tight, shimmering, beaded purple evening gown with a fur boa was

Ashanti, looking ravishing. She proceeded to sing in a low, throaty
voice the sexiest rendition of "Happy Birthday to You" I'd ever
heard. It was an obvious tribute to Marilyn Monroe's famous performance
for JFK, only Ashanti dedicated her performance to Hef,
calling him "the president of pussyland," and when she finished,
the room went wild. Gold glitter confetti rained down while the
crowd cheered and every Bunny in the room—all eighty-five of
them—kicked chorus line-style around the lower level of the
stage. The DJ immediately segued into "Always on Time" and the
dancing immediately escalated from excited to frenzied. I heard
a guy behind me scream into his cell phone, "Dude, this is the
party of the fucking century!" and more than a few newly formed
couples began making out on the dance floor. Except for the "pussyland"
comment, everything had gone exactly as I'd planned—
probably even better.
Elisa and Leo and Sammy had already reported into the headsets
that it was a huge hit; even Kelly had managed to grab a headset
and shriek her approval into it. The euphoria lasted another
whole seven or ten minutes, until everything started barreling
downhill at warp speed, threatening to take me with it. I was
roaming through the VIP lounge looking for Philip when, tucked
away in the darkest corners of the roped-off section, I spotted a
very familiar blond head bobbing between a pair of Bunny-like
breasts. I looked around frantically for a camera, hoping, praying
that one would snap a picture of Philip nibbling this girl's cleavage
and plaster it across every paper in the city so I could finally, blessedly,
be finished with him. It seemed strange to see him being this
intimate with a girl so soon after seeing him being that intimate
with a guy, but it was an easy out for me, and one I wanted. I realized
this was my chance: I would gladly play the part of betrayed
girlfriend if it meant having a reason to be done with him once and
for all. I leaned over to tap him on the shoulder, eager to put on
an indignant public performance, but I physically recoiled when
the boy turned around and snapped, "What the fuck do you want?
Can't you see I'm busy here?"
It wasn't Philip. No British accent, no chiseled jaw, no I've-

been-a-very-bad-boy grin. Much to my surprise, the face that stared
back at me, the one contorted with anger and annoyance, belonged
to someone else I knew well: Avery. His jaw went slack
when he saw me. "Bette," he whispered.
"Avery?" I couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't come up with
a single appropriate thing to say. I was vaguely aware that the girl
was peering at us both with some sort of smug look, but it was
hard to make her out in the dark. Besides, nearly her entire mouth
was swollen from kissing, and lipstick was smeared across her chin
and cheek. But after I studied her for fifteen seconds, I realized I
knew her, too. It was Abby.
"Bette, this is, uh, this isn't what it . . . Bette, you know Abby,
don't you?"
He was noticeably perspiring and waving his hands in some
sort of spastic, counterclockwise pattern, motioning to the girl
while simultaneously trying to pretend she wasn't there.
"Bette! Great to see you again. Saw that piece about you the
other day," she trilled. Her hand worked its way quite deliberately
over Avery's back, rubbing and kneading while I watched every
movement, and she watched me watching her.
I continued to stare, still at a loss for words, realizing that Abby
still assumed I was clueless about her professional identity. It was all
too horrible to process, and since I couldn't decide which one to
confront first, I just stood there. Apparently, Avery took this as an indication
that he should keep talking. "Penelope knows I'm in New
York, and of course she knows I like to go out a lot, but um, I'm not
sure it'd be the best thing for her to know about, uh, about this.
She's, um, she's had a lot to adjust to with the move and everything
and I think it'd be most, ah, most considerate to her if we didn't
upset her any more, you know?" He slurred nearly every word.
Abby chose this moment to lean over and begin licking his earlobe,
closing her eyes in feigned passion after looking directly at
me. Avery brushed her away like a gnat and stood up, placing an
arm underneath my elbow and leading me away from the table.
He was approaching blackout drunk, but he still managed to move
rather deftly.
I allowed myself to be led away for a second before I snapped
back to reality and tore my arm from his grip. "You bastard!" I
hissed. I'd wanted to scream, but nothing came out.
"Is there a problem here?" Abby asked as she sidled up next to
Avery.
I stared at her, nearly scared of my hatred. "Problem? No, why
would you say that? No problem at all. It's funny, though, I have
this sneaking feeling that you won't be writing tomorrow about
how you threw yourself at someone else's fiance—someone you've
known for more than eight years now. No, I imagine tomorrow's
little column will have no mention of you or Avery at all. Rather,
it'll be some charming little story about how I was stealing tips off
the bar or doing drugs with the dancers or having group sex with
the photographers, right?"
They both stared at me. Abby spoke first.
"What are you saying, Bette? You really are making no sense."
"Oh, is that so? Interesting. It's rather unfortunate for you that
I know you're Ellie Insider. You want to know why that sucks
for you so much besides the fact that it's a really stupid fucking
name? Because I won't rest until everyone else knows, too. I'll
call every reporter, editor, blogger, and assistant in this entire city
and tell them who you are and how you lie. But I'll have the
most fun telling your editor the whole story. Throw the words
libel and laivsuit around, just for fun. Maybe she'd be interested
to hear how you nearly got kicked out of school for stealing other
people's papers? Or perhaps she'd find the story of the night you
slept with not one, not two, not three, but four guys from the
lacrosse team amusing? Hmm, Abby, what do you think?"
"Bette, listen, I—" Avery appeared not to have heard a word of
what I'd said, clearly concerned only with how this would affect
his own life.
"No, Avery, you listen," I hissed with more venom in my voice
than I'd ever heard as I turned away from Abby and toward him.
"You have one week from today's date to tell Penelope. Do you
hear me? One week, or she hears it from me."
"Jesus Christ, Bette, c'mon, you have no idea what you're say-
ing. Hell, you have no idea what really happened. Nothing was
going on."
"Avery, listen to me. Can you hear me? One week." I turned to
walk away, silently praying he wouldn't call my bluff and make me
tell her. It'd be hard enough to tell my best friend that her dirtbag
fiance had abandoned her in a new city to come home for a weekend
of drinking and cheating, but it would especially suck having
to do so when our own relationship was still a little rocky.
I'd made it a few feet when I felt Avery's arm wrap around
my elbow and tighten. He yanked so hard I tripped and would
have hit the ground facefirst had he not yanked me upward and
pushed me onto a banquette. His face was two inches from mine,
his hot, boozy breath heating my skin, and he sounded quite coherent
when he whispered, "Bette. I will deny every fucking word
you say. Who's she going to believe? Me, the guy she's worshipped
for the last decade, or you, the friend who ditches her going-away
party to hang out with some guy? Huh?" He leaned in even closer,
hovering over me with his entire body and his face contorted into
a pained, threatening expression, and I briefly wondered if kneeing
him in the balls would be appropriate. I wasn't really concerned
for my safety so much as disgusted by his closeness, but
I didn't have to make the decision; before I could work my knee
into strike position, Avery's entire body seemed to float backward.
"Can 1 help you with something?" Sammy asked Avery as he
held him upright by the back of his shirt.
"Dude, get the fuck off me. Who the hell are you?" Avery spat,
looking drunker and meaner than I'd ever seen him before. "This is
none of your fucking business, you hear?"
"I'm security, and it is my fucking business."
"Well, this is my friend here, and we were having a conversation,
so back the fuck off." Avery straightened up in a failed attempt
to recoup a shred of dignity.
"Oh, really? That's funny, because your friend looked pretty
fucking unthrilled to be part of your 'conversation.' Now get out."
I watched the two of them go back and forth as I rubbed my
arm, wondering who would be the first to use the word fuck three
times in a single sentence.
"Dude, chill out. No one asked for your assistance, okay? I've
known Bette for a long fucking time now, so step aside and let us
finish. Don't you, like, have drinks to serve or something?"
For the briefest moment I thought Sammy would hit Avery, but
he pulled himself together, took a deep breath, and turned to me.
"Are you okay here?" he asked.
I wanted to tell him everything, explain that Avery was Penelope's
future husband and tell him how I'd seen him with another
girl and that other girl happened to be Abby, who happened to be
Ellie Insider, and even though I always knew he was a cheating
bastard, I'd never seen him so belligerent before. I wanted to
throw my arms around Sammy's neck and thank him over and
over again for watching out for me and stepping in when he
thought I was in trouble and ask him his advice on what to tell
Penelope and how to deal with Avery.
For just a moment I thought about doing just that—screwing
the party, the job, what Abby would surely write the following day,
just grabbing Sammy and walking away from all of it. But of course
he knew what I was thinking, could see it on my face, and he
leaned over and discreetly whispered, "Stay cool. We'll talk about it
later, Bette." I was attempting to calm down when Elisa and Philip
came ambling over, their arms linked.
"What's going on here?" Philip asked, appearing wholly disinterested
with the entire scene.
"Philip, stay out of this, it's nothing," I said, willing them both
to disappear.
"Why don't you call your fucking goon off me, Elisa?" Avery
whined after pouring himself another drink. "This big meathead
got himself involved where it's none of his business. I was having
a little chat with an old friend and all of a sudden he went ballistic.
Does he work for you?"
Having already lost interest in the whole situation, Philip
drunkenly flopped onto the couch and immersed himself in mixing
a gin and tonic. Elisa, however, did not like to hear that the
hired help was bothering one of her favorite party boys.

