Everyone Worth Knowing (6 page)

"This is nothing new, Bette. I don't know why you're getting so

stressed about it now."

"Just a particularly lousy day. If it's possible to distinguish one

from the next."

I wanted to say "Two rings?" but restrained myself as an overweight

woman wearing a skirt suit worse than mine and a pair of

white leather Reeboks over her tights spilled hot sauce down the

front of her embroidered, ruffled blouse. I saw myself in ten years

and nearly lurched forward with queasiness.

"Of course nothing happened, that's the whole point!" I all but

screamed. Two blond guys who looked fresh off the Princeton eating

club path turned and looked at me curiously. I thought about

composing myself for a minute since, well, they were both really

cute, but I soon remembered that these obscenely hot lacrosse

players were not only way too young, but most likely also had obscenely

gorgeous girlfriends eight years my junior.

"Seriously, Bette, I don't know what you're looking for. I mean,

it's a job, right? It's still work. It doesn't matter what you do, it's

never going to be like sitting at the country club all day long, you

know? Sure, it sucks to spend every waking minute at work. And I

don't exactly adore finance, either—I never fantasized about working

at a bank—but it's just not
that
bad."

Penelope's parents had tried to push her toward a position at

Vogue
or Sotheby's as the final finishing school in the pursuit of

her Mrs. degree, but when she'd insisted on joining the rest of us

in corporate America, they'd acquiesced—it was certainly possible

to find a husband while working in finance, as long as she kept

her priorities straight, didn't display any overt ambition, and quit

immediately after the wedding. Truth be told, though, while she

whined and complained about the job, I think she actually liked it.

She handed over a ten-dollar bill to cover both of our "kebab"

plates, and my eyes were drawn to her hand like a magnet. Even I

had to admit the ring was gorgeous. I said as much, for the tenth

time, and she beamed. It was hard to be upset about the engagement

when she was so obviously giddy. Avery had even stepped it

up since the proposal and had managed to impersonate a real, caring

fiance, which of course had made her even happier. He'd met

her after work so they could go home together, and had even

brought her breakfast in bed. More important, he had refrained

from clubbing, his favorite pastime, for a full three weeks now, the

only exception being last week's soiree in their honor. Penelope

didn't mind that Avery wanted to spend as much time as humanly

possible wedged in between banquettes—or dancing on them—

but she wanted no part of it. On the nights he was out with friends

from his consulting firm, Penelope and I would sit at the Black

Door, dive-bar extraordinaire, with Michael (when he was available),

drinking beer and wondering why anyone would want to be

anywhere else. But someone must've clued Avery in that while it's

acceptable to leave your girlfriend home six nights a week, ditching

your fiancee is different, so he'd made a concerted effort to cut

back. I knew it would never last.

We retraced our steps to the building and sneaked back into

the office with only a single dirty look from the rule-abiding UBS

shoe-shine guy (who, incidentally, was also forbidden to leave during

lunch in case a pair of wing tips desperately needed a spitshine

between one and two
P.M.).
Penelope followed me back to

my cubicle and planted herself on the chair that was theoretically

for guests and clients, although I'd yet to host either.

"So, we set a date," she said breathlessly, digging into the fragrant

plate she balanced on her lap.

"Oh, yeah? When?"

"Exactly one year from next week. August tenth, on Martha's

Vineyard, which seems appropriate since that's where it all began.

We've been engaged for a few weeks, and already our mothers are

going berserk. I seriously don't know how I'm going to put up

with them."

Avery's and Penelope's families had been vacationing together

since the two were toddlers. There were scads of photos of the

whole lot of them sporting grosgrain flip-flops and cheap-chic L.L.

Bean monogrammed totes in Martha's Vineyard during the summer

and Stubbs and Wootton slippers during ski vacations in the

Adirondacks each year. She'd gone to Nightingale and he'd been at

Collegiate and both of them had spent a good chunk of their respective

childhoods being paraded around by their socialite mothers

to various benefits and parties and weekend polo matches.

Avery embraced it, threw himself on every junior committee of

every foundation that asked, went out six nights a week with his

parents' unlimited line of credit, and was one of those New

York-born-and-bred kids who knew everyone, everywhere. Much

to her parents' chagrin, Penelope had no interest whatsoever. She

repeatedly rejected the whole circuit, preferring to spend all her

time with a group of misfit artist types on scholarship, the kind of

kids who gave Penelope's mother night sweats. Avery and Penelope

had never really been close—and certainly not remotely romantic—

until Avery had graduated high school a year before her

and headed to Emory. According to Penelope, who'd always harbored

an intense secret crush on Avery, he'd been one of the most

popular kids in school, the charming, athletic soccer player who

got adequate grades and was hot enough to get away with being

really, really arrogant. From what I could tell, she'd always blended

into the background, like all exotically pretty girls do at an age

when only blond hair and big boobs count, spending a lot of time

getting good grades and trying desperately not to get noticed. And

it worked, at least until Avery came back for summer break after

his freshman year in college, looked across the hot tub at their

families' shared house in the Vineyard, and saw everything about

Penelope that was long and graceful and gorgeous—her doe-like

limbs and her stick-straight black hair and the eyelashes that

framed her enormously wide brown eyes.

