Everyone Worth Knowing (12 page)

"Planning parties?"

"Darling, she does a lot more than just plan parties. She

chitchats with club owners and trades on gossip she has about

other people's clients to the columnists so they'll write good things

about her own clients and sends gifts to celebrities to convince

them to attend her events so the press will as well—all the while

looking very pretty when she goes out every night. Yes, the more I

think about it, the more I'd like to see you in event-planning. How

does that sound?"

"I don't know," I said. "I was thinking it might be good to do

something, uh, you know, something sort of . . ."

"Meaningful?" he offered, pronouncing the word the same way

one might say "murderous."

"Well, yeah. I mean, not like that, not like the parents," I mumbled.

"But I do have a meeting at the Meals on Wheels headquarters

tomorrow. Just a change of pace, you know?"

He was quiet for a moment and I knew he was weighing his

words carefully. "Darling, that sounds lovely, of course. It's always

sweet to make the world a better place. However, I would be remiss

if I didn't remind you that rerouting your career path in that

direction puts you at risk of falling back into your Patchouli Rut.

You remember what that was like, don't you, darling?"

I sighed. "I know, I know. It just seemed like it might be interesting."

"Well, I can't necessarily say that planning parties would be as

interesting as helping the needy, but it would be a hell of a lot

more fun. And that, darling, is not a crime. Kelly's company is

new, but easily one of the best—boutique-y, very impressive client

list, and a great place to meet all sorts of wildly shallow and selfinvolved

people and get the hell out of that hole in which you've

recently sequestered yourself. Are you interested?"

"I don't know. Can I think about it?"

"Of course you may, darling. I'll give you twenty-four hours to

debate all the pros and cons of accepting a job where you can

party for a living. I expect you'll make the right decision." He

clicked down the receiver before I could say another word.

I went to sleep late that night and spent the entire next day

procrastinating. I played with the puppies at the pet shop on the

corner, made a pit stop at Dylan's Candy Bar, and alphabetized

the paperbacks visible in my apartment. Admittedly, I was curious

what the job would entail. There was a part of it that seemed

really appealing, the chance to meet some new people and not

sit at a desk all day long. Years of banking had taught me to be

very good with details, and decades of Will-prompted socializing

had ensured I could pretty much talk to anyone about anything—

and actually seem interested, even if I was crying with boredom

inside. I always felt a little awkward, a bit out of place, but I could

keep my mouth moving at all costs, which went a long way toward

making people think I had some social skills. And of course,

the mere thought of printing more resumes and pleading for interviews

sounded significantly more dreadful than organizing parties.

All of this, combined with the fact that my checking account

had just dipped below the minimum required amount, made PR

sound like a dream.

I called Will.

"Okay. I'll write to Kelly and ask for some more information

about what it entails. Can you just give me her email address?"

Will snorted. "Her what?" He refused to buy so much as an answering

machine, so a computer was definitely out of the question.

He typed all his columns on a clanking typewriter and had one of

his assistants key it into Microsoft Word. When it came time for

him to edit, he'd stand over her shoulder, press his finger to the

computer screen, and command her to delete, add, and expand

the text as he watched.

"The special computer address where I can write her an electronic

letter," I said slowly.

"You're adorable, you really are. Bette, don't be ridiculous.

Why would you need that? I'll have her call you to set a starting

date."

"Don't you think we're getting a little ahead of ourselves, Will?

It might be better if I sent her a resume first, and then if she likes

it, we can take it from there. That's how it usually works, you

know."

"Yes, I've heard that," he said, sounding more and more disinterested.

"Time wasting at its best. You'd be perfect for the job because

you've honed those banking skills—detail-oriented, anal-retentive,

deadline-adherent. And I know she's a great girl because she used to

be my assistant. I'll just give her a little call and let her know how

lucky she'd be to have you. Not a thing to worry about, my dear."

"I didn't know she was your assistant!" I said, mentally trying to

calculate Kelly's age.

"Indeed. I had her straight out of college. Hired her as a favor

to her father. Best thing I ever did—she was bright and motivated

and got me organized, and I, in turn, trained her from scratch. She

went on to work at
People
and then switched to PR. She'll welcome

you aboard. Trust me."

"Okay," I said with not a little hesitation. "If you think so."

"I know so, darling. Consider it done. I'll have her call you to

discuss the details, but I anticipate no problems whatsoever. As

long as you edit that wardrobe of yours to eliminate all skirt suits—

and anything that looks like a skirt suit—I think everything will be

just fine."