"Who are you?" she asked Sammy.
He looked at her and smiled as if to say, Are you kidding, you
idiot? We recently traveled to a foreign country together for five full
days, and now you have no idea who I am? When he was met
with a blank gaze, he merely said, "I'm Sammy, Elisa. We've met a
few dozen times at Bungalow 8, and we were in Istanbul together.
I'm in charge of security tonight." His voice was strong and even,
without a hint of condescension or sarcasm.
"Mmm, that's really interesting. So what you're telling me is that
because you work the door at Bungalow a few nights a week and
serve as a boy toy to Isabelle Vandemark, you all of a sudden think
you're justified in treating one of our friends—a VIP at that—this
rudely?" It was obvious that she was tipsy and enjoying her
demonstration of power in front of the whole group.
Sammy peered at her, expressionless. "With all due respect,
your friend was bothering my . . . was physically assaulting your
coworker here. She didn't seemed pleased with his attentions, so I
encouraged him to focus them elsewhere."
"Sammy? Is that your name?" she said nastily. "Avery Wainwright
is one of our closest friends, and I know for a fact that Bette
would never be uncomfortable around him. Shouldn't you be, like,
breaking up fights in the bathroom or telling all those bridge-andtunnel
kids lined up outside that they're not welcome here?"
"Elisa," I said quietly, unsure of what to say next. "He was just
doing his job. He thought I needed help."
"Why are you defending him, Bette? I'll see to it that his superiors
know he initiated an incident with one of our VIPs." She
turned to Sammy and held up an empty bottle of Grey Goose. "In
the meantime, make yourself useful and get us another bottle."
"Elisa, honey, she's defending him because she's fucking him,"
piped up a girl's voice from behind us. Abby. "At least that's my
guess. Philip, you can't be too psyched about that, now can you?
Your girlfriend's fucking the Bungalow bouncer. Hot stuff," she
laughed.
Philip chuckled, none too eager to engage me in a who'ssleeping-
with-whom tell-all. "She is not." He chuckled, stretching
his legs out on the glass table. "She may not be faithful to me, but I

don't think we have to accuse her of shagging the staff. Bette,
you're not shagging the staff, are you, love?"
"Sure she is." Abby giggled. "Hey, Elisa, why'd you never clue
me in on that one? It's so obvious—you must have known. I can't
believe I never saw it before."
It was like getting hit over the head with a shovel. Why'd you
never clue me in on that one? Everything became suddenly and
horribly clear. Abby knew where I was and who I was with at all
times because Elisa told her. It was that simple. End of story. The
only part I didn't quite understand was why Elisa would do that
in the first place. Abby wasn't so confusing: she was an all-around
nasty, vengeful, mean-spirited girl who would sell out her own
dying mother—or sleep with a friend's fiance—if it meant furthering
her career or her reputation by an inch. But why Elisa?
Elisa, having no idea what else to do, started to giggle and sip
her champagne. She glanced at me only once—long enough for me
to know it was true—and then looked away before I could say a
word about it. Avery had begun pleading again, and Sammy had
turned to walk back to the door with a disgusted look on his face.
Only Philip was either too drunk or too indifferent to really understand
what was happening. He persevered.
"Are you, babe? Are you having a romp with the bouncer?"
Philip prodded, absently playing with Abby's hair as she watched
me intently, a look of distinct pleasure on her face. It was only
then I wondered if he, too, had known about Elisa and Abby's little
alliance all along. Or worse—had he been involved with them,
looking for some public heterosexual confirmation himself? It was
too horrific to even imagine.
"Hmm, an interesting question, Philip," I said as loudly as I
dared. Avery, Elisa, Philip, Abby, and Sammy all turned to look at
me. "I think it's interesting that you're so fascinated with whether
or not I've had sex with 'the bouncer,' as you put it. It can't be because
you're jealous. After all, you and I have never progressed beyond
a wet and rather sloppy make-out."
Philip looked as though he might die. Everyone else looked
confused.

