Lauren Weisberger 3-Book Collection: Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont. Lauren Weisberger

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      They snickered, obviously accustomed to the routine of Philip escorting strange women out of his apartment, and silently pulled open the door. It wasn’t until we stepped outside that I had any idea where we were: Christopher and Greenwich, all the way west, about a block from the river. The famous Archives building.

      ‘Where do you live?’ he asked, pulling a silver helmet out from underneath the seat of a Vespa, which was resting under a monogrammed tarp three feet from the building’s entrance.

      ‘Murray Hill. Is that okay?’

      He laughed, not nicely. ‘I don’t know, you tell me. I sure wouldn’t clamor to live in Murray Hill, but hey, whatever turns you on.’

      ‘I meant,’ I said tightly, no longer even attempting to keep up with his psycho-style mood swings, ‘is it okay for you to drop me off? I can certainly take a cab.’

      ‘Whatever you want, love. No worries for me. My office is midtown east, so you’re right on the way.’ He occupied himself by fishing his keys from his pants pocket and securing his Hermès bag to the back of the bike. Scooter. ‘Let’s just get a move on, okay? People are needing me right now.’ He swung his legs over the bike and deigned to look my way. ‘So?’

      I was momentarily speechless, until he actually snapped his fingers. ‘C’mon, sweetheart, decision time here. Ride or not? It’s not so difficult. You sure didn’t seem this indecisive last night. …’

      I’ve always harbored the classic girl fantasy of having a real reason to slap some jerk across the face, and the opportunity had just presented itself in Technicolor. But I was dumbfounded by the finger snapping and the suggestion that something actually had happened last night, so I just turned my back and began walking down the block.

      He called out, sounding almost worried, ‘You don’t have to be so sensitive, love. I was just kidding around. Absolutely nothing went down last night. Not you, not me. …’ I heard him chuckle at his own cleverness, but I just kept walking.

      ‘Fine. Be that way. I don’t have time for the drama right now, but I’ll track you down. Seriously, it’s not often a woman can resist my charms, so consider me duly intrigued. Leave your number with my doorman and I’ll give you a call.’ The Vespa’s engine caught and he sped away, and although I’d just been insulted and abandoned, I still felt like I’d somehow won … if he was telling the truth, of course, and I actually hadn’t slept with him in a wasted stupor.

      The victory lasted all of forty minutes, during which time I jumped in a cab, raced home, took a washcloth-bath in the bathroom sink, and applied copious amounts of deodorant to my underarms, baby powder to my scalp, and scented moisturizer everywhere else. I raced around the apartment looking for clean clothes and wondered how I would ever manage to be a good mother when I couldn’t even remember to care for my own dog. Millington was sulking in the corner under the coffee table, punishing me for abandoning her the previous evening. She’d also peed on my pillow for good measure, but there wasn’t time to clean it up. I managed to wedge between the throngs of commuters and arrive at the office at exactly one minute after nine. I was fantasizing about devouring the only known hangover cure, a large street coffee and bacon, egg, and cheese on a buttered roll, when Elisa motioned me over. She’d saved a space near the sunniest window and appeared to be quite eager to talk to me.

      The office was a giant rectangle, surrounded on all sides by sleek leather couches and sitting areas. There weren’t technically individual desks, just two giant, half-moon-shaped tables that formed a circle with two small breaks where the half-moons didn’t quite meet, allowing access to the shared faxes and printers in the middle. We each had our own laptop that we could either lock in the closet or take home at night, and workspace was doled out on a first-come-first-served basis every morning. We all scrambled to sit in the two or three spots around the circle where Kelly couldn’t see your computer screen from her office, and Elisa had managed to snag a few feet of prime space. I dropped my laptop on the table and very carefully removed the coffee from its paper bag, taking care not to spill a single golden drop. Elisa was practically panting.

      ‘Oh, Bette, sit the hell down already. Tell me everything, I can barely stand it.’

      ‘Tell you what? I had a great time last night. Thanks for inviting me.’

      ‘Shut up!’ she was squealing, which appeared to be her only method of communication. ‘How was …’ Pause. Deep breath. ‘Philippe?’

      ‘Philippe? Don’t you mean Philip? He sure didn’t seem French to me.’

      ‘Oh, God, you are truly missing the point. He’s absolutely fabulous, don’t you think?’

      ‘Actually, I thought he was kind of a jerk,’ I said, which was partially true. This also made him tremendously intriguing, of course, but it didn’t seem necessary to admit that.

      Elisa inhaled sharply and fixed her gaze on my face. ‘What did you say?’ she whispered.

      ‘I said, I thought—’

      ‘I heard you.’ She was nearly growling now. ‘I just can’t imagine why you’d say something like that. You sure looked like you were having fun when you were all over him on the dance floor. He’s pretty good, huh? Who said practice doesn’t make perfect?’

      She very well could’ve still been talking about dancing, but something in her expression, now dreamy and slightly far-off, indicated otherwise.

      ‘Elisa, what do you mean?’

      ‘Oh, Bette, come on! This is Philip Weston we’re talking about here.’

      ‘And that should mean something to me?’

      ‘Ohmigod, Bette, this is so humiliating for you. Are you serious? You have no idea who he is?’ She began ticking things off on her fingers, one by one. ‘Graduate of Eton and Oxford, with a law degree from Yale? Youngest lawyer ever to be named partner at Simpson Thacher? Grandfather is a duke; father owns the majority of land between London and Manchester, with additional large chunks in Edinburgh? Trust fund large enough to rival the country’s national debt? Ex-boyfriend of Gwyneth, current boy toy of multiple Victoria’s Secret models, and crowned “Nightlife Adonis” by none other than Vanity Fair. Any of this ringing any bells?’ She was almost panting at this point.

      ‘Not really,’ I said, trying to synthesize everything she’d said while the sound of blood rushed through my ears. A duke? Gwyneth??

      ‘It’s so ironic,’ she mumbled to herself. ‘Every girl on the planet makes it her lifelong goal to have sex with Philip Weston and you go and do it without even knowing who he is? It’s almost too much.’

      ‘Have sex with him? What?’ If by ‘having sex’ you mean ‘listening as he fires the maid for gross neglect of $4,000 sheets,’ then yes, we had a mind-blowing night.

      ‘Bette! Give up the “I’m so innocent” routine. We all saw you last night!’

      At that exact moment, it was impossible to comprehend anything other than the fact that the same man who used to have sex with Gwyneth Paltrow had not only seen me naked, but had also witnessed period underwear, unshaved legs, and a viciously overgrown bikini line.

      ‘Nothing happened,’ I muttered, wondering how quickly I could pack my bags, change my name, and move to Bhutan.

      ‘Riiiiight.’ СКАЧАТЬ