Lauren Weisberger 3-Book Collection: Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont. Lauren Weisberger
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deal with gridlock and security nightmares when no one listens to them anyway? And if they absolutely refuse to work electronically from their home countries, why don’t we move the whole production to Lincoln, Nebraska, and see if they’re all still dying to come here to better the world?’) Part of me would love to learn his business, but it just seemed too easy. Hey, what luck! Your uncle is a famous, highly syndicated columnist, and you just happen to work for him. He had a small staff of researchers and assistants who I knew would resent the hell out of me if I stepped in and started writing right away. I was also worried about ruining a good thing: since Will was my only family nearby, a dear friend, and soon to be my entire social life now that Penelope was getting married, it didn’t seem like the best idea to work together all day.
‘According to my ex-boss, I haven’t yet mastered the ideals put forth in a single quote of the day. I’m not sure that’s someone you’d want working for you.’
‘Puh-lease! You’d be better than those kids in my office who pretend to be fact-checking while they’re updating their nerve.com profiles with seductive pictures and grotesquely unoriginal come-ons.’ He snorted. ‘I applaud a complete and utter lack of work ethic, you know. How else could I write such trash every day?’ He finished his drink with an appreciative swallow and pushed himself off the leather divan. ‘Just something to consider, is all. Now, let’s go. We’ve got a dinner party to oversee.’
I sighed. ‘Okay, but I can’t stay the entire time. I’ve got book club tonight.’
‘Really, darling? That sounds like it borders on social. What are you reading?’
I thought quickly and blurted out the first socially acceptable title that came to mind. ‘Moby-Dick.’
Simon turned and stared at me. ‘You’re reading Moby-Dick? Are you serious?’
‘Of course she’s not.’ Will laughed. ‘She’s reading Passion and Pain in Pennsylvania, or something to that effect. Can’t quite kick the habit, can you, darling?’
‘You don’t understand, Will.’ I turned to face Simon. ‘No matter how many times I’ve explained it to him, he refuses to understand.’
‘Understand what, exactly? How my lovely and highly intelligent English-major niece not only reads but obsesses over romance novels? You’re right, darling, I can’t understand.’
I stared at my feet, feigning unfathomable shame. ‘The Very Bad Boy is brand new … and highly anticipated. I’m hardly alone – it’s one of the most preordered books on Amazon and had a mailing delay of three weeks after publication!’
Will looked at Simon, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Darling, I just don’t understand why. Why?’
Why? Why? How could I ever answer that question? It was something I’d asked myself a million times. It had started innocently enough, with the discovery of an abandoned copy of Hot and Heavy in the back pocket of a plane seat during a flight from Poughkeepsie to Washington, D.C. I was thirteen and old enough to sense that I should hide it from my parents, which I did. The damn thing was so good that I claimed a sore throat when we got to the hotel and begged out of the NARAL march they were both attending so I could finish reading it. I learned to recognize romance novels instantly, ferreting out the right library shelves in seconds, slipping them off the wire turn-carts at the bookstore and quickly handing over my meager allowance in the pharmacy section of the drugstore while my mother paid for her purchases up front. I went through two or three a week, vaguely aware that they were contraband and therefore keeping them hidden in the little crawl space of my closet. I read them only after lights-out and always remembered to restash them before falling asleep.
When I first discovered romances, I was embarrassed by the obvious suggestions of sex on the cover, and of course by the graphic depictions inside. Like any teenager, I didn’t want my parents to know that I knew anything about the subject, and sneaked my reads only when they surely wouldn’t see. But by the time I was about seventeen, maybe a junior or senior in high school, I’d come out of the closet. I’d accompanied my dad to a local bookstore to pick up a special order he’d placed, and when it came time for him to pay, I slid a copy of Her Royal Bodyguard onto the counter, casually murmuring, ‘I didn’t bring my wallet. Can you buy this now and I’ll pay you back when we get home?’
He’d picked it up and held it between two fingers as though it were roadkill. The expression on his face indicated he found it about as appetizing. A moment later, he laughed. ‘Bettina, come now. Put this awful thing back wherever you found it and select something worthwhile. I promised your mother we’d be home in twenty minutes – we don’t have time to play around anymore.’
I persisted and he bought the book, if only to leave the store as soon as possible. When he mentioned my purchase at the dinner table that night, he sounded confused. ‘You don’t actually read those things, do you?’ he asked, his face scrunched up as though he was trying to understand.
‘Yes,’ I said simply, my voice not revealing the embarrassment I felt.
My mother dropped her fork and it clattered on the plate. ‘You do not.’ It sounded like she hoped it would be true if she stated it forcefully enough. ‘You can’t possibly.’
‘Oh, but I do,’ I sang in a halfhearted attempt to lighten the mood. ‘And so do fifty million other people, Mom. They’re relaxing and interesting. I mean, there’s agony, ecstasy, and a happy ending – who could ask for more?’ I knew all the facts and figures, and there was no denying they were impressive. The two thousand romances published each year create a $1.5 billion industry. Two-fifths of American women buy at least one romance a year. More than one-third of all popular fiction sold each year are romances. A Shakespearean scholar (and Columbia professor) had recently admitted she’d authored dozens of romances. Why should I be ashamed?
What I didn’t tell my parents then – or explain to Will or Simon now – was how much I loved romances. Escape was part of it, of course, but life wasn’t so miserable that I had to revert to a fantasy world. It was inspirational to read about two gorgeous people who overcame all obstacles to be together, who loved each other so much that they always found a way to make it work. The sex scenes were a bonus, but more than that, the books always ended happily, offering such optimism that I couldn’t keep myself from starting another immediately. They were predictable, dependable, entertaining, and most of all, they depicted love affairs that I could not deny – no matter how much feminism or political correctness or women’s empowerment my parents could throw at me – I desperately wanted more than anything in the world. I was conditioned to compare every single date in my life to The Ideal. I couldn’t help it. I wanted the fairy tale. Which, needless to say, does not describe Cameron, or most New York liaisons between men and women. But I wouldn’t stop hoping – not yet.
Was I about to explain this to Simon? Clearly not. Which is why I laughed and made some self-deprecating remark like ‘I just can’t handle the real stuff’ whenever someone asked why I read the books.
‘Oh, whatever.’ I laughed lightly, not making eye contact with Will or Simon. ‘It’s a silly little thing I got into as a kid and haven’t quite given up yet.’
Will found this understatement particularly hysterical. ‘Silly little thing? Bette, darling, you belong to a book club whose sole mission is to examine and more deeply appreciate your selected genre?’ he howled.
This much was true. Until the book group, no one in my life had understood. Not my parents, my uncle, my friends in high school or college. Penelope merely shook her head every time she spotted one in my apartment (which, by the way, wasn’t hard, considering I had over four hundred of them stashed in boxes, closets, under-bed bins, and occasionally – when the cover wasn’t too embarrassing – on shelves). I knew the facts said that whole armies of women read them, but it was only two years ago that I’d met Courtney at a midtown Barnes & Noble. I’d just left work and was reaching for a romance from the circular wire rack when I heard a girl’s voice behind me.
‘You’re not alone, you