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
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to love him now that I no longer have to see him before nine A.M. each day.
Thanks also to Lynne Drew and Jennifer Parr, my U.K. editors.
And of course a huge thanks to all those who offered no assistance whatsoever but who promised to buy multiple copies for a name mention: Dave Baiada, Dan Barasch, Heather Bergida, Lynn Bernstein, Dan Braun, Beth Buschman-Kelly, Helen Coster, Audrey Diamond, Lydia Fakundiny, Wendy Finerman, Chris Fonzone, Kelly Gillespie, Simone Girner, Cathy Gleason, Jon Goldstein, Eliza Harris, Peter Hedges, Julie Hootkin, Bernie Kelberg, Alli Kirshner, John Knecht, Anna Weber Kneitel, Jaime Lewisohn, Bill McCarthy, Dana McMakin, Ricki Miller, Daryl Nierenberg, Wittney Rachlin, Drew Reed, Edgar Rosenberg, Brian Seitchik, Jonathan Seitchik, Marni Senofonte, Shalom Shoer, Josh Ufberg, Kyle White, and Richard Willis.
And especially to Leah Jacobs, Jon Roth, Joan and Abe Lichtenstein, and Weisbergers: Shirley and Ed, Judy, David and Pam, Mike and Michele.
EVERYONE WORTH KNOWING
Lauren Weisberger
To my grandparents: This should help them remember which grandchild I am.
Contents
How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?
– From ‘Baby, You’re a Rich Man’ (1967)
by John Lennon and Paul McCartney
Though I’d caught only the briefest glimpse from the corner of my eye, I knew immediately that the brown creature darting across my warped hardwood floors was a water bug – the largest, meatiest insect I’d ever seen. The superbug had narrowly avoided skimming across my bare feet before it disappeared under the bookcase. Trembling, I forced myself to practice the chakra breathing I’d learned during an involuntary week at an ashram with my parents. My heart rate slowed slightly after a few concentrated breaths of re on the inhale and lax on the exhale, and within a few minutes I was functional enough to take some necessary precautions. First I rescued Millington (who was also cowering in terror) from her hiding place under the couch. Then, in quick succession, I zipped on a pair of knee-high leather boots to cover my exposed legs, opened the door to the hallway to encourage the bug’s departure, and began spraying the extra-strong black-market vermin poison on every available surface in my minuscule one-bedroom. I gripped the trigger as though it were an assault weapon and was still spraying when the phone rang nearly ten minutes later.
The caller ID flashed with Penelope’s number. I almost screened her before I realized that she was one of only two potential refuges. Should the water bug manage to live through the fumigation and cruise through my living room again, I’d need to crash with her or Uncle Will. Unsure where Will was tonight, I decided it’d be wise to keep the lines of communication intact. I answered.
‘Pen, I’m under attack by the largest roach in Manhattan. What do I do?’ I asked the second I picked up the phone.
‘Bette, I have NEWS!’ she boomed back, clearly indifferent to my panic.
‘News more important than my infestation?’
‘Avery just proposed!’ Penelope shrieked. ‘We’re engaged!’
Goddammit. Those two simple words – we’re engaged – could make one person so happy and another so miserable. Autopilot quickly