12

      ‘I’d like to open tonight’s meeting with a toast to Bette,’ Courtney said, raising her mojito above her head.

      I’d been reading a text message from Kelly politely requesting (read: ordering) that I ‘put in an appearance’ at the Mr and Mrs Smith premiere that was being overseen by Skye and Leo. The movie would end at exactly eleven o’clock, which meant I could stop by the after-party at Duvet and still be home by twelve-thirty and asleep by one A.M. – which would be the earliest night in weeks. I had just concluded my calculations when the sound of my name made me snap to attention.

      ‘Me? What have I done to deserve a toast?’ I asked distractedly.

      The group stared at me as though unable to comprehend my stupidity. Janie spoke first. ‘Excuse me, do you think we live in a vacuum? That our lives cease to exist outside this book club?’

      I just stared, having a fairly good idea where this was headed, but still trying to prevent it from happening.

      Jill mashed some limes with sugar in a bowl before spooning more of the muddled mixture into my drink. ‘Bette, we all read New York Scoop, you know – hell, everyone reads it. And you appear to be the featured story every day. When on earth were you planning to mention that your boyfriend just happens to be Philip Weston?’ She said his name with a slow deliberateness and everyone laughed.

      ‘Whoa, girls, let’s hold on a second here. He is not my boyfriend.’

      ‘Well, that’s not what Ellie Insider seems to think,’ Alex chirped in. Her hair was an unsavory shade of puke green tonight and I marveled at the thought that even the East Village punk crowd was reading that horrific column.

      ‘Yeah, that’s true,’ Vika added thoughtfully. ‘You do seem to be with him quite frequently. And why not? He’s wildly, undeniably, fabulously gorgeous.’

      I thought about that for a moment. He was indeed gorgeous, and every woman between the ages of fifteen and fifty seemed to want him desperately, so what was so wrong with letting everyone think we were dating? Unless I told them, no one would really know that I hadn’t been back to Philip’s apartment since the first time I accidentally woke up there. In fact, they probably wouldn’t even believe it if I explained that we only saw one another (and were subsequently seen together) because I was expected to stop by every Kelly & Company event – whether I’d worked on it or not. I’d run into Philip ‘accidentally’ almost every other night for weeks. After all, it was my job to throw the best parties, and it was Philip’s self-designated responsibility to attend each and every one.

      Why explain that even though we only chatted briefly at these events, he always seemed to throw his arm around my shoulders (or put his hand on my ass or his drink in front of my chest or his mouth on my neck) precisely when a photographer happened to stroll by? It appeared to anyone who was watching that we were inseparable, but what got labeled as ‘lots of hot-and-heavy canoodling’ was about as sexual as my nightly cuddles with Millington. Why, I wondered, would anyone possibly want to hear all of that?

      I knew the answer. Because he was the It Boy du jour, and I was making out with him.

      ‘He is cute, isn’t he?’ I asked. Philip Weston might be one of the more arrogant guys I’d ever met, but it was ridiculous to deny that I was absurdly attracted to him.

      ‘Um, yeah. And let’s not overlook the fact that he’s the most perfect Harlequin guy you could imagine existing in real life.’ Courtney sighed. ‘I think I’m going to model the hero of my next novel after him.’

      ‘After Philip?’ It was difficult to envision any leading Harlequin man whining and bitching about his thread count, but I supposed the genre could use some updating for the new millennium.

      ‘Bette! He’s tall, handsome, and powerful. He’s even foreign, for Christ’s sake,’ she pointed out while waving a copy of Sweet Savage Love and pointing to the hulking man in a loincloth on the cover. ‘And better looking than Dominick, which is remarkable when you consider that Dominick is drawn to look as gorgeous as humanly possible.’

      The girl had a point. Philip fit the ideal of the romantic hero more closely than any guy I’d met before – except for that small, nagging little problem of his personality.

      I spent the rest of book club distracted, dreamily wondering if I’d see Philip later at the after-party and what might happen.

      I ducked out of the meeting early and changed before heading to Duvet. Where, of course, the first person I saw upon walking inside was Mr Weston himself.

      ‘Bette, love, come say hello to a few mates visiting from England,’ he said, planting a brief but admittedly delicious kiss directly on my lips.

      I couldn’t help it; I looked over my shoulder. I had promised myself I’d be more aware of the photographers, but I saw nothing unusual, just the regular beautiful writhing masses.

      ‘Hi,’ I said, noticing (a) he looked even more like fictional Dominick when he was standing in front of me, and (b) Courtney was right: Philip was better-looking. ‘Can I meet you over there in a minute? I’ve got to find Kelly and make sure everything’s okay.’

      ‘Sure, love. Will you bring me a cocktail when you come back? That’d be smashing!’ And he scampered off to play with his friends, as happy as a little boy at the playground.

      I managed to check in with Kelly, ask Leo and Skye if they needed anything, wave to Elisa as she made out with Davide, introduce myself to two potential clients (the much-worshipped designer Alvin Valley and someone who Kelly described to me as ‘the most sought-after stylist in Hollywood’), and bring Philip a gin and tonic, all in less than an hour. So much for what might happen with Philip. He was busy entertaining his ‘blokes.’ The dull headache I’d managed to ignore since morning had suddenly become sharper, and I knew it couldn’t be another late night. I slipped out the door shortly thereafter and was home by twelve-fifteen (a solid fifteen minutes ahead of schedule) and unconscious by twelve-thirty, after deciding that silly nighttime rituals like teeth-brushing and face-washing could easily be neglected. When my alarm went off six and a half hours later, I was not looking good.

      I grabbed the Dirt Alert before rushing out and read it as I inhaled a large coffee and a buttered cinnamon-raisin bagel on the subway. Unsurprisingly, New York Scoop was the first clipping of the day’s packet and, again, there was a huge picture – a close-up, actually – of Philip kissing me the night before. Only the back of his head was visible, but somehow the camera had zoomed in on my face and caught me with some sort of faraway, dreamy look caused by my eyes being only partially open while they gazed adoringly at him. Or drunkenly, depending on how one might interpret my half-blink. I probably should have expected it, but since I’d never even spotted a camera, the full-page photo made me physically recoil. That day’s scoop was extra memorable. As predicted, I’d graduated from being ‘Philip’s gal pal’ and ‘the new girl’ and ‘party girl’ and ‘PR maven-in-training’ to warranting my own identity. Right there, under the picture – just in case there was anyone left in New York State who didn’t know my whereabouts at all times – was my name, spelled in big, bold letters, and a caption that read: APPARENTLY, SHE’S HERE TO STAY … BETTINA ROBINSON KNOWS HOW TO PARTY. The feeling was a weird mixture of embarrassment at having anyone see me in such a state, indignation at the misrepresentation