"What? Oh, come on now, people, please! You all know everything
about everyone, and you never even suspected that this selfproclaimed
God's gift to New York women actually prefers men?
Well, believe it."
Everyone started speaking at once.
"Yeah, right," Elisa said.
"Bette, love, why are you talking such rubbish?" Philip asked
with a calmness in his voice that didn't match his expression.
A shout from an unidentified floater came out over my headphones
that P. Diddy had just arrived unannounced, having come
from an earlier party somewhere nearby. Normally, this arrival
would have been cause for celebration; however, considering that
tonight an entourage of one hundred people joined him, it was a
disaster. Apparently, he was extremely unhappy that he'd been
kept waiting so long at the door, but since Sammy had been inside,
the second-in-command security guy hadn't wanted to make any
decisions. Did we tell him he couldn't come in because we were
already too crowded? Tell him he could choose ten friends and
have the VIP table of his choice, but the rest of his group had to
leave? Figure out how to toss out a hundred current partiers to accommodate
his crew? And who, exactly, was going to be the lucky
chosen conveyer of this news? No one was exactly jumping at the
chance.
Before we could get squared away on the Diddy disaster, one
of the interns called me with the news that high-profile boy-band
guests were in the process of being arrested for buying drugs in
the bathroom—the very same bathroom where one of New York's
finest had briefly stopped at the end of his shift doing crowd control
outside. The disturbing part of this information was obviously
not the incident itself but the fact that, according to the intern, it
was currently being captured by no fewer than five paparazzi—
pictures that would, of course, overshadow in the tabs all the good
stuff we'd hoped to promote.
The third call came from Leo. He informed me that somehow—
and no one knew how—the production company had miscalculated
during their ordering and had just run out of champagne.
"It's impossible. They knew how many people would be here.
They knew our main concern over liquor and beer was champagne.
Bunnies drink it. Girls drink it. Bankers drink it. The only
way to keep girls somewhere late is to give them champagne. It's
only twelve-thirty! What are we going to do?" I was screaming over
the decibel-crushing sound of an Ashlee Simpson song.
"I know, Bette, I'm on it. I sent a few of the bartenders out in
search of as many cases as they can find, but it's not going to be
easy at this time of night. They can buy a few bottles at liquor
stores, but I don't know where they're going to find mass quantities
now," Leo said.
"Bette, I need to know what you want me to do with, uh, with
our waiting VIP," the panicked floater at the door called over the
headphones. "He's getting restless."
"Bette, are you there?" My earpiece crackled and Kelly's voice
came booming through. She'd grabbed someone's headset again
and was beginning to piece together what was happening. The
usual nice boss lady was gone and she'd been replaced by a demonic
monster. "Are you aware that we have kids here getting arrested
on drug charges? People do not get ARRESTED at our
parties, do you hear me?"
She cut out for a moment, but then came through loud and
clear. "Bette! Can you hear me? I need you at this door pronto!
Everything's falling apart, and you're nowhere. Where the hell are
you?"
I watched as Elisa removed her headpiece—out of some deliberate
sabotage or just plain wastedness, I couldn't tell—and
flopped down next to Philip, where she began to vie with Abby for
his attention. Why fight when you can drink? I was just working up
the energy to deal with all the problems I cared so little about
when I heard one final comment.
"Hey, mate? Yeah, you right there." Philip, who was now
cradling Abby under one arm and Elisa under the other, was calling
out to Sammy. Avery sat babbling incoherently at his side.
"Yeah, man?" Sammy asked, still not quite sure Philip was addressing
him.
"Be a good chap and bring us a bottle of something. Girls,
what will we have? Bubbly? Or would you prefer some vodka
drinks?"
Sammy looked like he'd been slapped. "I'm not your waiter."
Apparently Philip found this hysterical because he convulsed
with laughter. "Just get us a drink, will you, mate? I'm less interested
in the details of how it happens."
I didn't wait to see if Sammy would hit him or ignore him or
retrieve the bottle of vodka. I wasn't thinking about much besides
how comfortable a bed would be right then and how little I cared
if P. Diddy brought one guest or a hundred or even showed up at
all. It occurred to me that I'd been spending nearly every minute of
every day and night with some of the worst people I'd ever met,
and I had nothing to show for it but a shoebox full of clippings
that humiliated not only me but also everyone I loved. As I stood
there watching a photographer snap away at a mugging Philip and
listened to even more problems ring out over the earpiece as
though they were huge international crises, I thought of Will and
Penelope and the book-club girls and my parents and, of course,
Sammy. And again, with a sense of calm I hadn't felt in many
months, I simply removed my headset, placed it on the table, and
said quietly to Elisa, "I'm finished."
I turned to Sammy and, not caring who heard what, said, "I'm
going home. If you want to stop by later, I would love to see you.
I'm at 145 East Twenty-eighth Street, apartment 1313- I'll wait for
you."
And before anyone could say anything, I turned away. I
walked across the dance floor, past a couple who appeared to be
having actual intercourse near the DJ, and straight on to the door,
where a horde of people seemed to be swaying with the music. I
saw Kelly out of the corner of my eye, and a few List Girls who
were flirting with some of P. Diddy's group, but I managed to slip
quietly past them and onto the sidewalk. The crowd there threatened
to overtake the street, and no one was paying any attention
to me. I made it halfway down the block without talking to anyone
and was just opening the door to the cab I'd hailed when I heard
Sammy call my name. He ran toward me and slammed the cab
door shut before I could get inside.
"Bette. Don't do this. I can handle myself in there. Go on, head
back inside, and we can talk about all this later."
I stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and raised my arm to hail
another cab. "I don't want to go back inside, Sammy. I want to go
home. I hope I'll see you later, but I've got to get out of here."
He opened his mouth to protest, but I got in the cab. "I can
handle myself, too," I said with a smile as I sat down. And I pulled
away from the entire surging nightmare.

31
By two-thirty in the morning, there was still no sign of Sammy.
My phone was ringing off the hook with calls from Kelly and
Philip and Aver)', but I ignored them all. I'd calmed down long
enough to draft a letter of apology to Kelly, and by three I'd come
to the conclusion that Elisa—unlike Abby—was not necessarily evil
and malicious, just very, very hungry. When four rolled around and
I still hadn't heard from Sammy, I began to fear the worst. I fell
asleep sometime around five and almost cried when I woke a couple
of hours later to no messages and no Sammy.
He finally called at eleven the next morning. I thought about
not answering the phone—decided that I wouldn't, actually—but
just seeing his name on the little screen was enough to demolish
my willpower.
"Hello?" I said. I was aiming for breeziness, but the noise that
came out sounded like it resulted from a lack of oxygen.
"Bette, it's Sammy. Is this a bad time?"
Well, that depends, I wanted to say. Are you calling to apologize
for last night, or at the very least to offer some explanation of
why you never came by? Because if that's the case, then this is the
best time imaginable—come on in so I can whip you up a fluffy
omelet and nib your sore shoulders and kiss you all over. However,
if you 're calling with even the slightest implication that something
might be wrong—with you, with me, or worst of all, with us—then
perhaps you should know that I'm very, ve>y busy right now.
"No, of course not. What's up?" That sounded laid-back and
unconcerned, right?
"I wanted to see how it all worked out last night. I was so wor-
ried about you—you just left in the middle of everything." He
made no mention of my invitation for him to come over, but the
concern in his voice more than made up for it. Just knowing he
was interested started me talking, and once I started, I couldn't
seem to stop.
"It was a shitty thing for me to just walk out of there in the
middle of everything—really immature and so unprofessional. I
should've stayed and seen the night through no matter how bad it
was. But it was like I wasn't even in my own body. I just left. And
I'm glad I did. Do you have any idea what happened last night?" I
asked.
"Not really, but I do know that I seriously dislike those people,
Bette. Why did that kid Avery have his hands all over you? What
was going on?"
And so I explained everything. I told him how I'd found Philip
and Leo together in Istanbul. I described the situation with
Abby/Ellie, and how she'd gotten all her information from Elisa. I
said that Elisa had seemed particularly competitive lately, and that I
knew she wanted Philip, but I was shocked that she would do that
to me. I told him all about Penelope and Avery, from their first
meeting until the day they got engaged, and then I told him I'd
found Avery making out with Abby. I confessed that I'd been skipping
dinners at Will and Simon's and canceling a fair number of
Sunday brunches because there always seemed to be something
more pressing to do. I told him that I hadn't returned even one of
Michael's phone calls asking to meet for a drink because I'd been
too busy and didn't really know what to say. I admitted that my
parents were so disappointed they could barely talk to me anymore,
and that I had virtually no idea what was going on in my
best friend's life. And I apologized to him for trying to hide or
deny that we had been together because I was thrilled about it, not
ashamed.
He listened and asked a few questions, but when I mentioned
him, he sighed. Bad sign. "Bette, I know you're not ashamed—I
know it has nothing to do with that. We both agreed it would be
best to keep this quiet considering our current situations. Don't be

