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

скачать книгу бесплатно


I heard a high-pitched voice in the background and he said, ‘Dammit, I just got paged. I can’t talk now. Can we talk tomorrow?’

‘Sure. Say hi to Megu for me, okay? And Michael? Please don’t go and get engaged anytime soon. I don’t think I can handle you, too.’

He laughed. ‘You don’t have to worry about that, I promise. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. And Bette? Chin up. He might be one of the worst guys either of us has ever met, but she seems happy, and that’s all you can ask for, you know?’

We hung up and I stared at the phone for a few minutes before twisting my body out the window in a futile attempt to see a few inches of comforting river landscape; the apartment wasn’t much, but it was, thankfully, all mine. I hadn’t shared it in the nearly two years since Cameron had moved out, and even though it was so long and narrow that I could stretch my legs out and almost touch the opposite wall and even though it was located in Murray Hill and even though the floorboards were warping slightly and the water bugs had taken over, I had reign over my own private palace. The building was a cement monstrosity on Thirty-fourth and First, a multi-winged behemoth that housed such illustrious tenants as one teenage member of a dismantled boy band, one professional squash player, one B-list porn star and her stable of visitors, one average Joe, one former childhood actress who hadn’t worked in two decades, and hundreds upon hundreds of recent college graduates who couldn’t quite handle the idea of leaving the dorm or the fraternity house for good. It had sweeping East River views, as long as one’s definition of ‘sweeping views’ includes a construction crane, a couple of Dumpsters, a brick wall from the building next door, and a patch of river approximately three inches wide that is only visible through unfathomable acts of contortion. All of this glory was mine for the equivalent monthly cost of a four-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath single-family home upstate.

While still twisted on the couch, I reviewed my reaction to the news. I thought I’d sounded sincere enough, if not downright ecstatic, but Penelope knew ecstatic wasn’t in my nature. I’d managed to ask about the rings – plural – and to state that I was very happy for her. Of course, I hadn’t mustered up anything truly heartfelt or meaningful, but she was probably too giddy to notice. Overall: a solid B-plus performance.

My breathing had normalized enough to smoke another cigarette, which made me feel slightly better. The fact that the water bug hadn’t resurfaced yet helped, too. I tried to assure myself that my unhappiness stemmed from my genuine concern that Penelope was marrying a truly terrible guy and not from some deep-rooted envy that she now had a fiancé when I didn’t have so much as a second date. I couldn’t. It had been two years since Cameron had moved out, and though I’d cycled through the requisite stages of recovery (job obsession, retail obsession, and food obsession) and had gone on the usual round of blind dates, drinks-only dates, and the rarer full-dinner dates, only two guys had made third-date status. And none had made fourth. I told myself repeatedly that there wasn’t anything wrong with me – and regularly made Penelope confirm this – but I was seriously beginning to doubt the validity of that statement.

I lit a second cigarette off the first and ignored Millington’s disapproving doggy stare. The self-loathing was beginning to settle upon my shoulders like a familiar, warm blanket. What kind of evil person couldn’t express genuine, sincere happiness on one of the happiest days of her best friend’s life? How conniving and insecure does one have to be to pray that the whole thing turns out to be a giant misunderstanding? How did I get to be so wretched’?

I picked up the phone and called Uncle Will, looking for some sort of validation. Will, aside from being one of the brightest and bitchiest people on the planet, was my perpetual cheerleader. He answered the phone with the slightest gin-and-tonic slur and I proceeded to give him the short, less-painful version of Penelope’s ultimate betrayal.

‘It sounds as though you feel guilty because Penelope is very excited and you’re not as happy for her as you should be.’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘Well, darling, it could be far worse. At least it’s not some variation on the theme where Penelope’s misery is providing you with happiness and fulfillment, right?’

‘Huh?’

‘Schadenfreude. You’re not emotionally or otherwise benefiting from her unhappiness, right?’

‘She’s not unhappy. She’s euphoric. I’m the unhappy one.’

‘Well, there you have it! See, you’re not so terrible. And you, my dear, are not marrying that spoiled little brat whose only God-given talents appear to be spending his parents’ money and inhaling large quantities of marijuana. Am I mistaken?’

‘No, of course not. It just feels like everything’s changing. Penelope’s my life, and now she’s getting married. I knew it would happen eventually, but I just didn’t think eventually would be so soon.’

‘Marriage is for the bourgeoisie. You know that, Bette.’

This triggered a series of mental images of Sunday brunches through the years: Will, Simon, the Essex, me, and the Sunday Styles section. We’d dissect the weddings for the duration of brunch, never failing to collapse into evil giggles as we creatively read between the lines.

Will continued. ‘Why on earth are you eager to enter into a lifelong relationship, the only purpose of which is to strangle every iota of individuality out of you? I mean, look at me. Sixty-six years old, never married, and I’m perfectly happy.’

‘You’re gay, Will. And not only that, but you wear a gold band on the ring finger of your left hand.’

‘So what’s your point? You think I’d actually marry Simon, even if I could? Those same-sex, San Francisco city hall weddings aren’t exactly my scene. Not on your life.’

‘You’ve been living with him since before I was born. You do realize that you are, essentially, married.’

‘Negative, darling. Either one of us is free to leave at any point, without any messy legal or emotional ramifications. And that’s why it works. But enough of that; I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. Tell me about the ring.’ I filled him in on the details he really cared about while munching the remaining Twizzlers, and didn’t even realize I had fallen asleep on the couch until close to 3 A.M., when Millington woofed her desire to sleep in a real bed. I dragged us both to my room and buried my head under the pillow, reminding myself over and over that this was not a disaster. Not a disaster. Not a disaster.