Everyone Worth Knowing - Lauren Weisberger

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shopped for things I didn’t need in an obvious effort to fill the voids in my life, and made a conscious decision to start smoking again in earnest so I’d have something to do once Conan was over. It sounds comprehensively depressing, but it had been my best month in recent memory and might have gone on indefinitely had Will not called my work number and spoken to my replacement.

      Interestingly, I had lost ten pounds without trying. I hadn’t exercised at all save for the treks to hunt and gather my food, but I felt better than ever, or certainly better than I had working sixteen-hour days. I’d been thin all through college but had packed on the pounds quite efficiently as soon as I’d started work, having no time to exercise, choosing instead to down a particularly disgusting daily diet of kebabs, doughnuts, vending-machine candy bars, and coffee so sugar-heavy my teeth felt permanently coated. My parents and friends had politely ignored my weight gain, but I knew I looked terrible. Annually I’d declare my New Year’s resolution of more dedicated gym-going; it usually lasted a solid four days before I’d kick my alarm clock and claim the extra hour for sleep. Only Will repeatedly reminded me that I looked like hell. ‘But, darling, don’t you remember how scouts would stop you on the street and ask you to model? That’s not happening anymore, is it?’ Or ‘Bette, honey, you had that no-makeup, fresh-faced, all-natural girl thing working so well a few years ago – why don’t you spend a little time trying to revisit that?’ I heard him and knew he was right – when the button on the single pair of Sevens I owned nestled so far into my fleshy stomach that it was sometimes difficult to locate, it was hard to deny the extra poundage. That unemployment made me thinner was telling. My skin was clearer, my eyes brighter, and for the first time in five years the weight had melted off my hips and thighs but stayed squarely put in my chest – surely a sign from God that I wasn’t supposed to work. But of course I wasn’t supposed to enjoy being shiftless and lazy, so I was trying to demonstrate the appropriate combination of chagrin, regret, and distress. Simon was buying it.

      ‘I think a cocktail is exactly what’s in order right now. What can I make you to drink, Bette?’

      Little did he know that I’d taken to drinking alone. Not in that desperate, solitary, ‘I must drink to deal, and if I happen to have no company, well then, so be it’ sort of way, but in the liberated ‘I’m an adult and if I’d like a glass of wine or a sip of champagne or four shots of vodka straight up’ way, well then, why the hell not? I pretended to consider his offer before saying, ‘How about a martini?’

      Uncle Will swooped in at that moment and, as he usually did, charged the air with an energy that was immediate and intense. ‘Ab fab!’ he announced, stealing the phrase from his sneaked sessions of BBC-watching, which he relentlessly denied. ‘Simon, make our little banker-no-longer an extra-dry martini with Grey Goose and three olives. I’ll have my usual. Darling! I’m so proud of you!’

      ‘Really?’ He hadn’t sounded too thrilled when he’d left me a message earlier that day, ordering me to be at the apartment that night for drinks. (‘Bette, darling, your little game is up. I just spoke to the terrified little mouse who now claims to occupy your cubicle, which makes me wonder what, exactly, you’re doing at this moment. Highlights, I’m hoping? Perhaps you’ve taken a lover. I’ll expect you tonight at six on the dot so you may provide us with all the gory details. Plan on accompanying us to a little dinner party afterward at Elaine’s.’ Click.)

      ‘Darling, of course I am! You finally left that dreadful bank. You are an absolutely intoxicating creature, so fascinating, so fabulous, and I think that dreary job of yours was suppressing it all.’ He placed his huge, well-manicured hands around my middle and almost shrieked. ‘What is this I see? A waist? By God, Simon, the girl’s got her figure back. Christ, you look like you’ve spent the last few weeks getting lipoed in all the right places. Welcome back, darling!’ He raised one of the martinis that Simon had made for all of us (Will was no longer permitted to make the drinks because of his notoriously heavy-handed pouring) and simultaneously removed the charcoal wool hat he’d been wearing since before I was born.

      Simon smiled and raised his glass as well, clinking ours lightly so as not to splash any of the precious liquid. I, of course, wasn’t so careful and slightly soaked my jeans in the boozy mixture. I would’ve licked it off the denim directly had I been alone. Ahem.

      ‘There,’ Will announced. ‘It’s official. So what will be next? Writing for a magazine? A stint in fashion, perhaps? I hear Vogue is hiring right now.’

      ‘Oh, come on.’ I sighed, resenting being made to think about it at all. ‘Vogue? You think I’m in any way equipped or qualified to work for that editor in chief – what’s her name?’

      Simon chimed in here. ‘Anna Wintour. And no on both counts.’

      ‘No? Well, what about Bazaar, then?’ Will asked.

      ‘Will …’ I looked down at my scuffed, ugly flats and back at him again. I might have graduated from Birkenstocks and pigtail braids, but I was still fully entrenched in the post-college Ann Taylor work wardrobe.

      ‘Oh, stop your whining, darling. You’ll find something. Remember, you’re always welcome to join me, you know. If you get truly desperate, that is.’ Will had been mentioning this as delicately as possible since I was in high school, the offhand comment about how much fun it would be to work together, or how I had natural talent as a researcher and a writer. My parents had saved every essay I’d ever written and sent copies to Will, who had sent me a huge flower arrangement my sophomore year when I’d declared myself an English major. The card had read TO THE FUTURE COLUMNIST OF THE FAMILY. He mentioned often how he’d love to show me the ropes because he thought it’d be something I could really get into. And I didn’t doubt that part. It was only that recently his columns had become more like conservative rants and less like the society-and-entertainment commentary readers had been slavishly devoted to for years. He was a master at this very specific genre, never bothering to cover outright gossip but also never taking himself too seriously. At least until recently, when he’d written a thousand words on why the United Nations was the devil incarnate (A summary: ‘Why, in this age of super-technology, do all those diplomats in New York City need to physically be here, taking up all the best parking places and the best tables at restaurants, adding to the non-English-speaking environment in the city? Why can’t they just email their votes from their respective countries? Why should we have to 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

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