so hard on yourself. You did the right thing last night. I'm the one
who should be apologizing."
I untied a plastic bag of Red Hots and poured some into my
hand. "What are you talking about? You were great last night."
"I should've punched that kid's face in," he said. "Plain and
simple."
"Which one? Avery?"
"Avery, Philip, what does it matter? It took every ounce of
willpower not to kill him."
This was the right thing for him to say, so why did my stomach
still feel like it was on the floor? Was it because I wondered how
worried he could have been that he didn't call for ten hours? Or
that I still hadn't heard him mention a word about us getting together?
Or maybe it was simpler, and I was just stressed about my
unexpected unemployment—the reality of looking for yet another
job was beginning to set in. I'd always known that banking wasn't
for me, but it was disconcerting to try an entirely different industry—
one that was undeniably more fun—and realize that 1 wasn't
cut out for that, either. As if on cue, Sammy asked what I might do
next, and I told him that Kelly had graciously offered me a few
freelance projects when I'd called to apologize that morning, but
she'd accepted my resignation without argument. I added that
maybe it was time to suck up my pride and join Will. As my mind
wandered, I realized I hadn't even asked what was happening with
his restaurant.
When I pointed this out, he was quiet for a moment before he
said, "I have some good news."
"You got it!" I shouted without thinking. Then I prayed for a
second before adding, much more tentatively, "Did you get it?"
"Yeah, I got it," he said, and I could hear his smile. "I turned in
the pitch and the menu proposals in under two weeks. The lawyer
said his clients were impressed. They chose me as their head chef,
and they bought a little space in the East Village."
I could barely speak from excitement, but he didn't seem to
notice.
"Yeah, it's all going to happen very quickly. Apparently, some

restaurant was all set to open, but the investors pulled out at the
last second. Some sort of corporate scandal that trickled down, I
think. Anyway, these silent investors stepped in and bought the
place on the cheap. They began looking for a chef immediately,
and they want to open as soon as possible. Can you believe it?"
"Congratulations!" I said with genuine enthusiasm. "That's so
amazing. I knew you could do it!" I meant it, of course, but the
moment the words were out of my mouth, my gut switched tracks
entirely. I hated myself for even thinking it, but this didn't sound
like good news for us.
"Thanks, Bette. That means a lot to me. I couldn't wait to tell
you."
Before I could even consider editing my words, I blurted, "But
what does this mean for us?"
There was a moment of awful, hideous, all-pervasive silence,
and yet I still didn't get it entirely. I knew we were meant to be together.
The obstacles were not insurmountable, just steppingstones
to a stronger relationship.
When he finally did speak, Sammy sounded defeated, and not
a little sad. "I'm going to be married to this project" was all he
managed to say, and the moment he uttered those words, I knew it
wasn't happening. "It" meaning "us."
"Of course," I said automatically. "This is the opportunity of a
lifetime."
It was at that point that a romance hero would say, "And so are
you, which is why I'm going to do everything in my power to
make this work," but Sammy didn't say that. Instead he spoke quietly.
"So much is timing, Bette. I have too much respect for you to
ask you to wait for me, although of course part of me hopes you
will."
Damn you! I thought. Just ask me to wait and I will, ask me to
understand that things will he difficult but that when this period is
over, we'll be happy and in love and together. Please stop with the
dreaded respect line—/ don't want you to respect me, I want you to
want me.
But I said none of this. Instead I wiped away the tears that

dropped to my chin and concentrated on keeping my voice steady.
When I finally did speak, I was proud of my composure and my
articulateness. "Sammy, I understand what an amazing chance this
is for you, and I couldn't be any more excited for you than I am
right now. You need to concentrate all your time and energy on
making this restaurant fantastic. I promise that I'm not mad or
upset or anything, just so incredibly happy for you. Go. Do what
you need to do. I just hope you'll invite me to dinner when your
place is inevitably the hottest restaurant in New York. Keep in
touch, okay? I'll miss you."
I placed the phone quietly on the receiver and stared at it for
nearly five full minutes before I really started to cry. He didn't call
back.
347
32
"Tell me again how my life will improve one day?" I said to
Penelope as we sat in my living room. I was stretched out on my
couch in full sweatpant mode, as I had been for nearly three and a
half months, with no genuine desire to ever again put on street
clothes.
"Oh, Bette, honey, of course it will. Just look how fabulously
my own life is shaping up!" she sang sarcastically.
"What's on tonight? Did you remember to TiVo last week's Desperate
Housewives?" I asked listlessly.
She threw down her copy of Marie Claire and glared at me.
"Bette, we watched it when it was on the actual television last Sunday.
Why would we need to TiVo it?"
"I wanna watch it again," I whined. "Come on, there's got to be
something decent to watch. What about Going Down in the Valley,
that porn documentary on HBO? Do we have that saved?"
Penelope just sighed.
"What about Real World?' I pulled myself upright and began
punching keys on the TiVo remote. "We've got to have at least one
shitty episode, even an old one. How can we not have any Real
Worlds?" I was nearly in tears by that point.
"Christ, Bette, you've got to get ahold of yourself. This is just
not okay anymore."
She was right, of course. I'd been wallowing for so long that it
had become standard. This period of unemployment didn't much
resemble my first one; there were no blissful mornings spent sleeping
in or exhilarating trips to the candy store or long walks exploring
new neighborhoods. I wasn't trying to find a job)—either

