Everyone Worth Knowing (40 page)

Weekly,
the
New York Post, Variety,
and the Styles section. I

approved a few people from the monthlies as a gesture of goodwill,

even though they'll never cover it."

"What about the
Daily News?"
she asked. They were one of the

papers that had just dropped Will's column, and I'd felt like a traitor

for even contacting them.

"So far no one's RSVP'd, but I'd be shocked if someone wasn't

there, so all the doormen have been instructed to allow admittance

to anyone in possession of a business card from a legitimate media

outlet."

She nodded. "Speaking of which, we
are
controlling the door,

correct? I will not have any of the Grey Goose people trying to

bring randoms, will I?"

This was a slightly sticky point. Grey Goose had offered to

sponsor the event and put up thousands of dollars' worth of free

booze in exchange for a logo on the invite and the press we'd

promised would be there. They claimed they understood they

wouldn't be permitted to allow guests who weren't prescreened by

us and placed on the list in advance, but sponsors were notorious

for dragging in dozens of their friends and associates because they

thought it was their party, too. I'd discussed it with Sammy—unnecessary

because he'd done hundreds of these and knew the drill—

and he'd assured me that it wouldn't be a problem.

"Everyone will be trying their best to ensure that doesn't

happen. Sammy is the best and most senior bouncer at Bungalow,

and he'll be in charge of the door tonight. I've spoken with

him."
And simultaneously dreamed of draining the collagen

right out of bis girlfriend's lips,
I thought, but that was a different

story.

Unlike Elisa, Kelly connected the name and the person immediately.

"Excellent. I always thought he was bright, at least as far as

bouncers go. What VIPs do we have confirmed?"

"Well, obviously Jay-Z and crew. He requested that a whole

contingent from his record label be invited, but most didn't respond

to invitations, so I don't think many will show. Otherwise,

we've got Chloe Sevigny, Betsey Johnson, Drew Barrymore, Carson

Daly, Andy Roddick, Mary-Kate and Ashley, and Jon Stewart as

definites. Also a handful of top-tier socialites. There might be more.

When you've got an artist that big doing a private performance at a

small venue . . . I'd be shocked if we didn't get unannounced visits

from Gwen or Nelly or anyone else who might be in town and

around. The door has been informed."

"And who did the final vetting of the list?"

"I went over it with both Philip and Elisa, with Mr. Kroner at

BlackBerry having final approval over everything. He seemed very,

very happy with the projected attendees."

Kelly finished off her bottle of Diet Coke and reached into the

fridge underneath her desk to pull out another one. "What else?

Give me the quick rundown on decorations, gift bags, interviews,

chain of command."

I could tell we were nearing the end, and 1 was thrilled, not

just because I desperately needed another coffee and perhaps a

second egg-and-cheese, but because I knew I was nailing this

party and Kelly was impressed. I'd been working on it all day,

every day since it'd been thrown in my lap, and even though I

could recognize the ridiculousness of what we were doing, I liked

it. I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to work hard and do well,

but it was damn nice.

"Samantha Ronson is DJing and knows to keep things upbeat.

Bungalow is taking care of the decorations, with instructions to

keep it minimal, chic, and very, very simple. I'll head over there

this afternoon to check it out, but I'm really only expecting a few

clusters of well-placed votives and, of course, the underlit palm

trees. I think all the models we've got coming will be the primary

attraction."

At the word
model,
Kelly perked up even more. "How many

and who are they?" she asked with the efficiency of a drill

sergeant.

"Well, I invited all the supermodels as guests, as always, and

then we went with that new company—what's it called? Beautiful

Bartenders. They hire out actors and models to tend bar

and serve drinks. I saw a bunch of them working a Calvin Klein

event two weeks ago and reserved a fleet of the guys, requesting

that they all have long hair and wear head-to-toe white. They're

magnificent and really make a statement."
Did I just
say
that?
I

thought.

"As for everything else, the interns are putting together the gift

bags now. They've got airplane bottles of Grey Goose, MAC lipstick

and eye shadow, a copy of the current issue of
US Weekly,
a

gift certificate for thirty percent off at Barney's Co-op, and a pair of

Kate Spade sunglasses."

"I wasn't aware Kate Spade even made sunglasses," Kelly said,

now nearly finished with the second liter of Diet Coke.

"Neither was I. I guess that's why she wants them in the gift

bag." When she kept gulping, I figured I'd better wrap things up.

"So that's really it. I've touched base with Mr. Kroner, and he understands

exactly what he's to highlight and avoid when talking to

the press, and I'll be there the entire night to oversee glitches. All

in all, I expect everything should go very smoothly. Oh, and I've

spoken with Philip and I think he understands that as host of this

event, he shouldn't be drinking entire bottles of vodka, ogling preteens,

or doing drugs openly or with reckless abandon. I can't

guarantee he'll actually play by the rules, but I assure you that he's

at least been informed as to what they are."

"Well, we're all there to have a good time now, aren't we?

So I'm sure if Philip wants to have a little fun, too, we won't be

too uptight about that.
Just keep it away from the press.
Understood?"

"Of course." I nodded solemnly, wondering how on earth I

was supposed to keep the columnists and photographers away

from the very person they'd been invited to see. I decided I'd deal

with that later. "And Kelly? I can't apologize enough about all that

stuff in New York Scoop. I feel like I have a target on my back just

because I'm supposedly dating Philip Weston. If I were paranoid,

I'd think this Ellie girl was out to get me."

She looked at me strangely, with an expression resembling

pity, and I wondered if all the mentions were bothering her more

than she'd let on. Kelly had brushed off every one of my apologies

about the online column, swearing that any association with Philip

Weston was a good one and that it had only succeeded in raising

the profile of the company, but maybe she was tiring of the attacks.

Which would make two of us.

"Bette, I have something to tell you," Kelly said slowly. She

pulled a new plastic liter bottle of Diet Coke from her under-desk

fridge.

I could tell by the tone of her voice that this wasn't good.

Here it comes,
I thought to myself.
Here's where I get fired

for something that's completely beyond my control. She looks so

pained to have to do this
—
after all, she's got such loyalty to Will,

but I've obviously left her no choice. In an industry that revolves

around the press, I've failed miserably. It's actually her duty, her

obligation,
to fire me
—
she built this firm, and I walk in here and

degrade it. How will I tell Will? Or my parents?
I had already begun

calculating how long it would take me to rework my resume and

begin applying for other jobs when Kelly took a swig and cleared

her throat.

"Bette, promise me that what I'm about to tell you will never

leave this room."

I audibly exhaled in relief. That didn't sound like the beginning

of a firing speech.

"Of course," I said, the words tumbling out in rushed eagerness.

"If you tell me never to mention it, then of
course
I won't."

"I had lunch the other day with a woman from Ralph Lauren.

I'm hoping very much to sign them—they'd be our biggest and

most impressive account yet."

I nodded as she continued.

"Which is why it's so crucial that you keep this under wraps. If

the information gets out—if you tell anyone—she'll know it's me,

and we'll never get this account."

"I understand," I said solemnly.

"It concerns New York Scoop . . ."

"You mean Ellie Insider?"

Kelly looked at me. "Yes. As you know, that's merely a pen

name. She's gone to great lengths to keep her identity secret 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? Wfjy?
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, 1 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