Lauren Weisberger 3-Book Collection: Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont

‘You seemed to like him enough,’ I said, remembering how warmly she’d embraced him.

‘What else am I supposed to do? It’s all part of the deal. Such a waste of a face. Do you know him?’

‘No. He was pretty hostile to me at Penelope’s engagement party a few weeks ago. Made me wait outside forever. I know I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t place him.’

‘Hmm,’ she murmured, sounding less interested with every passing second. ‘Let’s get a drink.’

For one of the hottest clubs in the country, it still didn’t look all that major. The whole place was one rectangular room, with a bar at the far end and about eight tables with banquette seats along each side. People were dancing down the middle of the room while others congregated at the bar, and only the high all-glass ceiling and rows of palm trees made me feel that we were somewhere a touch exotic.

‘Hey, guys, over here,’ called Leo, who was tucked into a couch in the far left corner, just as Elisa had requested. A hidden DJ was blasting 50 Cent, and I noticed that Skye had already settled onto some guy’s lap and was grinding rhythmically to the music. There was a sort of minibar set up on their table with scattered bottles of Veuve Clicquot, Ketel One, and Tanqueray. Carafes of orange, grapefruit, and cranberry juice were provided for mixers, as well as a couple bottles of tonic and sparkling water. Penelope had mentioned the prohibitive cost of her party, so I knew that we were paying many hundreds of dollars a bottle.

‘What can I make you to drink?’ Leo asked, coming up behind me.

I wasn’t risking another uncool drink order, so I just asked for a glass of champagne.

‘Coming right up,’ he said. ‘C’mon, let’s dance. Skye, you coming?’

Leo stood, but in the last six minutes Skye had progressed to a full-fledged make-out with the random guy she was straddling. We didn’t wait for an answer.

The crowd was almost uniformly beautiful. Everyone fell into a ten-year age range, from mid-twenties to mid-thirties, and they’d all obviously been there before. The women were tall and thin and completely comfortable baring wide expanses of thighs and ample décolletage in a decidedly untacky way. The men danced at their sides, moving their hands over hips and backs and shoulders, never perspiring, never letting a girl’s drink run low. It was nothing like the one rebellious teenage night I’d spent awkwardly camped out in a corner, terrified of the writhing masses at Limelight.

By the time I’d finished scanning the scene, Leo had already selected a beautiful dark-haired guy. The two of them danced with a model-hot straight couple, all four of them moving perfectly in tune against each other’s bodies. Occasionally they’d reposition themselves so the ‘girls’ would be facing one another, grinding.

I went to the bathroom, and before I could see who owned them I felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around me. I caught a glimpse of waist-length wavy hair, a sort of mousy light brown color, and I smelled the scent of smoke and mouthwash in equal parts.

‘Bette, Bette, I can’t believe how long it’s been!’ the girl shrieked into my shoulder. Her chin was squished against my breasts in a way that was fairly uncomfortable considering her identity was still in question. She hugged me for a few more seconds, and when she pulled away, I could not have been more surprised.

Abby Abrams.

‘Abby? Is that you? Wow, it’s been a really long time,’ I said carefully, trying not to show just how unhappy I was to see her. I had nothing but terrible memories of her from college and had somehow managed to forget she existed once we’d all moved to the city. Until now, it had been a big enough place to spend a half-decade without a single run-in. My luck had clearly expired. The five years since college graduation had made her look harder, older than her age. She’d obviously had a nose job and an extra-heavy serving of collagen in the lip area, but most noticeable were her breasts. Her now super-sized chest seemed to occupy her entire four-eleven frame.

‘I go by Abigail now, actually,’ she immediately corrected. ‘So crazy, isn’t it? Of course, I’d heard you work at Kelly, so I knew I’d run into you here sooner or later.’

‘Huh? What do you mean? How long have you been living in the city?’

She stared at me, slightly horrified, and pulled me by the wrist onto a couch. I tried to shake loose, but she maintained her death grip and leaned in much too close. ‘Are you, like, serious? Have you not heard? I’m at the vortex of the media world!’