enthusiastically or halfheartedly—and I was currently supporting
myself (barely) by taking on some sympathy freelance factchecking
work from Will and a few of his associates. I tore through
it in my flannel bathrobe on my couch each morning, and then felt
perfectly justified in rotting the rest of the day. The fact that Penelope—
who had every reason to be in far worse shape than I—was
becoming more functional every day had begun to alarm me.
I hadn't heard from Sammy since our last conversation, the
morning after the Playboy party, which had been three months,
two weeks, and four days ago. Penelope had called minutes after
I'd hung up with Sammy to tell me that she'd just spoken to Avery
and "knew everything." Avery had called her during the party to
admit that he'd been really, really drunk and had "accidentally"
kissed a random girl. That morning she was upset but still making
excuses for him. Finally I'd worked up my nerve and told her the
full story. When she confronted him, Avery admitted he'd been
sleeping with Abby for some time, and that there'd been others as
well.
Penelope had then very calmly instructed the housekeeper
(who just so happened to be Avery's parents' engagement gift to
the happy couple) to pack all of her possessions and ship everything
back to New York. She booked two last-minute, first-class
plane tickets on Avery's credit card, called for the largest and most
luxurious stretch limo she could find, and proceeded to drink herself
into champagne oblivion in the first-class cabin while stretched
out across both seats. I'd met her at JFK and dragged her directly
to the Black Door, where I joined her in getting blind drunk. For
the first few weeks she stayed with her parents, who, to their
credit, did not once tell her to forgive him or take him back, and
when she couldn't take living at home anymore, she moved onto
my couch.
Finally together, we had been miserable, heartbroken, and unemployed,
and so were the perfect pair: we shared a bathroom,
multiple bottles of wine, and the rent, and we watched a horrifying
amount of exceptionally bad TV. Everything had been perfect until
Penelope had gotten a job. She'd announced last week that she'd
349
350 lauren weisberger
be reverse-commuting to a boutique hedge fund in Westchester,
and that she would be moving to her own place in two weeks. I'd
known our extended pajama party couldn't last forever, but I
couldn't help feeling a teeny bit betrayed. She was doing so well
that she even mentioned that the guy who'd interviewed her had
been really, really cute. It was now stunningly obvious: Penelope
was moving on, and I was destined to be a wretch forever.
"How long do you think I have to wait before I can go check
out the restaurant?" I asked for what must have been the thousandth
time.
"I've already told you, I'm happy to put on a disguise and
sneak in there with you. Very discreet—he doesn't even know me!
Healthy? Maybe not. But definitely a good time."
"Did you see the piece in The Wall Street Journal? They worship
the place. It calls Sammy one of the best new chefs of the last
five years."
"I know, honey, I know. That certainly seems to be the consensus,
doesn't it? Aren't you happy for him?"
"You have no idea," I whispered.
"What?"
"Nothing, nothing. Yes, of course I'm happy for him. I just wish
I was happy with him."
Sammy had opened his restaurant—a charming little Middle
Eastern fusion place that in no way resembled a franchise—two
months earlier, to little fanfare. I wouldn't have even known if Will
hadn't casually mentioned it at one of our Thursday-night dinners,
but from that moment on, I tracked every new development. At
first there hadn't been much information: a biography of the chef
and some details on the quick opening. Apparently, the adorable
twelve-table Italian joint on the Lower East Side had been the pet
project of a prominent former investment banker who'd been targeted
by Eliot Spitzer and ultimately sentenced to two to three
years in a federal prison. The guy had to liquidate his assets to pay
the massive fine to the SEC. Since the entire place had just been
gutted and renovated and the entire kitchen fitted to perfection,
Sammy could open for business almost immediately. At first there
350
E V E R Y O N E W 0 K T H K N O W ] N G 351
were some scattered customer reviews on various websites and a
small mention of the restaurant in a piece about neighborhood
gentrification. But then something happened: Sammy's restaurant
went from Neighborhood Solid to Citywide Spectacular in a matter
of weeks.
According to the most recent WSJ Lifestyle article, people in the
neighborhood went early and often, and Sammy was able to keep
the doors open while his menu came into its own. By the time
Frank Bruni went to review it for The New York Times, Sammy had
hit his stride. Bruni gave him three stars, virtually unheard of for an
unknown chef and his very first venture. The other New York papers
and magazines immediately followed with ecstatic reviews
of their own. New York magazine published a typically understated
article proclaiming Sevi "The Only Restaurant That Matters."
He'd gone from being a total unknown to New York's mustget-
reservations-or-die-a-horrible-death-in-C-list-purgatory restaurant.
The only catch with that was that Sammy didn't take reservations.
For anyone. Under any circumstances. According to every interview
I read of him—and trust me, I read them all—Sammy insisted
that everyone was welcome, but no one was getting any sort of
priority treatment. "I've spent so many years determining who's allowed
in and who's not, and I'm just not interested anymore. If
they want to eat here, whoever they are, they can come on down
like everyone else," he was quoted as saying. It was his one and
only requirement.
"But no one will go if they can't make a reservation!" I'd
shrieked to Penelope when I'd first read about it.
"What do you mean no one will go?" she'd asked.
"You have to have some horribly bitchy reservationist who insists
that there's nothing available for the next six months if they
want to eat after five or before midnight."
She laughed.
"I'm serious! I know these people! The only way anyone will
ever eat there is if he makes them believe they're not welcome.
The fastest way to fill those tables is to tell anyone who calls that
they're fully booked and then promptly raise all entrees by eight
351
352 lauren weisbcrger
dollars and all drinks by four. Hire waiters who think they're
above waiting tables and a hostess who looks all the guests up and
down disapprovingly as they arrive, and he'll have a chance." I
was only half-kidding, but it didn't much matter: his policy clearly
worked.
The review in The Wall Street Journal had gone on to describe
how the New York restaurant scene had lately been dominated by
a slew of high-profile restaurant openings and superstar chefs, how
there were five such restaurants in the glittering new Time Warner
Building alone. Somewhere along the way, people had grown
weary of all the pomp and circumstance. They longed for a wonderful
meal in a simple restaurant. And that was precisely what
Sammy's place offered. I was so proud of him, I nearly cried every
time I read a new write-up or heard someone mention it, which
was pretty damn frequently. I was dying to see it for myself, but I
couldn't deny that Sammy had most definitely not picked up the
phone to invite me.
"Here," she said, handing me my folder of delivery menus.
"Dinner's on me. Let's order something, and then maybe go get a
drink."
I stared at her as though she'd suggested spontaneously hopping
a flight to Bangladesh. "A drink? Outside? You're joking." I
flipped through the menus disinterestedly. "There's nothing to eat."
She snatched the folder out of my hands and pulled out a few
menus at random. "Nothing to eat? There's Chinese, burgers, sushi,
Thai, pizza, Indian, Vietnamese, deli, salad bar, Italian . . . that's
just these. Pick something, Bette. Pick it now."
"Seriously, Pen, whatever's good for you works for me."
I watched as she dialed someplace called Nawab and ordered
two chicken tikka masalas with basmati rice and two baskets of
chapati. She put the phone down and turned to me.
"Bette, I'm only going to ask you one last time: What do you
want to do this weekend?"
I sighed meaningfully and resumed my position on the couch.
"Pen, I don't care. It's not a big birthday. I already have to do the
book-club ritual, which is more than enough. I don't know why

you're so insistent that we need to do something—I'd much rather
just forget it's happening."
She snorted. "Yeah, right. Everyone says they don't care, and
everyone cares a lot. Why don't I put together a little dinner on
Saturday night? You, me, Michael, maybe a few people from UBS?
Some of the girls from your book club?"
"That sounds nice, Pen, it really does, but Will said something
about dinner on Saturday. We're going somewhere good, I can't remember
where. Want to come?"
We chatted until the food came and I managed to haul my
larger-by-the-minute butt off the couch to the little kitchen table for
chow time. As we spooned the thick, spicy chicken chunks onto
plates of rice, I thought about how I was going to miss Penelope.
It was a great distraction having her around, and more to the point,
things between us were finally back to normal. I watched her as
she waved her fork around to punctuate a funny story she was
telling, and then I stood up and hugged her.
"What was that for?" she asked.
"I'm just going to miss you, Pen. I'm going to miss you a whole
lot."

33
"Thanks, everyone. You guys really are the best," I said as I
hugged each person standing in the circle around me. During our
special birthday book-club sessions, we met to eat cake and do a
couple of group shots. My birthday cake was white chocolate
mousse, and the accompanying shot was an old-school lemon drop,
complete with sugar packets and sliced lemons. I was slightly buzzed
and feeling good after our mini-celebration, one that had concluded
with the presentation of a hundred-dollar Barnes & Noble gift card.
"Enjoy dinner tonight," Vika called after me. "Give us a ring if
you want to meet up after you leave your uncle's."
I nodded and waved and made my way downstairs. I was
thinking about how I'd have to start taking people up on offers
to go out again. It was only one in the afternoon, and I didn't
have to be at Will's until eight, so I settled in at a little table on
the patio at the Astor Place Starbucks with a vanilla latte and a
copy of the Post. Some habits die hard, so, as usual, I flipped to
Page Six and was stunned by what I saw: a large piece on Abby,
complete with a picture. It said that New York Scoop had just canceled
her "Ellie Insider" column and dismissed her for falsifying her
resume. Details were sketchy, but according to an unnamed
source, she'd listed herself as a graduate of Emory University when
she was, in fact, three credits shy of graduation. She did not actually
possess a B.A. I'd dialed Penelope before I'd finished reading
the piece.
"Ohmigod, have you read Page Six today? You must see it.
Now."
While I hadn't exactly forgotten about Abby, I hadn't made

