Read Online Everyone Worth Knowing by Lauren Weisberger - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lauren Weisberger
Tags: Fiction
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Thirty-five thousand names, actually,
and we can get in touch with any one of them at any time.
It's what we do. Speaking of which, what do you do?"
Thankfully, before I could piece together some appropriate
white lie, Elaine discreetly beckoned for Kelly from the doorway,
and she scooted out of her chair and strolled to the front room. I
turned my attention to Simon, who was seated on my left, before
noticing that a photographer was subtly snapping photos without a
flash from a crouching position in the corner.
I remembered the first media dinner Will had dragged me to,
when I was fourteen and visiting from Poughkeepsie. We'd been
at Elaine's that night, too, also for a book party, and I'd asked
Simon, "Is it weird that there's someone taking pictures of us eating
dinner?"
He'd chuckled. "Of course not, dear, that's precisely why we're
all here. If there's no photo in the party pages, did the party really
happen? You can't pay to get the kind of press he and his book
will receive from tonight. That photographer is from New York
magazine, if I remember correctly, and as soon as he leaves, another
one will slip right in. At least, everyone hopes so."
Will had begun teaching me that night how to talk to people.
The key was to remember that no one cares what you do or think,
so sit down and immediately begin asking questions to the person
on your right. Ask anything, feign some sort of interest, and follow
up any awkward silences with more questions about them. After
years of instruction and practice I could manage a conversation
with just about anyone, but I didn't enjoy it that night any more
than I had as a teenager, so I said my good-byes and ducked out
after the salad course.
The book club meeting was at Alex's apartment in the East Village.
I jumped on the 6 train and scrolled through my iPod playlist
until settling on "In My Dreams" by REO Speedwagon. When I got
off the train at Astor Place a very petite woman who resembled a
school librarian literally body-checked me. I apologized for my role
in the incident (being there) with a sincere "Excuse me," at which
point she whipped around with the most contorted, demon-like
face and screamed, "EXCUSE ME? MAYBE THAT WOULDN'T HAVE
HAPPENED IF YOU WALKED ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE SIDEWALK!"
and then walked away muttering profanities. Obviously
she could use a few hours with The Very Bad Boy, I thought.
When I had walked the long six avenues east, I rang the bell at
Alex's building on Avenue C and began the dreadful climb. She
claimed her studio was a sixth-floor walk-up, but considering a
Chinese laundry occupied the ground floor and the numbers didn't
begin for one full flight up, it was technically seven floors off the
ground. She was your stereotypical East Village artiste, with headto-
toe black clothes, ever-changing hair color, and a small facial
piercing that appeared to rotate regularly from lip to nose to brow.
An East Village artiste with a passionate dedication to romantic
fiction for women. She obviously had the most to lose if any of
her peers found out—a sort of artistic street cred, if you will—
and so we all agreed to tell her neighbors, if asked, that we were
there for a Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting. "You're more comfortable
telling them you're a sex addict than a romance reader?" I'd
asked when she'd given us the instructions. "Clearly!" she'd answered
without a moment's hesitation. "Addiction is cool. All creative
people are addicted to something." And so we did as she
wished.
She looked more punk than usual in a pair of rocker-chic
leather pants and a classic faded CBGB T-shirt. She handed me a
rum and Coke and I sat on her bed and watched her apply another
six or so coats of mascara while we waited for the others. Janie
and Jill were the first to arrive. They were fraternal twins in their
early thirties; Jill was still in school, getting some sort of advanced
degree in architecture, and
and we can get in touch with any one of them at any time.
It's what we do. Speaking of which, what do you do?"
Thankfully, before I could piece together some appropriate
white lie, Elaine discreetly beckoned for Kelly from the doorway,
and she scooted out of her chair and strolled to the front room. I
turned my attention to Simon, who was seated on my left, before
noticing that a photographer was subtly snapping photos without a
flash from a crouching position in the corner.
I remembered the first media dinner Will had dragged me to,
when I was fourteen and visiting from Poughkeepsie. We'd been
at Elaine's that night, too, also for a book party, and I'd asked
Simon, "Is it weird that there's someone taking pictures of us eating
dinner?"
He'd chuckled. "Of course not, dear, that's precisely why we're
all here. If there's no photo in the party pages, did the party really
happen? You can't pay to get the kind of press he and his book
will receive from tonight. That photographer is from New York
magazine, if I remember correctly, and as soon as he leaves, another
one will slip right in. At least, everyone hopes so."
Will had begun teaching me that night how to talk to people.
The key was to remember that no one cares what you do or think,
so sit down and immediately begin asking questions to the person
on your right. Ask anything, feign some sort of interest, and follow
up any awkward silences with more questions about them. After
years of instruction and practice I could manage a conversation
with just about anyone, but I didn't enjoy it that night any more
than I had as a teenager, so I said my good-byes and ducked out
after the salad course.
The book club meeting was at Alex's apartment in the East Village.
I jumped on the 6 train and scrolled through my iPod playlist
until settling on "In My Dreams" by REO Speedwagon. When I got
off the train at Astor Place a very petite woman who resembled a
school librarian literally body-checked me. I apologized for my role
in the incident (being there) with a sincere "Excuse me," at which
point she whipped around with the most contorted, demon-like
face and screamed, "EXCUSE ME? MAYBE THAT WOULDN'T HAVE
HAPPENED IF YOU WALKED ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE SIDEWALK!"
and then walked away muttering profanities. Obviously
she could use a few hours with The Very Bad Boy, I thought.
When I had walked the long six avenues east, I rang the bell at
Alex's building on Avenue C and began the dreadful climb. She
claimed her studio was a sixth-floor walk-up, but considering a
Chinese laundry occupied the ground floor and the numbers didn't
begin for one full flight up, it was technically seven floors off the
ground. She was your stereotypical East Village artiste, with headto-
toe black clothes, ever-changing hair color, and a small facial
piercing that appeared to rotate regularly from lip to nose to brow.
An East Village artiste with a passionate dedication to romantic
fiction for women. She obviously had the most to lose if any of
her peers found out—a sort of artistic street cred, if you will—
and so we all agreed to tell her neighbors, if asked, that we were
there for a Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting. "You're more comfortable
telling them you're a sex addict than a romance reader?" I'd
asked when she'd given us the instructions. "Clearly!" she'd answered
without a moment's hesitation. "Addiction is cool. All creative
people are addicted to something." And so we did as she
wished.
She looked more punk than usual in a pair of rocker-chic
leather pants and a classic faded CBGB T-shirt. She handed me a
rum and Coke and I sat on her bed and watched her apply another
six or so coats of mascara while we waited for the others. Janie
and Jill were the first to arrive. They were fraternal twins in their
early thirties; Jill was still in school, getting some sort of advanced
degree in architecture, and
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