So she did what every good girl knows is completely wrong—

for the reputation, the self-esteem, and the strategy of making him

call the next day—and slept with him then and there, mere minutes

after he leaned over to kiss her for the very first time. ("I just

couldn't help it," she'd said a million times while retelling the story.

"I couldn't believe that Avery Wainwright was interested in me!")

But unlike all the other girls I knew who'd had sex within hours of

meeting some guy and never heard from him again, Penelope and

Avery proceeded to attach themselves to each other, and their engagement

was little more than a much approved and applauded

formality.

"Are they being worse than usual?"

She sighed and rolled her eyes. " 'Worse than usual.' An interesting

phrase. I would've thought it was impossible, but yes, my

mother has managed to become even more unbearable lately. Our

last knock-down brawl was over whether or not you could rightfully

call something a wedding dress if it wasn't designed by Vera

Wang or Carolina Herrera. I said yes. She obviously disagreed. Vehemently."

"Who won?"

"I caved on that because, really, I don't care who makes the

dress as long as I like it. I figure I have to pick my battles very,

very carefully, and the one I will not be compromising on is the

wedding announcement."

"Define 'wedding announcement.'"

"Don't make me." She grinned and took a swig of Dr Pepper.

"Say it."

"Please, Bette, this sucks enough. Don't make me say it."

"C'mon, Pen. Own up. Go on, it'll get easier after the first time.

Just say it." I nudged her chair with my foot and leaned in to relish

the information.

She covered her perfect, pale forehead with her long, thin

hands and shook her head.
"New York Times."

"I knew it! Will and I will be gentle, I promise. She's not kidding

around, is she?"

"Of course she's not!" Penelope wailed. "And naturally, Avery's

mother's dying for it also."

"Oh, Pen, it's perfect! You guys make such a cute couple, and

now everyone else can see it, too!" I cackled.

"You should hear them, Bette, it's hideous. Both of them are already

fantasizing about all those fancy private schools they can list

between them. Do you know I overheard my mother on the phone

the other day with the Weddings editor, saying that she'd like to include

all the siblings' schools as well? The woman told her that

they won't even discuss it until six weeks before, but that hasn't

discouraged anyone: Avery's mom already made an appointment

for the photo shoot and has all sorts of ideas about how we can

pose so that our eyebrows are level, which is one of the published

suggestions. The wedding is still a year away!"

"Yes, but these things require lots of advance planning and research."

"That's what they said!" she cried.

"What about eloping?" But before she could answer, Aaron

made a big show of knocking on my cubicle wall and waving his

arms to imitate regret at breaking up our "little powwow," as he irritatingly

called our lunches.

"Don't mean to break up your little powwow, folks," he said,

as both Penelope and I silently mouthed the words along with

him. "Bette, may I have a word with you?"

"No worries, I was just leaving," Penelope breathed, obviously

grateful for the chance to flee without talking to Aaron. "Bette, we'll

talk more later." And before I could say anything, she was gone.

"Saaaaaaaay, Bette?"

"Yes, Aaron?" He sounded so much like Lumbergh from
Office

Space
that it would have been funny had I not been on the receiving

end of his "suggestions."

"Weeeeell, I was just wondering if you had a chance to read

today's quote of the day?" He gave a loud, phlegmy cough and

raised his eyebrows at me.

"Of course, Aaron, 1 have it right here. 'Individual commitment

to a group effort—that is what makes a team work, a company

work, a society work, a civilization work.' Yeah, I have to say, that

one really spoke to me."

"It did?" He looked pleased. "That was yesterday's, but I'm glad

it had such impact."

"Sure. It was really appropriate. I learn a lot from all of them.

Why? Is something wrong?" I asked in my most ingratiatingly concerned

tone.

"Nothing's wrong,
per se,
it's just that I couldn't find you for

nearly ten minutes before, and while that doesn't sound like much,

I'm sure to Mrs. Kaufman—who was waiting on an update—it feels

like an eternity."

"An eternity?"

"I just don't think that when you're away from your desk for