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.
pretending they’ve got strokes like Roddick. A little pathetic, but always amusing.’
The door to their apartment was slightly ajar and I could hear Will talking to the TV in the study, as usual. In the old days, Will had scooped Liza Minnelli’s relapse and RFK’s affairs and Patty Hearst’s leap from socialite to cult member. It was the ‘amorality’ of the Dems that finally pushed him toward politics instead of all things glamorous. He called it the Clinton Clinch. Now, a few short decades later, Will was a news junkie with political affiliations that ran slightly to the right of Attila the Hun’s. He was almost certainly the only gay right-wing entertainment-and-society columnist living on the Upper West Side of Manhattan who refused to comment on either entertainment or society. There were two televisions in his study, the larger of which he kept tuned to Fox News. ‘Finally,’ he was fond of saying, ‘a network that speaks to my people.’
And always Simon’s retort: ‘Riiight. That huge audience of right-wing gay entertainment-and-society columnists living on the Upper West Side of Manhattan?’
The smaller set constantly rotated between CNN, CNN Headline News, C-SPAN, and MSNBC, perpetrators of what Will referred to as ‘The Liberal Conspiracy.’ A handwritten sign sat atop the second TV. It read: KNOW YOUR ENEMY.
On CNN, Aaron Brown was interviewing Frank Rich about the media coverage surrounding the last election. ‘Aaron Brown is a lily-livered milquetoast pantywaist!’ Will snarled as he put down his crystal tumbler and hurled one of his Belgian shoes at the TV.
‘Hi, Will,’ I said, helping myself to a handful of the chocolate-covered raisins he always kept in an Orrefors bowl on his desk.
‘Of all the people qualified to discuss politics in this country, to offer some insight or an intelligent opinion on how media coverage did or did not affect these elections, and these idiots have to interview someone from The New York Times? The whole place is more bleeding than a rare steak, and I need to sit here and listen to their opinion on this?’
‘Well, not really, Will. You could turn it off, you know.’ I suppressed a smile as his eyes stayed riveted ahead. I silently debated with myself how long it would take for him to refer to The New York Times as Izvestia, or to bring up the Jayson Blair debacle as further proof that the paper’s trash at best and a conspiracy against honest, hardworking Americans at worst.
‘What, and miss Mr Aaron Brown’s blatantly opinionated coverage of Mr Frank Rich’s blatantly opinionated coverage of whatever the hell they’re talking about? Seriously, Bette, let us not forget that this is the very same paper whose reporters simply create stories when deadline looms.’ He took a swig and jabbed at the remote to silence both televisions simultaneously. Only fifteen seconds tonight – a record.
‘Enough for now,’ he said, hugging me and giving me a quick peck on the cheek. ‘You look great, honey, as always, but would it kill you to wear a dress once in a while?’
He’d not so deftly moved to discussing his second-favorite topic, my life. Uncle Will was nine years older than my mom and both swore they’d been born to the very same set of parents, but it seemed impossible to comprehend. My mother was horrified I’d taken a corporate job that required me to wear something other than caftans and espadrilles, and my uncle thought the travesty was the suit as uniform instead of some killer Valentino gown or a fabulous pair of strappy Louboutins.
‘Will, it’s just what they do at investment banks, you know?’
‘So I’ve gathered. I just didn’t think you’d end up in banking.’ That again.
‘Your people, like, love capitalism, don’t they?’ I teased. ‘The Republicans, I mean – not so much the gays.’
He raised his bushy gray eyebrows and peered at me from across the couch. ‘Cute. Very cute. It’s nothing against banking, darling, I think you know that. It’s a fine, respectable career – I’d rather see you doing that than any of those hippie-dippy-save-the-world jobs your parents would recommend – but you just seem so young to lock yourself into something so boring. You should be out there meeting people, going to parties, enjoying being young and single in New York, not tied down to a desk in a bank. What do you want to do?’
As many times as he’d asked me this, I’d never come around to a great – or even decent – answer. It was certainly a fair question. In high school I’d always thought I’d join the Peace Corps. My parents had taught me that that was the natural step following a college degree. But then I went to Emory and met Penelope. She liked that I couldn’t name every private school in Manhattan and knew nothing about Martha’s Vineyard, and I, of course, loved that she could and did. We were inseparable by Christmas break, and by the end of freshman year, I had discarded my favorite Dead T-shirts. Jerry was long dead, anyway. And it was fun going to basketball games and keg parties and joining the coed touch-football league with a whole group of people who didn’t regularly dread their hair, or recycle their bathwater, or wear patchouli oil. I didn’t stand out as the eccentric girl who always smelled a little bit off and knew way too much about the redwoods. I wore the same jeans and T-shirts as everyone else (without even checking to see if they originated in a sweatshop) and ate the same burgers and drank the same beer, and it felt fantastic. For four years I had a group of similar-minded friends and the occasional boyfriend, none of whom were Peace Corps–bound. So when all the big companies showed up on campus waving giant salaries and signing bonuses and offering to fly candidates to New York for interviews, I did it. Nearly every one of my friends from school took a similar job, because when you get right down to it, how else is a twenty-two-year-old going to be able to pay rent in Manhattan? What was incredible about the whole thing was how quickly five years had gone by. Five years had just vanished into a black hole of training programs and quarterly reports and year-end bonuses, leaving barely enough time for me to consider that I loathed what I did all day long. It didn’t help matters that I was actually good at it – it somehow seemed to signify that I was doing the right thing. Will knew it was wrong, though, could obviously sense it, but so far I’d been too complacent to make the leap into something else.
‘What do I want to do? How on earth can I answer something like that?’ I asked.
‘How can you not? If you don’t get out soon, you’re going to wake up one day when you’re forty and a managing director and jump off a bridge. There’s nothing wrong with banking, darling, it’s just not for you. You should be around people. You should laugh a little. You should write. And you should be wearing much better clothes.’
I didn’t tell him I was considering looking for work at a nonprofit. He’d start ranting about how his campaign to unbrainwash me from my parents had failed, and he’d sit dejectedly at the table for the rest of the evening. I’d tried it once, just merely mentioned that I was thinking of interviewing at Planned Parenthood, and he’d informed me that while that was a most noble idea, it would lead me straight back down the path to rejoining, in his words, the World of the Great Unshowered. So we proceeded to cover the usual topics. First came my nonexistent love life (‘Darling, you’re simply too young and too pretty for your job to be your only lover’), followed by a bit of ranting about Will’s latest column (‘Is it my fault that Manhattan has become so uneducated that people no longer wish to hear the truth about their elected officials?’). We cycled back to my high school days of political activism (‘The Incense Era is blessedly over’), and then once again returned to everyone’s all-time favorite topic, the abject state of my wardrobe (‘Ill-fitting, masculine trousers do not a date outfit make’).
Just as he was beginning a small soliloquy on the far-reaching benefits of owning a Chanel suit, the maid knocked on the study door to inform us that dinner was on the table. We collected our drinks and made our way to the formal dining room.
‘Productive day?’ Simon asked Will, kissing him on the cheek in greeting. He had showered and changed into a pair of Hefesque linen pajamas and was holding a glass of champagne.
‘Of course not,’ Will responded, setting aside his dirty martini and pouring two more glasses of champagne. He handed one to me. ‘Deadline’s not until midnight; why would