Everyone Worth Knowing. Lauren Weisberger
conversation.
‘Good? It’s fantastic! Now there’s a man who gets it! Anyone who can poke a little fun at Hillary Clinton is a friend of mine! I thought I was the only person in this whole city who voted for George W., but your uncle assures me I’m not.’
‘Mmm. I suppose that’s true.’ I headed toward the elevator, but he was still going.
‘Any chance he’ll be coming ’round to visit you anytime soon? Would just love to tell him in person how much—’
‘I’ll definitely let you know,’ I called as the elevator doors finally shut him out. I shook my head, remembering my uncle’s one visit to my building and the way Seamus had fallen all over himself when he recognized Will’s name. It was upsetting, to say the least, that Seamus personified my uncle’s target demographic.
Millington nearly collapsed in paroxysms of joy when I opened the door, even more excited than usual now that I’d returned to working all day. Poor Millington. No walk for you tonight, I thought as I gave her a perfunctory scratch on the head and settled down to read Will’s latest rants. She scampered off to use her Wee-Wee Pad, realizing immediately that she wasn’t leaving the apartment today, either, and then jumped onto my chest to read with me.
Just as I was settling in with my folder of takeout menus, my cell phone vibrated across my coffee table like a wind-up toy. I debated whether or not to answer it. The cell phone was company-issued and, much like my new colleagues, didn’t ever seem to rest. I’d been out the last three nights, attending events the company had put on, following Kelly as she did everything from consulting with clients to firing slow bartenders, hosting VIPs, and arranging for press passes. The hours were even more grueling than at the bank – a whole day of office work followed by a full night out – but the office buzzed with young, pretty people, and if one has to spend fifteen hours a day at work, I thought I might prefer DJs or champagne cocktails to diversified portfolios.
TXT MESSAGE! appeared on my color screen. Text message? I’d never before received a message or sent one. After a moment’s hesitation, I looked at the screen and hit Read.
din 2nite @ 9? cip dwntn on w.broad. c u there.
What was that? Some sort of cryptic dinner invitation, for sure, but where and with whom? The only clue to its origin was a 917 number I didn’t recognize. I dialed it and a breathless girl answered immediately.
‘Hey, Bette! What’s up? You in for tonight?’ the voice said, crushing my hope that the person had simply dialed the wrong number.
‘Uh, hi. Um, who is this?’
‘Bette! It’s Elisa. We’ve only worked together twenty-four/seven for the past week! We’re all going out tonight to celebrate being done with the Candace party. It’ll be the usual crew. See you at nine?’
I’d planned to meet Penelope at the Black Door since I’d barely seen her during my unemployment hibernation, but I didn’t see how I could turn down my first social invitation from my new colleagues.
‘Uh, yeah, sure, that sounds great. What was the name of that restaurant again?’
‘Cipriani Downtown?’ she asked, sounding a bit incredulous that I wasn’t able to deduce as much from her earlier shorthand. ‘You’ve been, right?’
‘Of course. I love it there. Do you mind if I bring a friend? I had plans already and—’
‘Fab! See you both in a couple hours!’ she screeched and hung up.
I snapped my phone shut and did what every New Yorker does instinctively upon hearing the name of a restaurant: I checked Zagat. Twenty-one for food, twenty for decor, and a still respectable eighteen for service. And it wasn’t a one-word name like Koi or Butter or Lotus, which might seem innocuous but almost always guaranteed an exceptionally horrid time. So far, everything looked promising.
‘To see or be seen is never the question’ at this SoHo Northern Italian where watching Eurobabes ‘air kissing’ and ‘pretending to eat their salads’ is more to the point than the surprisingly good ‘creative’ fare; natives may ‘feel like foreigners in their own country,’ but the high ratings speak for themselves.
Ah, so it was going to be another Eurobabe night. Whatever that meant. And more to the point, what was I supposed to wear? Elisa and crew seemed to rotate between black pants, black skirts, and black dresses at work, so it was probably safe to stick with the formula. I dialed Penelope at the bank.
‘Hey, it’s me. What’s up?’
‘Ugh. You are so unbelievably lucky that you left this wretched sweatshop. Is Kelly looking to hire anyone else?’
‘Yeah, I wish. But listen – what do you think about meeting everyone tonight?’
‘Everyone?’
‘Well, not everyone, just my immediate work group. I know we had plans, but since we always go to the Black Door, I thought it might be fun to go to dinner with them. Are you up for it?’
‘Sure,’ she said, sounding too tired to move. ‘Avery’s going out with a bunch of friends from high school tonight and I was just so not interested. Dinner sounds fun. Where is it?’
‘Cipriani Downtown. Have you been?’
‘No, but my mother talks about it obsessively. She’s been dying for me to become a regular.’
‘Should I be upset that your mother and my uncle seem to know every cool place in the city, and we’re completely clueless?’
‘Welcome to my life.’ She sighed. ‘Avery’s the same way – he knows everyone and everything. I just can’t be bothered. The effort required for mere maintenance is too exhausting. But tonight will be fun. I’d like to meet people who plan parties for a living. And the food’s supposed to be great.’
‘Well, I’m not sure that’s a huge selling point with this crowd. I’ve spent forty hours with Elisa this week and haven’t seen her eat a thing. She seems to subsist solely on cigarettes and Diet Coke.’
‘Hot-girl diet, huh? Good for her. You’ve got to admire that level of commitment.’ Penelope sighed again. ‘I’m headed home in a few. Want to share a cab downtown?’
‘Perfect. I’ll pick you up at the corner of Fourteenth and Fifth a little before nine. I’ll call when I get in the cab,’ I said.
‘Sounds good. I’ll wait outside. Bye.’
I headed for my closet. After some discards and retries, I settled on a pair of tight black pants and a plain black tank top. I extracted some decently high heels, bought during a shopping trip in SoHo, and took the time to blow out the exceedingly thick black hair I inherited from my mother – the kind that everyone thinks they want until they realize it barely fits in a ponytail and instantly adds thirty minutes to any preparation time. I even attempted some makeup, which got put to use so infrequently that the mascara wand was all clumpy and a few of the lipsticks were stuck inside their tubes. No matter! I thought, singing along to Mike & the Mechanics’ ‘The Living Years’ as I worked on my face … this was even kind of fun. I had to admit, the end results were worth the extra effort: my love handles no longer bulged over the waistline of my pants, my boobs had retained their chubby-girl fullness even though the rest of me had shrunk, and the mascara I’d haphazardly brushed across my lashes had accidentally smeared to perfection, giving my somewhat bland gray eyes a sexy, smoldering look.
Penelope was waiting outside at exactly ten to nine, and we were deposited at our requested address right on time. There were a ton of restaurants on West Broadway, and everyone seemed to be clustered at outdoor tables looking exceedingly well-scrubbed and unnervingly happy. We had a little trouble finding the place because the restaurant management had neglected to post a sign. Perhaps it’s an issue of practicality; since the shelf life of most New York hot spots is under six months, it actually leaves one less thing to remove when they close. Luckily, I remembered the street number from