I had to use my left hand to cover my mouth while pretending to cough so she wouldn’t see me laughing uncontrollably. Since our days at Emory, Abby had loved declaring how she was ‘at the vortex’ of something or other – sorority rush or the men’s basketball team or the college newspaper. No one really knew what it meant – it was the wrong usage, actually – but for some reason she’d latched onto the phrase and refused to let go. We’d lived on the same floor our freshman year. I’d noticed right away that she seemed to have an uncanny knack for sensing people’s insecurities. She was always grilling me on what boy I liked, only to ‘coincidentally’ be seen throwing herself on whoever I named within twelve hours of my admission. I’d overheard her once in the dorm bathroom grilling an Asian girl for tips on how to get that ‘sexy, slant-eyed look’ using an eye pencil. She’d once ‘borrowed’ one of her classmates’ history papers and turned it in as her own, only admitting to the ‘mix-up’ once the professor threatened to fail both of them. Penelope and I met Abby around the same time, in freshman writing seminar, and we immediately agreed that Abby was to be avoided. She’d been creepy from the beginning, the kind of girl who would make subtle but mean comments about your hair or boyfriend or outfit and then feign horror and regret when you inevitably took offense. We ditched her often and regularly, and she never seemed to get it. Instead, she’d purposefully make contact in order to put us down. Not surprisingly, she’d never had any real girlfriends, but she kept herself quite busy working her way through nearly every fraternity house and athletic team at Emory.

‘“Vortex of the media world,” huh? No, I didn’t know that. Where are you these days?’ I asked in the most bored tone I could muster. I vowed not to let her get under my skin.

‘Well, let’s see. I started at Elle and then made the jump to Slate – so much smarter, you know? Had a brief stint at Vanity Fair, but the office politics were so intense. Now I’m freelancing – my byline’s everywhere!’

I thought about that for a moment and couldn’t remember seeing her name … anywhere.

‘And you, missy, how’s the new job?’ she screeched.

‘Um, yeah, it’s been about a week, I guess, and it’s pretty cool so far. I’m not sure if it’s at the vortex of the public-relations world, but I like it.’

She sensed no sarcasm whatsoever, or she ignored it. ‘It’s such a hot firm; they’re repping all the best clients these days. Ohmigod, I absolutely love your shirt – it’s the absolute best call ever if you’re looking to hide a little tummy, you know? I wear mine all the time!’

I involuntarily sucked in my gut.

Before I could point out something nasty, like how five pounds on her frame would look like twenty, she said, ‘Hey, so tell me, have you spoken to Cameron recently? That was your boyfriend’s name, right? I heard something about him leaving you for a model, but of course I didn’t believe it.’

So much for not sinking to her level.

‘Cameron? I didn’t think you knew him. Then again, he is a guy who’s breathing and living in New York City, so …’

‘Oh, Bette, it’s really so great to see you,’ she said, ignoring my comment. ‘Let me take you to lunch, okay? We have so much to catch up on. I’ve been meaning to call you forever, but you just vanished since college! Who do you hang out with? Still that quiet girl? She was so sweet. What was her name?’

‘Oh, you mean Penelope? She’s gorgeous and engaged and, yes, I still see her. I’ll be sure to tell her you said hello.’

‘Yes, yes, definitely do that. So, I’ll call you at work next week and we’ll go somewhere fab for lunch, ’kay? Congratulations on finally leaving that dreadful bank and joining the real world. … I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone. There are just, like, so many people you need to meet!’

I was preparing what would surely be an even wittier response when Elisa materialized beside us. I never thought I’d be so happy to see her.

‘Elisa, this is Abby,’ I said, waving my arm at her listlessly.

‘It’s Abigail, actually,’ Abby interjected.

‘Right, uh-huh. And, Abby’ – I looked at her pointedly and continued— ‘this is my coworker Elisa.’

‘Hey, we’ve met before, haven’t we?’ Elisa mumbled, her front teeth clamped around a cigarette as she dug in her bag for a lighter.

‘Totally,’ Abby said. She plucked a matchbook off the nearest table and gallantly lit Elisa’s cigarette. ‘Do you have another ciggie for me?’

