‘I don’t know. Can I think about it?’
‘Of course you may, darling. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to debate all the pros and cons of accepting a job where you can party for a living. I expect you’ll make the right decision.’ He clicked down the receiver before I could say another word.
I went to sleep late that night and spent the entire next day procrastinating. I played with the puppies at the pet shop on the corner, made a pit stop at Dylan’s Candy Bar, and alphabetized the paperbacks visible in my apartment. Admittedly, I was curious what the job would entail. There was a part of it that seemed really appealing, the chance to meet some new people and not sit at a desk all day long. Years of banking had taught me to be very good with details, and decades of Will-prompted socializing had ensured I could pretty much talk to anyone about anything – and actually seem interested, even if I was crying with boredom inside. I always felt a little awkward, a bit out of place, but I could keep my mouth moving at all costs, which went a long way toward making people think I had some social skills. And of course, the mere thought of printing more résumés and pleading for interviews sounded significantly more dreadful than organizing parties. All of this, combined with the fact that my checking account had just dipped below the minimum required amount, made PR sound like a dream.
I called Will.
‘Okay. I’ll write to Kelly and ask for some more information about what it entails. Can you just give me her email address?’
Will snorted. ‘Her what?’ He refused to buy so much as an answering machine, so a computer was definitely out of the question. He typed all his columns on a clanking typewriter and had one of his assistants key it into Microsoft Word. When it came time for him to edit, he’d stand over her shoulder, press his finger to the computer screen, and command her to delete, add, and expand the text as he watched.
‘The special computer address where I can write her an electronic letter,’ I said slowly.
‘You’re adorable, you really are. Bette, don’t be ridiculous. Why would you need that? I’ll have her call you to set a starting date.’
‘Don’t you think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves, Will? It might be better if I sent her a résumé first, and then if she likes it, we can take it from there. That’s how it usually works, you know.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard that,’ he said, sounding more and more disinterested. ‘Time wasting at its best. You’d be perfect for the job because you’ve honed those banking skills – detail-oriented, anal-retentive, deadline-adherent. And I know she’s a great girl because she used to be my assistant. I’ll just give her a little call and let her know how lucky she’d be to have you. Not a thing to worry about, my dear.’
‘I didn’t know she was your assistant!’ I said, mentally trying to calculate Kelly’s age.
‘Indeed. I had her straight out of college. Hired her as a favor to her father. Best thing I ever did – she was bright and motivated and got me organized, and I, in turn, trained her from scratch. She went on to work at People and then switched to PR. She’ll welcome you aboard. Trust me.’
‘Okay,’ I said with not a little hesitation. ‘If you think so.’
‘I know so, darling. Consider it done. I’ll have her call you to discuss the details, but I anticipate no problems whatsoever. As long as you edit that wardrobe of yours to eliminate all skirt suits – and anything that looks like a skirt suit – I think everything will be just fine.’
6
Kelly herself was waiting in the building’s lobby and embraced me like a long-lost friend when I arrived for my first day as instructed, at exactly nine A.M.
‘Bette, honey, we’re so happy to have you with us!’ she breathed, casting a quick glance over my outfit. A fleeting, wide-eyed look – not quite panic, closer to distress – passed over her face before she fixed on a broad smile and led me by the hand to the elevator.
I’d had the good sense to avoid a full suit, but it wasn’t until I’d caught a quick glimpse of everyone else’s attire that I realized I still hadn’t calculated correctly. Apparently my notion of business casual (cuffed charcoal gray pants, baby blue Oxford shirt, and understated low heels) differed slightly from that of the rest of the staff at Kelly & Company. The office was a sprawling downtown space with floor-to-ceiling windows that afforded views all the way down to Wall Street and west to New Jersey, giving it a decidedly loft-like feel. Around a large circular table sat a half-dozen people; each and every one, without exception, possessed unnervingly good looks and wore all black. The most malnourished-looking of the girls called out to Kelly, ‘Page Six for comment on prenup trend, line two,’ and Kelly motioned for me to take a seat before reaching up and adjusting what looked like a very tiny earpiece. A second later she was greeting someone on the other line with giggles and compliments while pacing the length of the southern-facing windows. I sat next to the super-skinny girl and turned to introduce myself but found myself staring at her hand, one finger of which pointed upward in a clear sign that I should wait. It was then that I noticed that each person around the table was chatting enthusiastically at the exact same time, although it didn’t appear that they were talking to each other. It took me another moment to see that they all had tiny wireless phones tucked into their ears. I didn’t know then that in a few short weeks I would feel completely naked – exposed! – without that phone constantly attached to the side of my face … right then it just looked weird. The girl nodded gravely a few times and glanced in my direction, muttering something indecipherable. I politely looked away and waited for someone to notice me.
