Lauren Weisberger 3-Book Collection: Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont. Lauren Weisberger
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so she can move around freely and talk to people without their knowing. I’m not sure if this name means anything to you, but the column is actually being written by a girl named Abigail Abrams.’
I’m not sure how, but I knew a split second before she uttered the name that it was going to be Abby’s. I’d never considered that the columnist was someone I’d known before – or even someone I’d met – but somehow, in that momentary flash, I was certain she’d utter Abby’s name. The realization hadn’t done anything to prepare me, however, and I couldn’t do anything but stare at Kelly, my hands tucked under my legs and that same breathless, suffocating feeling I’d had in fifth-grade gym class when the red rubber kickball struck my stomach and knocked the wind right out of me. How could I have been so clueless? How could I not have known? I struggled to breathe and make sense of what Kelly was saying. All the awful things that had been written – all the exaggerations and embellishments and inferences and outright lies – had come from none other than Abby, the self-proclaimed vortex of the media world. Why on earth does she hate me so much? I kept thinking with irrational repetition. Why? Why? Why? Of course we’d never liked each other; that much was obvious. But what could inspire her to try to ruin my life? What had I done?
Apparently, Kelly had interpreted my shock as cluelessness because she said, ‘Yeah, I didn’t recognize the name, either. Some nobody, I guess, which is actually very smart on their part – no one can be suspicious of someone they don’t know. The woman from Ralph Lauren is married to Abigail’s brother, and she swore me to secrecy. I got the feeling she just wanted to tell someone. Or maybe she’s testing my discretion. It doesn’t really matter. Don’t breathe a word of it to anyone, but just in case you run across that girl, you can make sure she gets the right pictures or information.’
I initially thought Kelly was telling me the columnist’s identity so I could avoid her at all costs, but this was clearly not her intention.
She continued. ‘Now you can feed her all sorts of stuff – be cool and casual and make it sound like scoop – and we’ll have an even better shot at getting the clients covered.’
‘Sounds good,’ I croaked. I couldn’t wait to get out of that office and reread every word Abby had written. How did she have any access at all? I thought bitterly about how she must have felt when she’d stumbled into a gold mine that first night at Bungalow 8, the night I’d met Philip. It was all starting to fall into place: she had been everywhere lately, always appearing out of the woodwork like a Pop-a-Weasel, ready with a nasty comment or a sneering look.
‘Okay, enough of that. Don’t worry about it too much right now. Just focus on making sure everything works for tonight. It’s going to be great, don’t you think?’
I murmured ‘great’ a few times and shuffled out of her office. I had already begun fantasizing about confronting Abby. There were a million possibilities, and each sounded delicious. It wasn’t until I was back at the circular table, staring at my laptop, that I realized I couldn’t do one damn thing about it. I couldn’t tell anyone I knew, least of all Abby.
I tried to focus. After cutting out the Page Six clipping and taping it to the center of the office’s shared circular desk, I logged on to see if the plane that would be bringing Jay-Z from LA to New York had actually left New York on time, which would highly increase the odds of its arriving in LA – and then coming back again – on schedule. So far, so good. I assigned two interns to take cars to Newark and stake out his arrival. This was not particularly necessary, since the Hotel Gansevoort was sending two stretch limos for them, but I wanted someone there to visually confirm that he’d arrived and gotten in his car without getting distracted by anything along the way. A quick call to Sammy – be still, my heart – confirmed that the setup was going smoothly. My to-do list complete, I tried to block out the thoughts of Abby’s viciousness. It was late afternoon, and the only thing left to do was, well, absolutely nothing.
Not only was Jay-Z’s plane on time, it was a few minutes early. He was polite and attentive. Nearly every single person who’d RSVP’d to the event showed up, and miraculously, the people who materialized at the door with no invite were all actually people we would’ve wanted to come. Mr Kroner spent the evening tucked away at a table with his associates, and we made sure the little RESERVED sign was displayed prominently for them and that a steady stream of pretty girls stopped by to say hello.
Most surprising was Philip. I’d been terrified he’d do something in a drunken state to embarrass me or the firm, but he’d kept his nose clean in every respect and even managed not to bury it in anyone’s cleavage – at least not in front of any photographers, which is all that really mattered. I’d tried to warn him in a hundred different ways that, as host, he would need to be friendly to everyone, but my fear had been totally unfounded. From the moment he’d stepped inside the front door, he’d performed brilliantly. He’d rotated among all the groups assembled, shaking hands and nodding sagely with the corporate types, ordering rounds of shots for the bankers and mini-champagnes for the models, and back-slapping the celebrities with Clintonian charm. He strolled and smiled and carried conversations effortlessly, and I watched as men and women alike fell in love with him. It was instantly clear why gossip columns tracked him and why women everywhere swooned when he turned his attention to them. His ability to chat and joke and listen came so naturally that when he was near, people were left feeling like the volume had been turned down on everyone and everything except Philip Weston. They warmed to his touch, to his presence, and I found myself buzzing right along with everyone else. I couldn’t deny that I was bizarrely drawn to him.
The only almost-disaster came when Samantha Ronson’s flight from London was canceled and we were left with no DJ. At the exact same time, I’d received a call from Jake Gyllenhaal’s publicist, asking if he could be placed on the VIP list for the evening. Having just read an article on do-it-yourself DJing, I asked Jake and the other confirmed celebs to bring their personal iPods and DJ for an hour each after Jay-Z did his twenty-minute set. It had been a huge success; each of the famous names had arrived with an iPod full of personal favorites, and soon everyone in attendance knew Jerry Seinfeld’s all-time favorite dance song. Everything else had gone perfectly. There’d been no catfights over the gift bags, no brawls at the door, pretty much no uninvited drama to distract from the conveyance of the message: everyone young, hip, urban, and remotely cool is partying to celebrate BlackBerry, which must mean that BlackBerry itself is young, hip, urban, and cool. Therefore, you – whoever you are and wherever you’re reading about this fabulous event – must own one so that you, too, may be young, hip, urban, and cool.
All in all, the event was a complete success. Kelly was happy, the client was thrilled (if slightly scandalized and extremely hung over – apparently Mr Kroner was unaccustomed to the sort of enthusiastic and committed drinking that had encompassed the entire evening), and the photogs had snapped, snapped, snapped just about every celebrity that our rotating staff of interns and coordinators physically threw in front of them. And then there was the effect the evening had on my love life.
Taking a break, I slinked outside under my usual pretense of wanting a cigarette. I found Sammy reading from another tattered paperback, Richard Russo’s Empire Falls.
‘Having fun?’ he asked, lighting my cigarette. I’d cupped my hands around his lighter to protect the flame from the wind and felt a flutter in my chest when our skin touched. Was it lust, love, or just early-onset lung cancer? At that moment, it didn’t seem to matter.
‘Shockingly, yes.’ I laughed, suddenly feeling that all was right and good. ‘If you’d told me a few months ago that I’d be planning a party at Bungalow 8 with Jay-Z as the entertainment, I would’ve thought you were crazy. I hated banking. I’d sort of forgotten what it was like to want to do something well.’
He smiled. ‘You obviously do this well. Everyone’s talking about you.’
‘Talking about me? I’m not sure I like the sound of