Everyone Worth Knowing. Lauren Weisberger
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had obscenely gorgeous girlfriends eight years my junior.
‘Seriously, Bette, I don’t know what you’re looking for. I mean, it’s a job, right? It’s still work. It doesn’t matter what you do, it’s never going to be like sitting at the country club all day long, you know? Sure, it sucks to spend every waking minute at work. And I don’t exactly adore finance, either – I never fantasized about working at a bank – but it’s just not that bad.’
Penelope’s parents had tried to push her toward a position at Vogue or Sotheby’s as the final finishing school in the pursuit of her Mrs degree, but when she’d insisted on joining the rest of us in corporate America, they’d acquiesced – it was certainly possible to find a husband while working in finance, as long as she kept her priorities straight, didn’t display any overt ambition, and quit immediately after the wedding. Truth be told, though, while she whined and complained about the job, I think she actually liked it.
She handed over a ten-dollar bill to cover both of our ‘kebab’ plates, and my eyes were drawn to her hand like a magnet. Even I had to admit the ring was gorgeous. I said as much, for the tenth time, and she beamed. It was hard to be upset about the engagement when she was so obviously giddy. Avery had even stepped it up since the proposal and had managed to impersonate a real, caring fiancé, which of course had made her even happier. He’d met her after work so they could go home together, and had even brought her breakfast in bed. More important, he had refrained from clubbing, his favorite pastime, for a full three weeks now, the only exception being last week’s soiree in their honor. Penelope didn’t mind that Avery wanted to spend as much time as humanly possible wedged in between banquettes – or dancing on them – but she wanted no part of it. On the nights he was out with friends from his consulting firm, Penelope and I would sit at the Black Door, dive-bar extraordinaire, with Michael (when he was available), drinking beer and wondering why anyone would want to be anywhere else. But someone must’ve clued Avery in that while it’s acceptable to leave your girlfriend home six nights a week, ditching your fiancée is different, so he’d made a concerted effort to cut back. I knew it would never last.
We retraced our steps to the building and sneaked back into the office with only a single dirty look from the rule-abiding UBS shoe-shine guy (who, incidentally, was also forbidden to leave during lunch in case a pair of wing tips desperately needed a spit-shine between one and two P.M.). Penelope followed me back to my cubicle and planted herself on the chair that was theoretically for guests and clients, although I’d yet to host either.
‘So, we set a date,’ she said breathlessly, digging into the fragrant plate she balanced on her lap.
‘Oh, yeah? When?’
‘Exactly one year from next week. August tenth, on Martha’s Vineyard, which seems appropriate since that’s where it all began. We’ve been engaged for a few weeks, and already our mothers are going berserk. I seriously don’t know how I’m going to put up with them.’
Avery’s and Penelope’s families had been vacationing together since the two were toddlers. There were scads of photos of the whole lot of them sporting grosgrain flip-flops and cheap-chic L.L. Bean monogrammed totes in Martha’s Vineyard during the summer and Stubbs and Wootton slippers during ski vacations in the Adirondacks each year. She’d gone to Nightingale and he’d been at Collegiate and both of them had spent a good chunk of their respective childhoods being paraded around by their socialite mothers to various benefits and parties and weekend polo matches. Avery embraced it, threw himself on every junior committee of every foundation that asked, went out six nights a week with his parents’ unlimited line of credit, and was one of those New York-born-and-bred kids who knew everyone, everywhere. Much to her parents’ chagrin, Penelope had no interest whatsoever. She repeatedly rejected the whole circuit, preferring to spend all her time with a group of misfit artist types on scholarship, the kind of kids who gave Penelope’s mother night sweats. Avery and Penelope had never really been close – and certainly not remotely romantic – until Avery had graduated high school a year before her and headed to Emory. According to Penelope, who’d always harbored an intense secret crush on Avery, he’d been one of the most popular kids in school, the charming, athletic soccer player who got adequate grades and was hot enough to get away with being really, really arrogant. From what I could tell, she’d always blended into the background, like all exotically pretty girls do at an age when only blond hair and big boobs count, spending a lot of time getting good grades and trying desperately not to get noticed. And it worked, at least until Avery came back for summer break after his freshman year in college, looked across the hot tub at their families’ shared house in the Vineyard, and saw everything about Penelope that was long and graceful and gorgeous – her doe-like limbs and her stick-straight black hair and the eyelashes that framed her enormously wide brown eyes.
So she did what every good girl knows is completely wrong – for the reputation, the self-esteem, and the strategy of making him call the next day – and slept with him then and there, mere minutes after he leaned over to kiss her for the very first time. (‘I just couldn’t help it,’ she’d said a million times while retelling the story. ‘I couldn’t believe that Avery Wainwright was interested in me!’) But unlike all the other girls I knew who’d had sex within hours of meeting some guy and never heard from him again, Penelope and Avery proceeded to attach themselves to each other, and their engagement was little more than a much approved and applauded formality.
‘Are they being worse than usual?’
She sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Worse than usual.’ An interesting phrase. I would’ve thought it was impossible, but yes, my mother has managed to become even more unbearable lately. Our last knock-down brawl was over whether or not you could rightfully call something a wedding dress if it wasn’t designed by Vera Wang or Carolina Herrera. I said yes. She obviously disagreed. Vehemently.’
‘Who won?’
‘I caved on that because, really, I don’t care who makes the dress as long as I like it. I figure I have to pick my battles very, very carefully, and the one I will not be compromising on is the wedding announcement.’
‘Define “wedding announcement.’’ ’
‘Don’t make me.’ She grinned and took a swig of Dr Pepper.
‘Say it.’
‘Please, Bette, this sucks enough. Don’t make me say it.’
‘C’mon, Pen. Own up. Go on, it’ll get easier after the first time. Just say it.’ I nudged her chair with my foot and leaned in to relish the information.
She covered her perfect, pale forehead with her long, thin hands and shook her head. ‘New York Times.’
‘I knew it! Will and I will be gentle, I promise. She’s not kidding around, is she?’
‘Of course she’s not!’ Penelope wailed. ‘And naturally, Avery’s mother’s dying for it also.’
‘Oh, Pen, it’s perfect! You guys make such a cute couple, and now everyone else can see it, too!’ I cackled.
‘You should hear them, Bette, it’s hideous. Both of them are already fantasizing about all those fancy private schools they can list between them. Do you know I overheard my mother on the phone the other day with the Weddings editor, saying that she’d like to include all the siblings’ schools as well? The woman told her that they won’t even discuss it until six weeks before, but that hasn’t discouraged anyone: Avery’s mom already made an appointment for the photo shoot and has all sorts of ideas about how we can pose so that our eyebrows are level, which is one of the published suggestions. The wedding is still a year away!’
‘Yes, but these things require lots of advance planning and research.’
‘That’s what they said!’ she cried.
‘What about eloping?’ But before she could answer, Aaron made a big show of knocking on my cubicle wall and waving his arms to imitate regret at breaking up our ‘little powwow,’ as he irritatingly called our lunches.
‘Don’t