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

‘Darling, is everything all right? You’re late, and Simon and I are worried that you’re drowning your public-humiliation sorrows all alone. We both thought you looked great in that last New York Scoop photo! Let’s get sloshed together! Are you on your way?’

Dammit! I’d forgotten all about dinner. Even though Thursday nights had been the standing plan since the day I’d graduated from college, I’d missed the last few weeks for Kelly events and had obviously completely flaked on tonight.

‘Will! I’m sorry I’m late, but I was at the office until two minutes ago and I just ran home to feed Millington. I’m literally walking out the door this minute.’

‘Sure, darling, of course. I’ll buy that story if it’s the best you’re offering, but I’m not letting you out of tonight. We will see you soon, yes?’

‘Of course. In just a few minutes …’

I hung up without saying good-bye and turned back to my cell phone.

‘Hey, sorry about that. My uncle just called and I—’

‘Bette! You’ll never guess what! I have the best news in the whole world. Are you sitting down? Ohmigod, I’m just so excited.’

I didn’t think I could handle another engagement announcement, so I just leaned back into the cushions and waited patiently, knowing that Elisa wouldn’t be able to hold out for long.

‘Well, you’ll never imagine who I just spoke to.’ Her silence indicated I was supposed to respond, but I couldn’t muster the energy to ask.

‘None other than our favorite gorgeous and no-longer-eligible bachelor, Mr Philip Weston. He was calling to invite the whole crew to a party and I just happened to answer and – oh, Bette, don’t be mad, I just couldn’t hold out – I asked him if he’d host your BlackBerry event and he said he’d love to.’ At this point, she actually squealed.

‘Really?’ I asked, feigning surprise. ‘That’s great. Of course I’m not mad; that saves me from having to ask him. Did he sound excited about it, or just willing?’ I didn’t really care, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

‘Well, I didn’t technically speak to him, but I’m sure he’s totally thrilled.’

‘What do you mean by “technically”? You just said that he called and—’

‘Oh, did I say that? Oops!’ She giggled. ‘What I meant to say was that his assistant called and I ran the whole thing by her and she said of course Philip would be delighted. It’s totally the same thing, Bette, so I wouldn’t worry about it for a second. How great is that?’

‘Well, I guess you’re right because I just got flowers from him with a card saying that he’s going to do it, so it seems like everything worked out.’

‘Oooooooh, my god! Philip Weston is sending you flowers? Bette, he must be in love. That boy is just so amazing.’ Long sigh on her part.

‘Yes, well, I’ve got to run, Elisa. Seriously, thanks for figuring it out with him, I really appreciate it.’

‘Where are you off to? You guys have a hot date tonight?’

‘Uh, no. I’m just headed to my uncle’s for dinner and then straight to bed. I haven’t been home before two A.M. since I started this job, and I’m just ready to—’

‘I know! Isn’t it great? I mean, what other job would actually require that you stay out and party all night? We’re so lucky.’ Another sigh, followed by a moment for both of us to reflect on this truth.

‘We are, yeah. Thanks again, Elisa. Have fun tonight, okay?’

‘Always do,’ she sang. ‘And Bette? For all it’s worth, you may have gotten this job because of your uncle, but I think you’re doing great so far.’

Ouch. It was classic Elisa: a backhanded compliment meant to sound entirely sincere and positive. I didn’t have the energy to start, so I said, ‘You do? Thanks, Elisa. That means a lot to me.’

‘Yeah, well, you’re dating Philip Weston and, like, totally planning a whole event yourself. It took me almost a year to do that once I started.’

‘Which one?’ I asked.

‘Both,’ she said.

We laughed together and said good-bye and I hung up before she could insist that I attend another party. For that very brief moment, she actually felt like a friend.

After a quick scratch for Millington and an even quicker change into jeans and a blazer, I shot one last bitter glance at the flowers and bolted downstairs to get a cab. Simon and Will were bickering as I let myself into the apartment and waited quietly in the ultramodern foyer, perched on a granite bench underneath a bright Warhol that I knew we’d covered in art history but about which I could recall not a single detail.

‘I just don’t understand how you could invite him into our home,’ Simon was saying in the study.

‘And I’m not sure what you don’t understand about it. He’s my friend, and he’s in town, and it would be rude not to see him,’ Will replied, sounding nonplussed.

‘Will, he hates gays. He makes a living hating gays. Gets paid to hate gays. We’re gay. What’s so hard to understand?’