‘Hello? Hello? What did you say your name was?’ I heard her ask as I surveyed the rest of the group. It was a surprisingly even split between guys and girls, their primary commonality being the level of almost-disturbing attractiveness among them. I was beginning to stare when I felt a tap on my back.
‘Hey,’ the skinny one said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Me?’ I dumbly asked, convinced she was still on the phone.
She laughed. Not nicely. ‘Who else’s name do you think I don’t know here? I’m Elisa.’ The hand she held out was ice-cold and very, very thin. I watched a diamond right-hand ring swing around her emaciated middle finger in little loops before I remembered to respond.
‘Oh, hi. I’m Bette. Bette Robinson. It’s my first day.’
‘Yeah, I heard. Well, welcome aboard. Kelly’s not likely to get off that call anytime soon, so why don’t I introduce you around?’ She worked her wavy reddish-blond hair into a messy topknot and secured it from underneath with a claw clip. A few strands in front fell out and she tucked them behind her ear. She felt to make sure that the hair was sprouting just so from the clip in that cool, casual way I always tried to achieve but could never manage, and then she stuck a pair of oversized black plastic sunglasses on her head to hold everything together. I could see from the silver G’s that they were Gucci. She was effortlessly chic, and I had the feeling I could simply watch her forever.
Elisa walked to the far end of the table and flicked the light switch three times in quick succession. Immediately I heard a chorus of voices announcing to their headsets that a very important person was calling for them on the other line, and could they call back in just a few moments? Almost simultaneously, six manicured hands reached toward six ears and removed six earpieces, and within seconds, Elisa had commanded the complete attention of the entire room without saying a word.
‘Hey, everyone, this is Bette Robinson. She’ll be working primarily with Leo and me, so try not to give her a hard time, okay?’
Nods all around.
‘Hi,’ I said, my voice sounding squeaky.
‘That’s Skye,’ Elisa started, pointing at an edgy-looking girl in dark indigo jeans, a tight, long-sleeved black T-shirt, a two-inch-thick leather belt with a massive jeweled buckle, and the most fabulous pair of broken-in cowboy boots I’d ever seen. She was pretty enough to pull off her ultra-boyish short haircut, which only
complemented her curvy, feminine figure. Again, I just wanted to sit and stare, but I managed to say hello, and Skye returned my greeting with an enigmatic smile. ‘Skye’s working on the Kooba bag account right now,’ Elisa said before turning her pointing finger on the next person. ‘That’s Leo, the other senior person besides me. And now you,’ she added in a tone I couldn’t quite identify.
‘Hi, honey, nice to meet you,’ Leo said, standing up from his chair to kiss me on the cheek. ‘Always glad to have another pretty face in the office.’ He turned to Elisa and said, ‘Sorry, sweets, but I’ve got to run and meet the Diesel jeans guy for a late breakfast. Tell Kelly for me?’ She nodded as he slung a messenger bag across his chest and bolted toward the door.
‘Davide, say hello to Bette,’ Elisa instructed the only guy left at the table. Davide’s dark eyes peered out broodingly from under heavy eyelashes and a thick lock of dark hair. He ran his fingers through the front part and stared at me. After a few more awkward moments he said ‘Allo’ in what immediately sounded like a questionable accent.
‘Hi, Davide,’ I said. ‘Where is that great accent from?’
