Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont. Lauren Weisberger
Читать онлайн книгу.
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.
Just my luck that Penelope’s engagement party fell on a Thursday night – the night of my standing dinner date with Uncle Will and Simon. Neither appointment could be denied. I stood in front of my ugly, postwar, high-rise Murray Hill apartment building, desperately trying to escape to my uncle’s huge duplex on Central Park West. It wasn’t rush hour, Christmas, shift change, or torrentially pouring, but a cab was nowhere to be found. I had been whistling, screaming, and jumping skywards like a lunatic for twenty minutes to no avail, when a lone cab finally pulled up to the curb. The cabbie’s response when I requested to go uptown was ‘Too much traffic!’ before he screeched off and disappeared. When a second driver actually picked me up, I ended up tipping him 50 percent out of relief and gratitude.
‘Hey, Bettina, you look unhappy. Is everything okay?’ I’d insisted that people call me Bette, and most did. Only my parents and George, Uncle Will’s doorman (who was so old and cute he could get away with anything), still insisted on using my full name.
‘Just the usual cab hassle, George.’ I sighed, giving him a peck on the cheek. ‘How’s your day been?’
‘Oh, just dandy as always,’ he replied without a hint of sarcasm. ‘Saw the sun for a few minutes this morning and have been happy ever since.’ Nauseating.
‘Bette!’ I heard Simon call from the lobby’s discreetly hidden mailroom. ‘Is that you I hear, Bette?’
He emerged from the mailroom in tennis whites, a racket-shaped bag slung over his broad shoulders, and picked me up in a bear hug as no straight man ever had. It was sacrilege to skip a weekly dinner, which in addition to being a good time also provided by far the most male attention I received (not counting brunch).
Will and Simon had developed lots of rituals in the almost thirty years they’d spent together. They vacationed in only three places: St Barth’s in late January (although lately Will had been complaining that it was ‘too French’), Palm Springs in mid-March, and an occasional spontaneous weekend in Key West. They drank gin and tonics only out of Baccarat glasses, spent every Monday night from seven until eleven at Elaine’s, and hosted an annual holiday party where each would wear a cashmere turtleneck. Will was almost six-three, with close-cropped silver hair, and he preferred sweaters with suede elbow patches; Simon was barely five-nine, with a wiry, athletic build that he swathed entirely in linen, irrespective of the season. ‘Gay men,’ he’d say, ‘have carte blanche to flout fashion convention. We’ve earned the right.’ Even now, moments off the tennis court, he’d managed to don some sort of white linen hoodie.
‘Gorgeous girl, how are you? Come, come, Will is sure to be wondering where we both are, and I just know that the new girl has prepared something fantastic for us to eat.’ Always the perfect gentleman, he took my exploding tote bag from my shoulder, held the elevator door open, and pressed PH.
‘How was tennis?’ I asked, wondering why this sixty-year-old man