Автор: Lauren Weisberger
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
isbn: 9780007518777
isbn:
Why explain that even though we only chatted briefly at these events, he always seemed to throw his arm around my shoulders (or put his hand on my ass or his drink in front of my chest or his mouth on my neck) precisely when a photographer happened to stroll by? It appeared to anyone who was watching that we were inseparable, but what got labeled as ‘lots of hot-and-heavy canoodling’ was about as sexual as my nightly cuddles with Millington. Why, I wondered, would anyone possibly want to hear all of that?
I knew the answer. Because he was the It Boy du jour, and I was making out with him.
‘He is cute, isn’t he?’ I asked. Philip Weston might be one of the more arrogant guys I’d ever met, but it was ridiculous to deny that I was absurdly attracted to him.
‘Um, yeah. And let’s not overlook the fact that he’s the most perfect Harlequin guy you could imagine existing in real life.’ Courtney sighed. ‘I think I’m going to model the hero of my next novel after him.’
‘After Philip?’ It was difficult to envision any leading Harlequin man whining and bitching about his thread count, but I supposed the genre could use some updating for the new millennium.
‘Bette! He’s tall, handsome, and powerful. He’s even foreign, for Christ’s sake,’ she pointed out while waving a copy of Sweet Savage Love and pointing to the hulking man in a loincloth on the cover. ‘And better looking than Dominick, which is remarkable when you consider that Dominick is drawn to look as gorgeous as humanly possible.’
The girl had a point. Philip fit the ideal of the romantic hero more closely than any guy I’d met before – except for that small, nagging little problem of his personality.
I spent the rest of book club distracted, dreamily wondering if I’d see Philip later at the after-party and what might happen.
I ducked out of the meeting early and changed before heading to Duvet. Where, of course, the first person I saw upon walking inside was Mr Weston himself.
‘Bette, love, come say hello to a few mates visiting from England,’ he said, planting a brief but admittedly delicious kiss directly on my lips.
I couldn’t help it; I looked over my shoulder. I had promised myself I’d be more aware of the photographers, but I saw nothing unusual, just the regular beautiful writhing masses.
‘Hi,’ I said, noticing (a) he looked even more like fictional Dominick when he was standing in front of me, and (b) Courtney was right: Philip was better-looking. ‘Can I meet you over there in a minute? I’ve got to find Kelly and make sure everything’s okay.’
‘Sure, love. Will you bring me a cocktail when you come back? That’d be smashing!’ And he scampered off to play with his friends, as happy as a little boy at the playground.
I managed to check in with Kelly, ask Leo and Skye if they needed anything, wave to Elisa as she made out with Davide, introduce myself to two potential clients (the much-worshipped designer Alvin Valley and someone who Kelly described to me as ‘the most sought-after stylist in Hollywood’), and bring Philip a gin and tonic, all in less than an hour. So much for what might happen with Philip. He was busy entertaining his ‘blokes.’ The dull headache I’d managed to ignore since morning had suddenly become sharper, and I knew it couldn’t be another late night. I slipped out the door shortly thereafter and was home by twelve-fifteen (a solid fifteen minutes ahead of schedule) and unconscious by twelve-thirty, after deciding that silly nighttime rituals like teeth-brushing and face-washing could easily be neglected. When my alarm went off six and a half hours later, I was not looking good.
I grabbed the Dirt Alert before rushing out and read it as I inhaled a large coffee and a buttered cinnamon-raisin bagel on the subway. Unsurprisingly, New York Scoop was the first clipping of the day’s packet and, again, there was a huge picture – a close-up, actually – of Philip kissing me the night before. Only the back of his head was visible, but somehow the camera had zoomed in on my face and caught me with some sort of faraway, dreamy look caused by my eyes being only partially open while they gazed adoringly at him. Or drunkenly, depending on how one might interpret my half-blink. I probably should have expected it, but since I’d never even spotted a camera, the full-page photo made me physically recoil. That day’s scoop was extra memorable. As predicted, I’d graduated from being ‘Philip’s gal pal’ and ‘the new girl’ and ‘party girl’ and ‘PR maven-in-training’ to warranting my own identity. Right there, under the picture – just in case there was anyone left in New York State who didn’t know my whereabouts at all times – was my name, spelled in big, bold letters, and a caption that read: APPARENTLY, SHE’S HERE TO STAY … BETTINA ROBINSON KNOWS HOW TO PARTY. The feeling was a weird mixture of embarrassment at having anyone see me in such a state, indignation at the misrepresentation of it all, and a faint but persistent misery at the realization that I no longer had anything remotely resembling privacy.
The walk from the subway to the office felt six miles longer than the actual three blocks it was, and it was made incrementally worse when I overheard two perfect strangers talking about Philip’s ‘new girlfriend, what’s her name?’
By the time I’d dropped my laptop bag on the circular table, the entire staff had surrounded me.
‘I suppose you’ve all seen it already?’ I asked no one in particular, flopping into a leather work chair.
‘It’s really nothing we don’t already know,’ Kelly pointed out, sounding disappointed. ‘It just says here that one Mr Philip Weston has been seen so frequently in the company of one Ms. Bettina Robinson that it would only be fair to consider them an item.’
‘An item?’ I asked, incredulous. In my horror at seeing the picture and the caption, I’d simply forgotten to read the accompanying text.
‘Oh, yes, it says here that an unnamed source claims that the two of you spend nearly every night together, after partying at all the hot spots like Bungalow and Marquee.’
‘We are not dating,’ I insisted.
‘The pictures are right here, Bette. And it very much appears that you are, thank God.’ Kelly turned her twenty-inch flat-screen Mac monitor toward the group so we could all enjoy the photos of Philip and me.
My personal and professional lives had become not only intertwined but completely dependent on one another. Any idiot could see that my connection with Philip had made me an accepted part of the team with a swiftness that made my head hurt.
‘Well, it’s just that dating is kind of a strong word,’ I said awkwardly. Why did no one understand?
‘Well, whatever you’re doing, Bette, just keep on doing it. Do you know we’ve been hired to represent BlackBerry solely because you’re dating Mr Weston?’
Solely? I thought.
‘Surprise, Bette! We got a call from their internal PR company just this morning. They want us to introduce their new BlackBerry to New York’s younger set, and picked us because we clearly have access to that world. BlackBerry’s already huge, of СКАЧАТЬ