Everyone Worth Knowing (50 page)

I'm sure she'll tell us
all
about it at the next meeting. Speaking

of which, what's on deck?"

Alex held up a copy of
We Taming of the Dark Lord,
tilted so

only we could see it, and said, "I nominate this."

"Done," I said. "We'll read that for next time. Thanks for coming,

guys."

"Oh, no, thank
you,"
Janie said as I hugged everyone goodbye.

"Can't wait to hear about this one," Jill whispered.

When they'd all gone, I turned my attention back to the drunk

Englishman on my couch. "Coffee or tea?"

"Gin and tonic sounds ab fab, love. I'd fancy a little nightcap

right about now."

I put the teakettle on and sat down on the chair opposite him,

unable to get any closer because the stench of alcohol was overwhelming.

It was emanating from his pores in that special way

guys have when they've been drinking all night, enveloping everything

within a five-foot radius in that distinctive frat-boy-freshmanyear-

floor stench. He still managed to look adorable, though. His

tan was so solid it wouldn't allow him to look as green as he

probably should, and his spiky hair was mussed in the most perfect

way.

"So where were you tonight?" I asked.

"Oh, here and there, love, here and there. Bloody reporter following

me around all night with her bloody cameraman. 1 told

them to bugger off, but I think they followed me here," he mumbled,

reaching out for Millington, who glanced at him, growled,

and bolted. "Come over, pup. Come on and say hello to Philip.

What's wrong with your dog, love?"

"Oh, she's always been particularly wary of tall, drunk Brits wearing

Gucci loafers without socks. Honestly, it's nothing personal."

For some reason, he thought this was hysterically funny and

nearly rolled off the couch in fits of laughter. "Well, then, if not her,

then why don't you come over here and give me a proper greeting?"

The kettle howled as I walked to the stove to pour our tea. I

caught a glimpse of Millington cowering on the floor of the dark

bathroom, shaking slightly.

"Love, you really shouldn't have gone to so much trouble," he

called, sounding slightly more coherent.

"It's tea, Philip. It's just boiling water."

"No, love, I meant your clothing choice. Seriously, I'd shag you

no matter what you were wearing." He collapsed into another

laughing fit and I wondered how it was possible for someone to

be so clever.

I placed a mug in front of him, and he pinched my ass in return.

"Philip." I sighed.

He placed his hands around my hips with surprising strength

and pulled me onto his lap.

"Everyone thinks you're my girlfriend, love." He was slurring

again.

"Yeah, weird, isn't it? Especially since we've never actually

been, ah, intimate."

"You don't go banging on about that, do you?" he asked

quickly, looking alert for the first time since he'd walked in.

"Banging on about what?"

"Come closer, doll. Kiss me."

"I'm right here, Philip," I said, breathing through my mouth.

He slid his hand under my T-shirt and started stroking my

back. It felt so nice that I managed to forget for a split second that

it was a drunk Philip doing it and not Sammy. Without thinking, I

wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my mouth to his. I

didn't immediately realize that he'd opened his own mouth to

protest, not to kiss me back.

"Whoa, love, try to keep your knickers on." He pulled back in

shock and looked at me like I'd just torn off all my clothes and

jumped on him.

"What's the problem? What?" I asked. I refused to let him off

the hook this time—I had to know once and for all that it wasn't

my imagination or some half-assed excuse. I wanted confirmation

that, for whatever reason, he would rather die than touch me.

"Of course I fancy you, love. Where's that G and T? Why don't

I tuck into that for a moment, and then we can talk?"

I climbed off him and retrieved a bottle of Stella Artois from

the fridge. I'd bought it a year ago because I'd read in
Glamour

that you should always keep a cool beer in the fridge in case an

actual guy ever materializes in your apartment, and I silently applauded

the good folks on their editorial staff. By the time I'd returned,

however, Philip appeared to be unconscious.

"Philip. Hey, look, I have a beer for you."

"Argh." He groaned, his eyes fluttering, a telltale sign that he

was faking it.

"Come on, get up already. You may be drunk, but you're not

asleep. Why don't I put you in a cab?"

"Mmm. I'm just going to have a little sleep, love. Argh." He

swung his loafered feet onto my couch with surprising agility and

hugged an accent pillow to his chest.

It was just after two when I threw a blanket on the snoring

Philip, retrieved Millington from the space between the bathtub

and the sink, and tucked us both under the covers without bothering

to undress or turn off the lights.

23

The day had finally arrived: we were set to leave that evening

for Turkey. I'd arrived at the office to collect a few last-minute

things, only to find a fax from Will. The cover sheet simply read

"Ugh," and attached was a clipping from New York Scoop. The

headline read: is
MANHATTAN'S FAVORITE PARTY BOY GAY OR JUST CONFUSED?