‘Oh, details, darling, details. We all say things we don’t quite mean in the public arena to generate a little controversy – it’s good for the career. It doesn’t mean we actually mean it. Hell, just in last week’s column I had a moment of weakness, or perhaps hallucination, and wrote that pandering line about how rap music is its own art form, or something inane to that effect. Seriously, Simon, no one actually thinks I believe that. It’s very much the same situation with Rush. His Jew-gay-black hating is strictly for ratings; it’s certainly not reflective of his personal opinions.’

‘You are so naïve, Will, so naïve. I can no longer have this conversation.’ I heard a door slam, a long sigh, and ice cubes being dropped into a glass. It was time.

‘Bette! Darling! I didn’t even hear you come in. Were you lucky enough to witness our latest tiff?’

I kissed him on his clean-shaven cheek and assumed my usual perch on the lime green chaise. ‘I sure did. Are you actually inviting Rush Limbaugh here?’ I asked, slightly incredulous but not really surprised.

‘I am. I’ve been to his home a half-dozen times over the years, and he’s a perfectly nice fellow. Of course, I was never quite aware of how heavily medicated he was during those evenings, but it somehow makes him even more endearing.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Enough. Tell me what’s new in your fabulous life?’

It always amazed me how he could be so cool and casual about everything. I remember my mother explaining to me as a child that Uncle Will was gay and that Simon was his boyfriend and that as long as two people are happy together, things like gender or race or religion don’t mean anything at all (not applicable, of course, to me marrying a non-Jew, but that went without saying. My parents were as liberal and open-minded as two people could get when they were talking about anyone besides their own kid). Will and Simon visited Poughkeepsie a few weeks later and as we sat at the dinner table, trying to choke down fistfuls of sprouts and what felt like never-ending rations of vegetarian dahl, I had asked in my sweet ten-year-old voice, ‘Uncle Will, what’s it like to be gay?’

He’d raised his eyebrows at my parents, glanced at Simon, and looked me straight in the eye. ‘Well, dear, it’s quite nice, if I do say so myself. I’ve been with girls, of course, but you do soon realize that they just don’t, ah, well, work for you, if you know what I mean.’ I didn’t know, but I was certainly enjoying the pained faces my parents were making.

‘Do you and Simon sleep in the same bed like Mommy and Daddy?’ I’d continued, sounding as sweet and innocent as I possibly could.

‘We do, darling. We’re exactly like your parents. Only different.’ He took a swig of the scotch my parents kept on hand for his visits and smiled at Simon. ‘Just like a regular married couple, we fight and we make up and I’m not afraid to tell him that even he can’t pull off white linen pants before Memorial Day. Nothing’s different.’

‘Well then, that was an illuminating conversation, wasn’t it?’ My father cleared his throat. ‘The important thing to remember, Bette, is that you always treat everyone the same, regardless of how they might be different from you.’

Booooring. I had no interest in another love-in lecture, so I settled on one last question: ‘When did you find out you were gay, Uncle Will?’

He took another sip of scotch and said, ‘Oh, it was probably when I was in the army. I sort of woke up one day and realized I’d been sleeping with my commanding officer for some time,’ he replied casually. He nodded, more sure now. ‘Yes, come to think of it, that was rather telling for me.’

It didn’t matter that I was slightly unclear on the terms sleeping with and commanding officer; my father’s sharp inhalation and the look my mother shot Will across the table were perfectly sufficient. When I’d asked him years later if that was actually when he realized he preferred men, he’d laughed and said, ‘Well, I’m not sure that was the first time, darling, but it was certainly the only one that was appropriate for the dinner table.’

Now he sat calmly, sipping his martini and waiting for me to tell him all about my new and improved life. But before I could come up with something to offer, he said, ‘I assume you’ve gotten the invitation to your parents’ for the Harvest Festival?’

‘I have, yes.’ I sighed. Every year my parents threw their Harvest Festival party in the backyard to celebrate Thanksgiving with all their friends. It was always on Thursday, and they never served turkey. My mother had called a few days earlier and, after listening politely to the details of my new job – which to my parents was only slightly preferable to padding the coffers of a huge corporate bank – she’d reminded me yet again that the party was coming up and that my presence was expected. Will and Simon always RSVPd yes, only to cancel at the last moment.

‘I suppose I’ll drive us all up there Wednesday when you’re done with work,’ Will said now, and I barely managed to keep from rolling my eyes. ‘How is everything going, by the way? Judging from everything I’m reading, you seem to have, ah, embraced the job.’ He didn’t smile, but his eyes sparkled, and I swatted him on the shoulder.

‘Mmm, yes, you must mean the new little write-up in New York Scoop.’ I sighed. ‘Why are they after me?’

‘They’re after everyone, darling. When your sole mission as a columnist – online or otherwise – is to cover what’s being consumed in the Condé Nast cafeteria, well, nothing should really surprise you. Have you read the latest?’