‘He is originally from Italy, of course,’ Elisa answered quickly on his behalf. ‘Can’t you tell?’
I decided then and there that there was something going on between Elisa and Davide – there was a vibe between them that just screamed ‘dating,’ and I congratulated myself on being perceptive enough to figure it out. But before I finished marveling at my own cleverness, Elisa fell into Davide’s lap, wrapped her arms around his neck like a little girl would with her daddy, and then kissed him full on the mouth in a most undaughterlike manner.
‘Seriously, Elisa, spare us the office PDA, will you, please?’ Skye whined, her eyes rolled back quite far in her head. ‘It’s bad enough we all have to envision you guys having sex on your own time – don’t make it a reality for us, okay?’
Elisa just sighed and stood up, but not before Davide managed to grab her left breast and squeeze. I tried to imagine two coworkers at UBS sharing the same interaction in the conference room and nearly laughed out loud.
‘So, yeah,’ she continued as though the mini in-office grope session hadn’t occurred. ‘Skye, Leo, and Davide are the senior people. Those three over there’ – she pointed to three pretty young girls, two blonds and a brunette, who sat hunched over PowerBook laptops – ‘they’re the List Girls. Responsible for making sure we have all the information for everyone we’d ever want or need to attend an event. You know how someone once said that there are only a few people worth knowing in the world? Well, they know them.’
‘Mmm, I see,’ I mumbled, although I had no idea what she was saying. ‘Totally.’
Three hours later I felt like I’d worked there three months. I observed a staff meeting where everyone lounged casually around the loft drinking bottles of Diet Coke and Fiji water and talking about the party they were throwing for Candace Bushnell’s new book. Skye ran through a checklist as various people updated her on the venue, invitation status, menu, sponsors, photographer placement, and press access. When she was finished, Kelly hushed the room and had one of the List Girls read the most recently updated RSVP list as if it were the word of God. Each name elicited a nod, a sigh, a smile, a mutter, a head shake, or an eye-roll, although I recognized only a handful of them. Nicole Richie. Karenna Gore Schiff. Natalie Portman. Gisele Bundchen. Kate and Andy Spade. Bret Easton Ellis. Rande Gerber. The entire cast and crew of Sex and the City. Nod, sigh, smile, mutter, shake, roll. It went on for nearly three hours, and by the time they’d finished debating the merits and pitfalls of every single individual – what each might add to the party and, therefore, the coverage or, worse, what they might take away – I was more exhausted than I would have been had I just hung up on Mrs Kaufman. By two o’clock, when Elisa asked if I wanted to grab a coffee with her, I couldn’t say yes fast enough.
We each smoked a cigarette on the walk over and I was struck by the sudden and overwhelming desire to be sharing a plate of falafel on the bench outside UBS with Penelope. Elisa was providing some sort of running commentary on office politics, who really ran the show (her), and who really wanted to (everyone else). I called upon my valuable can-talk-to-anyone-about-anything skill and kept asking her questions while tuning out her answers entirely. It wasn’t until we were settled into a corner table with our coffees – Elisa’s was skim, decaf, and dark – that I actually heard something she said.
‘Oh. My. God. Will you fucking look at that?’ she hissed.
I followed her gaze to a tall, lanky woman who was wearing a very unremarkable pair of jeans and a basic black blazer. She had sort of drab, brownish hair and a fairly mediocre body, and everything about her seemed to say ‘average in every way.’ Elisa’s excitement seemed to indicate the woman was a celebrity, but she didn’t look the least bit familiar to me.
‘Who is it?’ I asked, leaning in conspiratorially. I didn’t really care, but thought I should.
‘Not “who,” “what”!’ she practically scream-whispered. She hadn’t yet moved her eyes from the woman.
‘What?’ I asked, still clueless.
‘What do you mean, “what”? Are you kidding? Do you not see it? Do you need glasses?’ I thought she was mocking me, but she reached into her oversized tote bag and pulled out a pair of wire-rims. ‘Here, put these on and check that out.’