6

Kelly herself was waiting in the building's lobby and embraced

me like a long-lost friend when I arrived for my first day as instructed,

at exactly nine A.M.

"Bette, honey, we're so happy to have you with us!" she

breathed, casting a quick glance over my outfit. A fleeting, wideeyed

look—not quite panic, closer to distress—passed over her

face before she fixed on a broad smile and led me by the hand to

the elevator.

I'd had the good sense to avoid a full suit, but it wasn't until I'd

caught a quick glimpse of everyone else's attire that I realized I still

hadn't calculated correctly. Apparently my notion of business casual

(cuffed charcoal gray pants, baby blue Oxford shirt, and understated

low heels) differed slightly from that of the rest of the

staff at Kelly & Company. The office was a sprawling downtown

space with floor-to-ceiling windows that afforded views all the way

down to Wall Street and west to New Jersey, giving it a decidedly

loft-like feel. Around a large circular table sat a half-dozen people;

each and every one, without exception, possessed unnervingly

good looks and wore all black. The most malnourished-looking of

the girls called out to Kelly, "Page Six for comment on prenup

trend, line two," and Kelly motioned for me to take a seat before

reaching up and adjusting what looked like a very tiny earpiece. A

second later she was greeting someone on the other line with giggles

and compliments while pacing the length of the southernfacing

windows. I sat next to the super-skinny girl and turned to

introduce myself but found myself staring at her hand, one finger

of which pointed upward in a clear sign that I should wait. It was

then that I noticed that each person around the table was chatting

enthusiastically at the exact same time, although it didn't appear

that they were talking to each other. It took me another moment to

see that they all had tiny wireless phones tucked into their ears. I

didn't know then that in a few short weeks I would feel completely

naked—exposed!—without that phone constantly attached to the

side of my face . . . right then it just looked weird. The girl nodded

gravely a few times and glanced in my direction, muttering something

indecipherable. I politely looked away and waited for someone

to notice me.

"Hello? Hello? What did you say your name was?" I heard her

ask as I surveyed the rest of the group. It was a surprisingly even

split between guys and girls, their primary commonality being the

level of almost-disturbing attractiveness among them. I was beginning

to stare when I felt a tap on my back.

"Hey," the skinny one said. "What's your name?"

"Me?" 1 dumbly asked, convinced she was still on the phone.

She laughed. Not nicely. "Who else's name do you think I don't

know here? I'm Elisa." The hand she held out was ice-cold and

very, very thin. I watched a diamond right-hand ring swing around

her emaciated middle finger in little loops before I remembered to

respond.

"Oh, hi. I'm Bette. Bette Robinson. It's my first day."

"Yeah, I heard. Well, welcome aboard. Kelly's not likely to get

off that call anytime soon, so why don't I introduce you around?"

She worked her wavy reddish-blond hair into a messy topknot and

secured it from underneath with a claw clip. A few strands in front

fell out and she tucked them behind her ear. She felt to make sure

that the hair was sprouting just so from the clip in that cool, casual

way I always tried to achieve but could never manage, and then

she stuck a pair of oversized black plastic sunglasses on her head

to hold everything together. I could see from the silver G's that

they were Gucci. She was effortlessly chic, and I had the feeling I

could simply watch her forever.

Elisa walked to the far end of the table and flicked the light

switch three times in quick succession. Immediately I heard a cho-

rus of voices announcing to their headsets that a very important

person was calling for them on the other line, and could they call

back in just a few moments? Almost simultaneously, six manicured

hands reached toward six ears and removed six earpieces, and

within seconds, Elisa had commanded the complete attention of

the entire room without saying a word.

"Hey, everyone, this is Bette Robinson. She'll be working primarily

with Leo and me, so try not to give her a hard time, okay?"

Nods all around.

"Hi," I said, my voice sounding squeaky.

"That's Skye," Elisa started, pointing at an edgy-looking girl in

dark indigo jeans, a tight, long-sleeved black T-shirt, a two-inchthick

leather belt with a massive jeweled buckle, and the most fabulous

pair of broken-in cowboy boots I'd ever seen. She was pretty

enough to pull off her ultra-boyish short haircut, which only complemented

her curvy, feminine figure. Again, I just wanted to sit

and stare, but I managed to say hello, and Skye returned my greeting

with an enigmatic smile. "Skye's working on the Kooba bag account

right now," Elisa said before turning her pointing finger on

the next person. "That's Leo, the other senior person besides me.

And now you," she added in a tone I couldn't quite identify.

"Hi, honey, nice to meet you," Leo said, standing up from his

chair to kiss me on the cheek. "Always glad to have another pretty