Everyone Worth Knowing. Lauren Weisberger

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СКАЧАТЬ did he know that I’d taken to drinking alone. Not in that desperate, solitary, ‘I must drink to deal, and if I happen to have no company, well then, so be it’ sort of way, but in the liberated ‘I’m an adult and if I’d like a glass of wine or a sip of champagne or four shots of vodka straight up’ way, well then, why the hell not? I pretended to consider his offer before saying, ‘How about a martini?’

      Uncle Will swooped in at that moment and, as he usually did, charged the air with an energy that was immediate and intense. ‘Ab fab!’ he announced, stealing the phrase from his sneaked sessions of BBC-watching, which he relentlessly denied. ‘Simon, make our little banker-no-longer an extra-dry martini with Grey Goose and three olives. I’ll have my usual. Darling! I’m so proud of you!’

      ‘Really?’ He hadn’t sounded too thrilled when he’d left me a message earlier that day, ordering me to be at the apartment that night for drinks. (‘Bette, darling, your little game is up. I just spoke to the terrified little mouse who now claims to occupy your cubicle, which makes me wonder what, exactly, you’re doing at this moment. Highlights, I’m hoping? Perhaps you’ve taken a lover. I’ll expect you tonight at six on the dot so you may provide us with all the gory details. Plan on accompanying us to a little dinner party afterward at Elaine’s.’ Click.)

      ‘Darling, of course I am! You finally left that dreadful bank. You are an absolutely intoxicating creature, so fascinating, so fabulous, and I think that dreary job of yours was suppressing it all.’ He placed his huge, well-manicured hands around my middle and almost shrieked. ‘What is this I see? A waist? By God, Simon, the girl’s got her figure back. Christ, you look like you’ve spent the last few weeks getting lipoed in all the right places. Welcome back, darling!’ He raised one of the martinis that Simon had made for all of us (Will was no longer permitted to make the drinks because of his notoriously heavy-handed pouring) and simultaneously removed the charcoal wool hat he’d been wearing since before I was born.

      Simon smiled and raised his glass as well, clinking ours lightly so as not to splash any of the precious liquid. I, of course, wasn’t so careful and slightly soaked my jeans in the boozy mixture. I would’ve licked it off the denim directly had I been alone. Ahem.

      ‘There,’ Will announced. ‘It’s official. So what will be next? Writing for a magazine? A stint in fashion, perhaps? I hear Vogue is hiring right now.’

      ‘Oh, come on.’ I sighed, resenting being made to think about it at all. ‘Vogue? You think I’m in any way equipped or qualified to work for that editor in chief – what’s her name?’

      Simon chimed in here. ‘Anna Wintour. And no on both counts.’

      ‘No? Well, what about Bazaar, then?’ Will asked.

      ‘Will …’ I looked down at my scuffed, ugly flats and back at him again. I might have graduated from Birkenstocks and pigtail braids, but I was still fully entrenched in the post-college Ann Taylor work wardrobe.

      ‘Oh, stop your whining, darling. You’ll find something. Remember, you’re always welcome to join me, you know. If you get truly desperate, that is.’ Will had been mentioning this as delicately as possible since I was in high school, the offhand comment about how much fun it would be to work together, or how I had natural talent as a researcher and a writer. My parents had saved every essay I’d ever written and sent copies to Will, who had sent me a huge flower arrangement my sophomore year when I’d declared myself an English major. The card had read TO THE FUTURE COLUMNIST OF THE FAMILY. He mentioned often how he’d love to show me the ropes because he thought it’d be something I could really get into. And I didn’t doubt that part. It was only that recently his columns had become more like conservative rants and less like the society-and-entertainment commentary readers had been slavishly devoted to for years. He was a master at this very specific genre, never bothering to cover outright gossip but also never taking himself too seriously. At least until recently, when he’d written a thousand words on why the United Nations was the devil incarnate (A summary: ‘Why, in this age of super-technology, do all those diplomats in New York City need to physically be here, taking up all the best parking places and the best tables at restaurants, adding to the non-English-speaking environment in the city? Why can’t they just email their votes from their respective countries? Why should we have to deal with gridlock and security nightmares when no one listens to them anyway? And if they absolutely refuse to work electronically from their home countries, why don’t we move the whole production to Lincoln, Nebraska, and see if they’re all still dying to come here to better the world?’) Part of me would love to learn his business, but it just seemed too easy. Hey, what luck! Your uncle is a famous, highly syndicated columnist, and you just happen to work for him. He had a small staff of researchers and assistants who I knew would resent the hell out of me if I stepped in and started writing right away. I was also worried about ruining a good thing: since Will was my only family nearby, a dear friend, and soon to be my entire social life now that Penelope was getting married, it didn’t seem like the best idea to work together all day.

      ‘According to my ex-boss, I haven’t yet mastered the ideals put forth in a single quote of the day. I’m not sure that’s someone you’d want working for you.’

      ‘Puh-lease! You’d be better than those kids in my office who pretend to be fact-checking while they’re updating their nerve.com profiles with seductive pictures and grotesquely unoriginal come-ons.’ He snorted. ‘I applaud a complete and utter lack of work ethic, you know. How else could I write such trash every day?’ He finished his drink with an appreciative swallow and pushed himself off the leather divan. ‘Just something to consider, is all. Now, let’s go. We’ve got a dinner party to oversee.’

      I sighed. ‘Okay, but I can’t stay the entire time. I’ve got book club tonight.’

      ‘Really, darling? That sounds like it borders on social. What are you reading?’

      I thought quickly and blurted out the first socially acceptable title that came to mind. ‘Moby-Dick.’

      Simon turned and stared at me. ‘You’re reading Moby-Dick? Are you serious?’

      ‘Of course she’s not.’ Will laughed. ‘She’s reading Passion and Pain in Pennsylvania, or something to that effect. Can’t quite kick the habit, can you, darling?’

      ‘You don’t understand, Will.’ I turned to face Simon. ‘No matter how many times I’ve explained it to him, he refuses to understand.’

      ‘Understand what, exactly? How my lovely and highly intelligent English-major niece not only reads but obsesses over romance novels? You’re right, darling, I can’t understand.’

      I stared at my feet, feigning unfathomable shame. ‘The Very Bad Boy is brand new … and highly anticipated. I’m hardly alone – it’s one of the most preordered books on Amazon and had a mailing delay of three weeks after publication!’

      Will looked at Simon, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Darling, I just don’t understand why. Why?’

      Why? Why? How could I ever answer that question? It was something I’d asked myself a million times. It had started innocently enough, with the discovery of an abandoned copy of Hot and Heavy in the back pocket of a plane seat during a flight from Poughkeepsie to Washington, D.C. I was thirteen and old enough to sense that I should hide it from my parents, which I did. The damn thing was so good that I claimed a sore throat when we got to the hotel and begged out of the NARAL march they were both attending so I could finish reading it. I learned to recognize romance novels instantly, ferreting out the right library shelves in seconds, slipping them off the wire turn-carts at the bookstore and СКАЧАТЬ