good on my vow to ruin her life, either. She hadn't written another
word about me since the night of the Playboy party, but I didn't
know if that was because my threats had her worried or because
now that I no longer worked at Kelly & Company or dated Philip, I
didn't warrant any mention at all. There was also the possibility
that her affair with Avery had ended. Either way, I hadn't stopped
praying for her demise.
"Happy birthday, Bette!"
"Huh? Oh, yeah, thanks. But listen, have you seen the Post
yet?"
She laughed for a full minute, and I got the distinct feeling I
was missing something. "My gift to you, Bette. Happy twentyeighth!"
"What are you saying? I don't understand what's going on. Did
you have something to do with this?" I asked with such hopefulness
it was almost humiliating.
"You might say that," she said coyly.
"Pen! Tell me this instant what happened! This might just be
the best day of my life. Explain!"
"Okay, calm down. It was all very innocent, actually—it just
sort of fell into my lap."
"What did?"
"The information that our dear friend Abby is not a college
graduate."
"And how, exactly, did that happen?"
"Well, after my ex-fiance told me he was screwing her—"
"Correction, Pen. He told you he was screwing someone—I told
you he was screwing her," I added helpfully.
"Right. So anyway, after I found out they were screwing, I had
the inclination to write her a little letter and tell her what I
thought."
"What does this have to do with her not graduating?" I was too
eager for the dirt to endure the extraneous details.
"Bette, I'm getting there! I didn't want to email her because
there's always the potential that it'll get forwarded to a million people,
but her address in New York is unlisted—she must think she's

some kind of celebrity, and people would just beat down her door
to catch a glimpse of the star herself. I called New York Scoop, but
they wouldn't give it out. That's when it occurred to me to call
Emory."
"Okay, I'm following so far."
"I figured that as a fellow graduate, I'd have no trouble getting
her address from them. I called the alumni center and told them I
was looking for a classmate, that we'd lost touch but I wanted to
invite her to my wedding."
"Nice touch," I said.
"Thanks, I thought so. Anyway, they checked their records and
told me they had no one under that name. I'll save you all the gory
details, but basically a few more minutes of digging revealed that
while darling Abby matriculated with us, she didn't manage to
graduate with our class—or ever."
"Jesus. I think I see where this is going, and I could not be
more proud right now."
"Well, it gets better. I was on the phone with a girl at the registrar's
office. She swore me to secrecy and then told me that the
reason Abby withdrew three credits short was because the dean of
arts and sciences found out Abby was sleeping with her husband
and suggested that she withdraw immediately. We never knew because
Abby never told anyone; she just stuck around campus until
the rest of us graduated."
"Amazing," I breathed. "And yet not at all surprising."
"Yeah, well, it only took a few minutes from there to set up an
anonymous Hotmail account, let the good folks at New York Scoop
know that their star columnist wasn't a college graduate, and give
them a little clue as to why she'd departed without a degree. I
called their offices every day asking for her until I was told yesterday
that she was no longer with the paper, at which time I sent a
helpful little anonymous tip to Page Six as well."
"Ohmigod, Penelope, you evil bitch. I didn't think you had it in
you!"
"So, as I said before, happy birthday! I found out about it
months ago, when I wrote the letter, but I thought if I waited, it

would make a fine birthday present. Consider it my gift to you.
And myself," she added.
We hung up, and I was unabashedly elated, imagining Abby
walking the streets, panhandling, or—better yet—wearing a McDonald's
apron. When the phone rang again within seconds, I
snapped it open without looking first.
"What else?" I said, assuming it was Penelope calling back with
some forgotten juicy tidbit.
"Hello?" I heard a male voice say. "Bette?"
Ohmigod, it was Sammy. Sammy! Saaaaaaaammmmmy! I
wanted to sing and dance and scream his name to the entire coffee
shop.
"Hiiiii," I breathed, barely able to believe that the call I'd
waited nearly four months for—the call I'd willed to arrive—was finally
happening.
He laughed at my obvious joy. "It's good to hear your voice."
"Yours, too," I said much too quickly. "How have you been?"
"Good, good. I opened up a place, finally, and—"
"I know, I've been reading all about it. Congratulations! It's a
huge success, and I think that's just incredible!" I was dying to
know how he'd managed to put it together so quickly, but I
wasn't going to risk anything by asking a thousand annoying
questions.
"Yeah, thanks. So, look, I'm kind of racing around, but 1 just
wanted to call and—"
Oh. He had the tone of someone who'd moved on, most likely
had a new girlfriend who had a fulfilling job helping other
people . . . someone who didn't own a pair of tattered, stained
sweatpants but who always lounged around the apartment in the
cutest silk pajama sets. Someone who—
" . . . and see if you'll have dinner with me tonight?"
I waited to make sure I'd heard him right, but neither of us
ended up saying anything. "Dinner?" I tentatively ventured.
"Tonight?"
"You probably have plans, don't you? I'm sorry to call at the
last minute, I just—"
"No, no plans," I shouted before he could change his mind. No
chance of playing it cool, either, but suddenly that didn't seem to
matter. I hadn't missed a brunch or a Thursday dinner since I'd quit
Kelly & Company, so Will would just have to understand about
tonight. "I can totally have dinner."
I could hear him smiling through the phone. "Great. Why don't
I swing by your place around seven? We can have a drink in your
neighborhood, and then I'd like to bring you by the restaurant. If
that sounds okay . . ."
"Okay? That sounds perfect, just perfect," I gushed. "Seven? I'll
see you then." And I snapped my phone shut before I could say
one word to fuck it up. Fate. It was absolutely, positively, undeniably
fate that had inspired Sammy to call on my birthday: a sign
that we were, most definitely, destined to be together forever. I
was debating whether or not to tell him that I turned twenty-eight
that day when it occurred to me that I was going to see him that
night.
My preparations were frenzied. I called Will from the cab on
my way home, begging his forgiveness, but he merely laughed and
told me that he'd happily take a rain check if it meant I was finally
going out with a boy. I raced into the corner nail place for a
quickie manicure and pedicure and then threw in a ten-dollar, tenminute
chair massage to try to relax. Penelope took charge of stylist
duties and assembled multiple outfit pieces, including three
dresses and an intricately beaded tank top, two pairs of shoes, four
bags, and her entire stash of jewelry, which had recently been supplemented
by her parents in an attempt to cajole her out of mourning.
She dropped them off and left, planning to spend the night
with Michael and Megu and wait for an update from me. I tried
things on and discarded them, frantically straightened the apartment,
danced to Pat Benatar's "We Belong" with Millington in my
arms, and, finally, sat demurely on the couch and waited for
Sammy's arrival exactly one hour before he was due.
When Seamus rang my buzzer, I thought I might cease breathing.
Sammy arrived at my door a moment later. He had never
looked so good. He was wearing some sort of shirt/jacket/no-tie
combo that came across as stylish and sophisticated without trying
too hard, and I noticed that he'd let his hair grow to that perfect
length that wasn't really short or long—Hugh Grant-ish, if I had to
explain it. He smelled both soapy and minty when he leaned forward
to kiss my cheek, and had I not been death-gripping the
door frame, I would've surely collapsed.
"It's really great to see you, Bette," he said, taking my hand
and leading me toward the elevator. I walked effortlessly in my
borrowed D&G sandals and felt pretty and feminine in a skirt
that skimmed my knees and a summerweight cashmere cardigan
that revealed just the right amount of cleavage. It was just like
all the Harlequins always said it was: even though it had been
months since we'd last seen each other, it felt like not a single
day had passed.
"You, too," I managed, content to just gaze at his profile all
night.
He led me to a charming neighborhood wine bar three blocks
west, where we settled into a back table and immediately began
talking. I was delighted to see that he hadn't really changed at all.
"Tell me how you've been," he said, sipping from the glass of
Syrah he'd expertly ordered. "What have you been up to?"
"No, no, no way. I'm not the one with the hugely exciting
news," I said. Well, isn't that the understatement of the century? I
thought. "I think I've read pretty much every word they've written
about you, and it all sounds so fantastic!"
"Yeah, well, I got lucky. Really lucky." He coughed and looked
slightly uncomfortable. "Bette, I, ah, I've got something to tell you."
Oh, Christ. There was no possible way that was a good sign,
none whatsoever. I chided myself for my premature enthusiasm,
for thinking that the fact that Sammy had called—and on my birthday,
no less—meant anything more than he was just being friendly
and making good on a promise between old friends. It was those
goddamn Harlequins—they were the problem. I vowed to quit
those miserable things: because they just made it too easy to maintain
totally unreasonable expectations. I mean, Dominick or Enrique
never said "I've got something to tell you" before asking the