They made the exchange and began chattering about some new gossip roundup called New York Scoop. I’d heard it discussed in the office. Apparently, even though it had been published for years, nobody had cared about it until the arrival of a saucy new column written by someone using the unclever pseudonym Ellie Insider. It was published twice a week in both the online and print versions, although Ellie’s column – unlike similar Page Six columns by Cindy Adams or Liz Smith – did not have an accompanying photo of the writer. Now Abby was insisting that it was the hottest thing to hit media circles in years, but Elisa was saying that, according to her sources, only select groups from the fashion and entertainment world were reading it obsessively – although she predicted others would soon catch on. This conversation topic remained interesting for a solid minute and a half, before I had the blessed realization that I could simply excuse myself and leave.

It wasn’t until then that I realized I was standing alone in a swarm of gorgeous people who all just happened to have amazing rhythm, and I couldn’t move. Dancing had never been my thing. I’d somehow managed to shuffle my way through a few painful slow songs at high-school dances (always trying desperately to avoid the eight-minute rendition of ‘Stairway to Heaven’) and hop drunkenly along to the jukeboxes at our college dive bars, but this was truly intimidating. Before I could even manage to sway, I was overwhelmed with the same sixth-grade fears. It happened in a fraction of a second, but the feeling that everyone was staring at my baby fat and braces came rushing back. I needed to leave, or at the very least get back to the table and avoid the hell of dancing, but just as I made up my mind to escape, I felt a hand on the small of my back.

‘Hi there,’ said a tall guy with a British accent and a tan so perfect it could have only come from the great indoors. ‘Dance?’

I had to consciously keep from turning around to see if he might be talking to someone else, and before I could even worry about my smoky breath or my shirt, which was damp with perspiration, he had pulled me toward him and started moving. Dancing? We were dancing! I hadn’t been this close to someone since the last time a pervert on the subway had pressed up against me on the morning commute. Re-lax, have fun, re-lax, have fun, I chanted silently, hoping to remain calm and cool. But I didn’t need to do much self-convincing at all; my brain checked out as my body snuggled closer to the golden-skinned god who was offering me another glass of champagne. I sipped that one and then downed the next, and before I knew what was happening, I was perched on his lap, laughing with the table about some scandal or another while the gorgeous stranger played with my hair and lit my cigarettes.

I’d entirely forgotten I was inappropriately dressed in black, that I’d just been insulted by the pint-sized bitch who used to torment me in school, and that I possessed nothing resembling rhythm. I remember watching, slightly reaction-impaired, as one of the Englishman’s friends came over and asked who might be the new, charming creature on his lap. I didn’t even realize they were talking about me until he hugged me from behind and said, ‘She’s my discovery – brill, isn’t she?’ And I, the charming creature, the brill discovery, giggled delightedly, grabbed his face between both my hands, and kissed him squarely on the mouth. Which is, thankfully, the very last thing I remember at all.

8 (#ulink_bd8863fa-dc21-5fdd-9e3c-90f43731ed11)

The sound of an angry male voice jolted me awake. I wondered briefly if there was actually someone standing above the bed, driving a shovel into my head. The throbbing was so steady it was almost comforting, until I realized that I was not, in fact, in my own bed. Nor was last night’s all-black-all-wrong outfit in sight; instead, I was wearing a pair of unnervingly tight gray Calvin Klein boxer briefs and a giant white T-shirt that read SPORTS CLUB LA. Don’t panic, I instructed myself, trying to make out the words of the faraway male voice. Think. Where were you and what were you doing last night? Considering that I was not in the general habit of blacking out and waking up in strange places, I congratulated myself on a good start. Let’s see. Elisa called, dinner at Cipriani’s, cab to Bungalow 8, everyone at a table, dancing with … some tan British guy. Shit. The last thing I remember is dancing with a nameless man in a club and now I’m in a bed – albeit a huge, comfortable one with extremely soft sheets – I don’t recognize.

‘How many times do I have to tell you? You simply cannot wash Pratesi sheets in hot water!’ The male voice was shouting now. I jumped out of bed and checked for escape routes, but a quick glance out the window told me we were at least twenty floors off the ground.

‘Yes, sir, I am sorry, sir,’ said a whimpering female voice with a Spanish accent.

‘I’m keen to believe that, Manuela, I really am. I’m a reasonable bloke, but this just cannot continue. I’m afraid I have to dismiss you.’

‘But, sir, if I can just—’