Byline: Ellie Insider, obviously. Knowing who she was made

it even worse. The text laid it out in no uncertain terms:

Philip Weston, heir to the Weston fortune and member of the

British Brat Pack in New York, raised eyebrows last week when he

was spotted at the Roxy, the notoriously flamboyant Chelsea nightclub.

Weston, who has been linked in the press to various
Vogue

fashion editors, Brazilian models, and Hollywood starlets, was

spotted snuggling with an unidentified male in the club's MP

room, sources say. WJjen Weston apparently realized that he'd

been sighted, he hastily Vespaed to the home of his current fling,

Bettina Robinson, an associate at Kelly & Company (see sidebar).

Weston's publicist refused to comment.

See sidebar. See sidebar. See sidebar.
I read those two words

nearly a dozen times before I could bring myself to glance to the

right. Sure enough, there was a picture of me, snapped at Bungalow

8 the very first night I'd met Philip, pressed against him suggestively,

my head thrown back in obvious ecstasy while I

appeared to be literally pouring champagne down my throat,

seemingly unaware of either the camera or Philip's hands cupping

my ass. If I'd needed any proof of how trashed I'd been that night

aside from the blackout, well, this was it. Headline:
WHO IS BETTINA

ROBINSON?
Byline: Ellie Insider. Inside the one-column, page-length

box was a bulleted list of my biographical details, including the

date and place of my birth (thankfully, it merely read "New Mexico"),

schools, degrees, position at UBS, and relationship to Will,

who was described as "the controversial national columnist whose

readership catered exclusively to the white, rich, and over-50

crowd." It was a nightmare, naturally, but so far it was accurate. It

wasn't until my eyes forced their way to the bottom paragraph that

I thought I might vomit. Abby had found someone to go on record

as saying that I'd "certainly been well-acquainted with many guys'

beds as an undergrad at Emory" and that there had been "accusations

of academic integrity issues, but no one knew for sure."

Someone else was quoted as describing how 1 had "been plotting

to take over Kelly
&
Company" even though I had no previous PR

experience. When asked by Abby to elaborate, the "source" merely

intimated that "everyone knew she never actually wrote her own

papers and was known for 'cozying up' to her male TAs in the

classes she found particularly challenging, which, if I must say,

were probably most of them." The final sentence of the short paragraph

implied that I'd aggressively pursued Philip from the moment

I'd met him in order to become a boldfaced name myself and

further my new career.

My first reaction, of course, was to hunt Abby down and subject

her to a creatively torturous death, but it was difficult to consider

any particulars because I was having trouble breathing. I

gasped quite dramatically for a few moments. In some weird way I

appreciated Abby's self-awareness: if she had just attributed all

those things to herself instead of to me, I would have applauded

her honesty. But this insight was brief, vanishing the moment Kelly

appeared at the doorway of her office, clutching a copy of the

paper and grinning so maniacally that I instinctively backed away

in my rolling chair.

"Bette! You saw it, right? You read it, didn't you?" she asked

frantically, rushing toward me with all the grace and enthusiasm of

a linebacker.

She interpreted my dulled reaction time as a denial and literally

threw the paper on my desk. "Didn't you at least read the Dirt

Alert?" she shrieked. "The girls called me at home this morning to

tell me about this one."

"Kelly, I, uh, I'm just sick about this—"

"You minx! Here I was this whole time thinking you were this

good little worker bee, slaving away at a bank, living a decidedly

unfabulous life, and now I find out that you're a secret party girl?

Bette, seriously, I can't tell you what a shock this is. We'd all had

you pegged as, well, as a little reserved, shall we say—no offense,

of course. I just didn't think you had it in you. God only knows

where you've been hiding the last couple years. Do you realize

you're a full
sidebar'?
Here, read it."

"I've read it," I said numbly, no longer shocked that Kelly was

delighted instead of horrified at such coverage. "You know none of

that stuff is true, don't you? You see, the girl who wrote that actually

went to school with me and she—"

"Bette, you're a sidebar. Say it after me. Sidebar. In New York

Scoop! There's a huge picture of you, and you look like a rock star.

You
are
a star, Bette. Congratulations! This
so
calls for a celebration!"

Kelly scampered off, presumably to plan an early-morning

champagne toast, while I was left to consider the possibility of

simply flying to Istanbul and staying there forever. Within minutes

my phone was ringing off the hook with all sorts of unsavory calls,

each hideous in its own special way. My father called immediately

to announce that even though they were home on winter break,

one of his students had emailed the article to him; this was followed

by my mother saying she'd overheard some volunteers at