woman of their dreams to marry them. Those were clearly the
words of a man about to announce that he was in love—just
not with me. I didn't think I could handle even a whiff of bad
news.
"Oh, really?" I managed to say, folding my arms across my
chest in an unconscious attempt to brace myself for the news.
"What's that?"
Another strange look crossed his face, and then we were interrupted
by the waiter placing the check in front of Sammy. "Sorry to
rush you out, guys, but we're closing now for a private party. I'll
take this as soon as you're ready."
I wanted to scream. Hearing that Sammy was in love with a
swimsuit model cum Mother Teresa was going to be hard
enough—did I really have to wait to hear the news? Apparently
yes. I waited as Sammy rooted around in his wallet for the exact
amount and then waited again while he went to the men's room.
More waiting for a cab outside, and then another wait while
Sammy and the cabbie discussed the best route to Sevi. We were
finally on our way to his restaurant, but there was another wait
when Sammy apologized profusely but proceeded to answer his
cell phone. He murmured a bit and made some "uh-huh" noises,
and at one point he said yes, but otherwise he was vague, and
I knew in the pit of my stomach that he was talking to her.
When he finally clicked off his phone, I turned to him, stared
him right in the eye, and said, "What did you have to tell me
before?"
"I know this is going to sound weird—and I swear I only found
out myself a couple days ago—but remember how I told you
about those silent investors?"
Hmm. This wasn't sounding like a declaration of love for another
woman—positive development, to be sure.
"Yeah. They were looking to back the next hot young chef or
something, right? You had to pitch some ideas and menus?"
"Exactly." He nodded. "Well, the thing is, I sort of have you to
thank for this."
I looked at him adoringly, waiting for him to tell me that I was
his inspiration, his encouragement, his muse, but what he said next
didn't really have anything to do with me.
"I feel weird being the one to tell you, but they insisted it
happen this way. The investors who backed me are Will and
Simon."
"What?" I whipped around to look at him. "My Will and
Simon?"
He nodded and took my hand. "You really didn't know, did
you? I thought you may have convinced them somehow, but they
insisted you had no idea. I only recently found out, too. I hadn't
even seen them since they came to brunch at Gramercy Tavern
months ago."
I was so stunned I could barely speak, and yet the only information
that seemed to process was what I hadn't heard: so far,
Sammy wasn't telling me he was hopelessly, passionately in love
with someone else.
"I don't know what to say."
"Say you're not mad," he said, leaning closer to me.
"Mad? Why would I be mad? I'm so happy for you! I don't
know why Will didn't tell me. I guess I'll get the entire story at
brunch on Sunday."
"Right. He said that, too, actually."
There wasn't time for me to process this new development,
since the cab reached the Lower East Side in record time. As soon
as we pulled up I recognized the tiny awning from the pictures
in the paper. Just as Sammy slammed the car door, I noticed a
well-dressed couple examining the sign posted outside. They
turned to us and with great disappointment said, "Looks like
they're closed tonight for some reason," before turning to find
somewhere else to eat.
I looked at him quizzically, but he just smiled. "I have a surprise
for you," he murmured.
"A private tour?" I asked with such hope in my voice that it was
almost embarrassing.
He nodded. "Yes. I wanted tonight to be extra-special. I closed
down so we could be alone. I hope you don't mind that I'll have
to be in the kitchen for a few minutes," he said. "I've planned a
special Sevi menu just for tonight."
"You have? I can't wait. What does Sevi mean, by the way? I
don't think I've read that anywhere."
He took my hand and smiled at me before looking at his feet.
"It means love in Turkish," he said.
I thought I might pass out from happiness. Instead I concentrated
on putting one foot squarely in front of the other. I followed
him into the darkened dining room and tried to adjust my eyes, but
a moment later he'd found the lights and I could see everything.
Or, rather, everyone.
"Surprise!" came the shouts. There was a cacophonous call of
"Happy birthday," and I realized I knew every single face that
stared back at me.
"Ohmigod" was all I uttered.
The small tables had been pushed together to form a single
long one in the middle of the room; all my friends and family had
been installed around it and were waving and calling out to me.
"Oh. My. God."
"Come here, sit down," Sammy said, taking my hand once
again and leading me to the head of the table. I hugged and kissed
everyone on the way to my seat and then flopped into my designated
chair, at which point Penelope placed a cardboard tiara on
my head and said something embarrassing along the lines of
"You're our heroine tonight."
"Happy birthday, honey!" my mom said, leaning over to kiss
me on the cheek. "Your father and I wouldn't have missed this for
the world." She smelled faintly of incense and was wearing a beautiful
hand-knit poncho that had surely been made from dye-free
wool. My father sat next to her, his hair carefully arranged in a neat
ponytail, his best pair of Naots proudly on display.
I looked down the table and saw everyone assembled: Penelope
and her mom, who was delighted Penelope was in-the-know
enough to get them into the new hot place; Michael and Megu,
both of whom had specially requested the night off to come celebrate
with me; Kelly and Henry, the guy she'd been with at the
Playboy party; all the book-club girls, each clutching what appeared
to be wrapped copies of new paperbacks; and, of course,
Simon, who'd swathed himself in what seemed like a surplus of
linen, and Will, who was throwing back his namesake martini (I
learned later that Sammy had named the house drink The Will) at
the foot of the table, directly across from me.
After repeated shouts of "Speech, speech," I managed to pull
myself out of my seat and say a few awkward words. Almost immediately,
a waiter brought out bottles of champagne, and we all
toasted my birthday and Sammy's success. And then dinner began
in earnest. Heaping platters of food emerged from the kitchen on
the shoulders of waiters, all steaming and deliciously aromatic and
placed in front of us with great flourish. I watched as Sammy sat
across the table, looked up at me, and winked. He began talking
to Alex, pointing to her nose piercing and saying something that
made her laugh. I watched them for a moment in between bites
of a delicious cumin-and-dill-spiced lamb dish, and then let my
eyes wander around the table: everyone was chattering happily
while they passed the dishes around and refilled one another's
champagne glasses. I heard my parents introducing themselves to
Kelly while Courtney told Penelope's mom about our book club
and Simon told jokes to Michael and Megu.
I was just sitting there, drinking it all in, when Will pulled a
chair up next to mine. "Pretty special night, no?" he asked the moment
he sat. "Were you surprised?"
"Totally surprised! Will, how could you not have told me that
you and Simon were the ones behind this whole project? I'm not
sure I know how to thank you."
"You don't have to thank me, darling. We didn't do it for you,
or even really for Sammy, although I am quite fond of him. You'd
mentioned that he cooked brunch every Sunday at Gramercy Tavern,
and it piqued our curiosity. Simon and I paid him a visit
there months ago, and I have to say, we were absolutely blown
away. The boy is a genius! Not only that, but he must listen when
you talk because the entire meal was utter perfection: the Bloody
Mary was served exactly how I like it, with an extra dash of
Tabasco and two limes. A copy of The New York Times was on
the table and already open to the Sunday Styles section. And there
were no potatoes to be seen. None! I've been brunching at the
Essex House for decades now, and they still can't get it quite
right. We couldn't stop talking about it, and we decided we'd better
snap him up before someone else did. Looks like we were
right, doesn't it?"
"You went to brunch at Gramercy Tavern? Just to see Sammy?"
Will folded his hands and raised his eyebrows at me. "Darling,
you were clearly smitten with this boy in a very substantial manner—
that much was obvious. Simon and I were curious! We certainly
weren't expecting to be so impressed with his skills—that
was a bonus. When I asked him that day about his future plans
and he began rambling on about something called a 'Houston's,' I
knew we had to step in and save him from himself."
"Yeah, he'd mentioned in Turkey that he and a few guys from
culinary school were thinking about opening something like it on
the Upper East Side," I said.
Will gasped audibly and nodded. "I know. How dreadful! That
boy is not meant for franchise work. I told the lawyer that I'd put
up all the money, but Sammy would do all the work. Except for a
standing table, I wanted to be consulted not at all. Better than the
goddamn government getting it, don't you agree? Besides, I was
looking for something different to throw myself into; I've decided
to retire the column."
Well, that one shook me. In a night of surprises, this might
have been the most shocking of them all. "You're what? Are you
serious? Why now? How many years has it been, a hundred? The
entire world reads your column, Will! What'll happen to it?"
He sipped his martini and looked thoughtful. "So many questions,
darling, so many questions. It's not that fascinating a story,
really. It's simply time. I don't need New York Scoop to tell me that
my column is a relic at this point. 1 had a great run for many, many
years, but it's time to try something new."
"I can understand that," I said finally. Somehow I knew it was
the right decision. But Will had been writing that column since be-
fore I was born, and it was disconcerting to think that it would
simply cease to exist.
"However, I'll have you know that I've spoken with my editor—
mere child that he is—and have received assurances that there
will always be a place for you there, should you choose to pursue
it. Now, I don't want to harp on this, Bette, but I think it's something
you should consider. You're a wonderful writer, and I don't
know why you haven't done anything with it. Just say the word
and we can have you in there, first as a researcher and then, hopefully,
in a sort of apprentice reporting position."
"I've actually thought about that, too," I said, saying what I'd
sworn to keep to myself until I'd had a chance to think it through a
bit longer. "I do want to try some writing. . . ."
"Excellent! I was hoping you'd say that. Frankly, I think it's
long overdue, but certainly better late than never. I'll call him
tonight and . . ."
"No, not like that, Will. You're going to hate this—"
"Oh, dear God, please don't tell me that you want to cover
weddings for the Sunday Styles section or some such nonsense.
Please."
"Worse," I said, more for effect than because I believed it. "I
want to write a romance novel. In fact, I've already got an outline,
and I don't think it's half bad." I braced myself for the verbal barrage,
but surprisingly, it never came.
Instead he peered at me as though he were searching my face
for some answer and just nodded. "Maybe it's all these Will martinis,
but 1 think that makes perfect sense, darling." He leaned in
and kissed my cheek.
Romance novels—it was true. Since Turkey and the luxe world
Kelly & Company had introduced me to, I'd been imagining a starcrossed
pair of characters and the events that would bring them together.
One could say I was drawing from experience, or from
fantasy, but it felt good either way. And it was the first thing I'd felt
good about in a long time. Until tonight.
I was preparing to tell my parents my plans when my cell
phone rang. How odd, I thought. Every single person I know is sit-
ting in this room. I reached into my bag to switch it off, but I
couldn't help noticing that it was Elisa calling from her cell phone.
Elisa, who I hadn't seen or spoken to since the Playboy party, the
very same person who, for whatever reason—a malnourished
brain, some weird obsession with Philip, or perhaps just for
sport—had spoon-fed information about me to Abby for months. I
was simply too curious. I walked into the kitchen.
"Hello? Elisa?" I said into the phone.
"Bette, are you there? Listen, I've got the greatest news!"
"Really? What's that?" I asked, pleased to hear that I sounded
cool and aloof and supremely disinterested, exactly as I intended.
"Well, I remember you had some, uh, some connection to that
Bungalow bouncer who opened Sevi, right?"
She was pretending not to remember Sammy's name, as usual,
but I was no longer interested in correcting her. "Yeah, that's right.
I'm actually at Sevi right now," I said.
"You're there? You're at the restaurant now? Ohmigod, that's
just too perfect! Listen, I just got word that Lindsay Lohan has a
layover in New York for one night on her way from LA to London—
you know we're repping Von Dutch now, and she's their
new spokeswoman, right?—and guess what? She wants to eat at
Sevi tonight! Insisted on it, actually. I'm picking her up from the
Mandarin Oriental now. I'm not sure how many she has with her,
but it shouldn't be more than a half-dozen. We'll be there in thirty
minutes, maybe an hour. Tell your chef friend to go VIP all the
way with tonight's menu, okay? Bette, this will be such great press
for him!" She was breathless with excitement.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't consider telling Sammy. It would
be great press—the fastest way to guarantee mentions in the few
remaining national magazines that hadn't yet discovered him. But I
peeked through the window in the kitchen door and saw Sammy
placing a cake in the center of the table. It was a huge, rectangular
thing with giant gobs of whipped cream and colored icing, and
when I leaned in to get a better look, 1 saw that the cover of Tall,
Dark, and Cajun had been airbrushed on in perfect detail. Everyone
was laughing and pointing and asking Will where I'd gone.

