Everyone Worth Knowing

ALSO BY LAUREN WEISBERGER:

the devil wears prada

1

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 kicked in, reminding me that it would be inappropriate—to

say the least—if I were to verbalize what I really thought.
He's a

loser, P. He's a spoiled, stoner little kid in the body of a big boy. He

knows you 're out of bis league and is putting a ring on your finger

before you realize it as well. Worse, by manying him you will be

merely biding your time until he replaces you with a younger, hotter

version of yourself ten years down the line, leaving you to pick

up the pieces. Don't do it! Don't do it! Don't do it!

"Ohmigod!" I shrieked right back. "Congratulations! I'm so

happy for you!"

"Oh, Bette, I knew you would be. I can barely even speak, it's

just all happening so fast!"

So fast? He's the only guy you've dated since you were nineteen.

It's not like this wasn't expected
—
it's been eight years. I just hope he

doesn 't catch herpes at his bachelor party in Vegas.

"Tell me everything. When? How? Ring?" I rattled off questions,

playing the best friend role fairly believably, I thought, all things

considered.

"Well, I can't talk too long because we're at the St. Regis right

now. Remember how he insisted on picking me up for work

today?" Before waiting for my answer, she raced breathlessly

ahead. "He had a car waiting outside and told me it was just because

he couldn't get a cab, and said that we were expected for

dinner at his parents' house in ten minutes. Of course, I was a little

annoyed that he hadn't even asked if I wanted to go to dinner

there—he'd said he'd made reservations at Per Se, and you know

how tough it is to get in there—and we were having pre-drinks in

the library when in walked both our parents. Before I knew what

was happening, he was down on one knee!"

"In front of all your parents? He did the public proposal?" I

knew I sounded horrified, but I couldn't help it.

"Bette, it was hardly public. It was our
parents,
and he said the

sweetest things in the world. I mean, we never would've met if it

weren't for them, so I can see his point. And get this—he gave me

two rings!"

"Two rings?"

"Two rings. A seven-carat flawless round in platinum that was his

great-great-grandmother's for the real ring, and then a very pretty

three-carat ascher-cut with baguettes that's much more wearable."

"Wearable?"

"It's not as though you can roam the streets of New York in a

seven-carat rock, you know. I thought it was really smart."

"Two rings?"

"Bette, you're incoherent. We went from there to Per Se, where

my father even managed to turn off his cell phone for the duration

of dinner and make a reasonably nice toast, and then we went for

a carriage ride in Central Park, and now we're at a suite in the St.

Regis. I just had to call and tell you!"

Where, oh where, had my friend gone? Penelope, who'd never

even shopped for engagement rings because she thought they all

looked the same, who had told me three months earlier when a mutual

college friend had gotten engaged in the back of a horse-drawn

carriage that it was the tackiest thing on earth, had just morphed into

a very close approximation of a Stepford Wife. Was I just bitter? Of

course I was bitter. The closest I'd come to getting engaged was

reading the wedding announcements in
T7je New York Times,
aka the

Single Girls' Sports Page, every Sunday at brunch. But that was beside

the point.

"I'm so glad you did! And I can't wait to hear every last detail,

but you've got an engagement to consummate. Get off the phone

with me and go make your fiance happy. How weird does that

sound? 'Fiance.'"

"Oh, Avery's on a call from work. I keep telling him to hang

up"—she announced this loudly for his benefit—"but he just keeps

talking and talking. How has your night tbeen?"

"Ah, another stellar Friday. Let's see. Millington and I took a

walk over to the river, and some homeless guy gave her a biscuit

along the way, so she was really happy, and then I came home,

and hopefully killed what must be the largest insect in the tristate

area. I ordered Vietnamese, but I threw,, it out when I remembered

reading that some Vietnamese place near me was shut down for

cooking dog, and so now I'm about to dine on reheated rice and

beans and a packet of stale Twizzlers.i Oh, Christ, I sound like a

Lean Cuisine commercial, don't I?"

She just laughed, clearly having no words of comfort at that

particular moment. The other line clicked, indicating that she had

another call.

"Oh, it's Michael. I have to tell him. Do you care if I three-way

him in?" she asked.

"Sure. I'd love to hear you tell him." Michael would undoubtedly

commiserate with me over the entire situation once Penelope

hung up since he hated Avery even more than I did.

There was a click, which was followed by a brief silence and

then another click. "Everyone there?" Penelope squealed. This was

not a girl who normally squealed. "Michael? Bette? You guys both

on?"

Michael was a colleague of mine and Penelope's at UBS, but

since he'd made VP (one of the youngest ever) we'd seen much

less of him. Though Michael had a serious girlfriend, it took Penelope's

engagement to really drive the point home: we were growing

up.

"Hi, girls," Michael said, sounding exhausted.

"Michael, guess what? I'm engaged!"

There was the tiniest beat of hesitation. I knew that, like me,

Michael wasn't surprised, but he would be trying hard to formulate

a believably enthusiastic response.

"Pen, that's fantastic news!" he all but shouted into the phone.

His volume did much to compensate for the lack of any genuine

joy in his voice, and I made a mental note to remember that for

next time.

"I know!" she sang back. "I knew you and Bette would be so

happy for me. It just happened a few hours ago, and I'm so excited!"

"Well, we'll obviously have to celebrate," he said loudly. "Black

Door, just the three of us, multiple shots of something strong and

cheap."

"Definitely," I added, happy for something to say. "A celebration

is most definitely in order."

"Okay, honey!" Penelope called into the distance, our drinking

plans understandably of little interest. "Guys, Avery's off the phone

and is pulling on the cord. Avery, stop! I've got to run, but I'll call

you both later. Bette, see you at work tomorrow. Love you both!"

There was a click and then Michael said, "You still there?"

"Sure am. Do you want to call me or should I call you?" We'd

all learned early on that you couldn't trust that the third line had

disconnected and therefore always took the precaution of starting a

new call before talking shit about the person who'd hung up first.

I heard a high-pitched voice in the background and he said,

"Dammit, I just got paged. I can't talk now. Can we talk tomorrow?"

"Sure. Say hi to Megu for me, okay? And Michael? Please don't

go and get engaged anytime soon. I don't think I can handle you,

too."

He laughed. "You don't have to worry about that, I promise. I'll

talk to you tomorrow. And Bette? Chin up. He might be one of the

worst guys either of us has ever met, but she seems happy, and

that's all you can ask for, you know?"

We hung up and I stared at the phone for a few minutes before

twisting my body out the window in a futile attempt to see a few

inches of comforting river landscape; the apartment wasn't much,