I continued to stare, clueless, until Elisa leaned in closer and said, ‘Look. At. Her. Bag. Just try and tell me it’s not the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen.’
My eyes went to the large leather bag the woman had nesting in the crook of her elbow while she ordered her coffee. When it came time to pay, she rested it on the counter, rooted through it, and pulled out her wallet before returning the bag to her arm. Elisa groaned audibly. It looked like any other bag to me, just bigger.
‘Ohmigod, I can barely stand it, it’s so amazing. It’s the crocodile Birkin. Rarest of them all.’
‘A what?’ I asked. I briefly considered pretending to know what she was talking about, but it felt like too much effort at that point in the day.
She peered at me, examining my face as though she’d just remembered that I was there. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’
I shook my head.
She took a deep breath, sipped her coffee for strength, and placed her hand on my forearm as if to say, Now listen closely because I’m telling you the only piece of information you’ll ever need to know. ‘You’ve heard of Hermès, right?’
I nodded and saw a wave of relief wash over her face. ‘Sure. My uncle wears their ties all the time.’
‘Yes, well, much more important than their ties are their bags. The first huge hit was the Kelly bag, named for Grace Kelly when she began carrying it. But the really big one – about a thousand times more prestigious – is the Birkin.’
She looked at me expectantly and I murmured, ‘Mmm, it looks lovely. Very nice bag.’
Elisa sighed. ‘It sure is. That one’s probably in the twenty-grand range. It’s so worth it.’
I inhaled so quickly that I swallowed wrong and actually choked. ‘It’s how much? You’re joking. That’s impossible! It’s a purse.’
‘It’s not a purse, Bette, it’s a way of life. I would pay that in a heartbeat if I could just get my hands on one.’
‘I can’t imagine people are lining up to spend that much on a bag,’ I pointed out. Which, in my defense, sounded eminently logical at that moment. I couldn’t have known just how stupid I sounded, but luckily Elisa was prepared to inform me.
‘Christ, Bette, you really have no clue, do you? I didn’t think there was anyone left on the planet who wasn’t at least on the list for a Birkin. Put yourself on immediately and maybe – just maybe – you’ll get one in time to give your daughter one someday.’
‘My daughter? Twenty thousand dollars for a bag? You’re kidding.’
At this point Elisa collapsed in frustration and put her head down o
n the table. ‘No, no, no,’ she moaned, as though in great pain. ‘You just don’t get it. It’s not just a bag. It’s a lifestyle. It’s a statement. It summarizes who you are as a person. It’s a reason for living.’
I laughed at her melodrama. She bolted upright in her seat again and began talking at a rapid-fire pace.
‘I had a friend who fell into a horrible depression after her favorite grandmother died and her boyfriend of three years broke up with her. She couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t drag herself out of bed. She got fired because she never showed up for work. Huge bags under her eyes. Refused to see anyone. Never answered her phone. When I finally showed up at her apartment after months of this, she confided that she was considering suicide.’
‘How awful,’ I murmured, still racing to keep up with the rapid subject change.
‘Yeah, it was awful. But you know what got her through? I’d stopped at the Hermès store on the way over to her apartment, asked for an update … just in case. And you know what? I was able to tell her when I got there that she was only eighteen months away from her Birkin. Do you believe it? Eighteen months!’
‘What did she say?’ I asked.
‘What do you think she said? She was ecstatic! The last time she’d checked it was going to be five years, but they’d trained a whole new crew of craftsmen and her name was due up in a year and a half. She got in the shower that very moment and agreed to go to lunch with me. That was six months ago. Since then she got her job back and has another boyfriend. Don’t you see? That Birkin gave her a reason to live! You simply cannot kill yourself when you’re that close … it’s just not an option.’
It was my turn to examine her to see if she was joking. She was not. In fact, Elisa looked positively radiant from her retelling of the story, as though it had inspired her to live her own life to the fullest. I thanked her for educating me in the ways of the Birkin and wondered what, exactly, I had gotten myself into. This was a far cry from investment banking, and I clearly had a lot to learn.
Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection Page 49