The split-second window of Lindsay Lohan potential slammed
shut and I said, "Thanks but no thanks, Elisa. He's closed for a private
event tonight."
I hung up before she could protest and rejoined the table. It
wasn't even a lie, I thought to myself as I looked around. This just
had to he the party of the season.




Acknowledgments:

Three people in particular must be thanked for sticking with me on
this project:
The only editor worth knowing, Marysue Rucci, who is the
master of a hundred elegant and subtle ways of saying "this sucks."
David Rosenthal, my publisher, whose Rolodex and dinner parties
keep me from ordering in seven nights a week.
Deborah Schneider, my amazing agent. She handles the logistical
details of my career so I'm free to write the important literature
of our time.
Tremendous thanks also to Hanley Baxter, Aileen Boyle,
Gretchen Braun, Britt Carlson, Jane Cha, Deborah Darrock, Nick
Dewar, Lynne Drew, Wendy Finerman, Cathy Gleason, Tracey
Guest, Maxine Hitchcock, Helen Johnstone, Juan Carlos Maciques,
Diana Mackay, Victoria Meyer, Tara Parsons, Carolyn Reidy, Jack
Romanos, Charles Salzberg, Vivienne Schuster, Jackie Seow, Peggy
Siegal, Shari Smiley, Ludmilla Suvorova, and Kyle White.
And of course, a huge thanks to my parents, Cheryl and Steve,
and my sister, Dana. I could have never written such a masterpiece
without you.
*** While all of the characters in this book are imaginary, the inspiration
for Millington the Yorkshire Terrier is actually Mitzy the Maltese.


About the author:

LAUREN WEISBERGER graduated from Cornell University. Her
first novel, The Devil Wears Prada, was on the New York Times
hardcover best-seller list for six months. It has been published in
thirty countries. Weisberger lives in New York City.
































Helena 3/26/08