Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont
– a bit intimate considering my mouth had been hanging wide open in disbelief.
‘What are you doing here?’
He grinned and pushed that ever-present curl off his forehead. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you the same thing? Because you seem to follow me everywhere I go, I’m going to have to assume you want to sleep with me.’
I blushed and, always the lady, snorted loudly. ‘Yeah, something like that. Actually, I’m not here as a guest, I’m just a very well dressed babysitter. Miranda asked me to come along and didn’t tell me until the last second that I’m supposed to be watching the hosts’ bratty son tonight. So, if you’ll excuse me, I better go make sure he has all the milk and crayons he’ll need.’
‘Oh, he’s just fine, and I’m pretty sure the only thing he’ll be needing tonight is another kiss from his babysitter.’ And he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me again. I opened my mouth to protest, to ask him what the hell was going on, but he took that as enthusiasm and slid his tongue into my mouth.
‘Christian!’ I was hissing quietly, wondering just how quickly Miranda would fire me if she caught me making out with some random guy at one of her own parties. ‘What the hell are you doing? Let go of me!’ I squirmed away, but he just continued to grin that annoyingly adorable smile.
‘Andy, since you seem to be a little slow on the uptake here, this is my house. My parents are hosting this party, and I was clever enough to have them ask your boss to bring you along. Did she tell you I was ten years old, or did you just decide that for yourself?’
‘You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking. Please?’
‘Nope. Fun, right? Since I can’t seem to pin you down any other way, I thought this might work. My stepmother and Miranda used to be friendly when Miranda worked at French Runway – she’s a photographer and does shoots for them all the time – so I just had her tell Miranda that her lonely son wouldn’t mind a little company in the form of one attractive assistant. Worked like a charm. Come on, let’s get you a drink.’ He put his hand on the small of my back and led me toward a massive oak bar in the living room, which currently had three uniformed bartenders administering martinis and glasses of Scotch and elegant flutes of champagne.
‘So, let me just get this straight: I don’t have to babysit for anyone tonight? You don’t have a baby brother or anything like that, do you?’ It was incomprehensible that I had driven to a party with Miranda Priestly and had no responsibilities for the entire night except to hang out with a Hot Smart Writer. Maybe they’d invited me because they were planning to make me dance or sing to entertain the guests, or perhaps they were really short one cocktail waitress and figured I was the easiest last-minute fill-in? Or maybe we were headed to the coat check, where I would relieve the girl who sat there now, looking bored and tired? My mind refused to wrap itself around Christian’s story.
‘Well, I’m not saying you don’t have to babysit at all tonight, because I plan on needing lots and lots of attention. But I think it’ll be a better night than you’d anticipated. Wait right here.’ He kissed me on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd of partygoers, mostly distinguished-looking men and sort of artsy, fashionable women in their forties and fifties, what appeared to be a mix of bankers and magazine people, with a few designers, photographers, and models thrown in for good measure. There was a small, elegant stone patio in the back of the townhouse, all lit by white candles, where a violinist played softly, and I peeked outside. Immediately I recognized Anna Wintour, looking absolutely ravishing in a cream-colored silk slip dress and beaded Manolo sandals. She was talking animatedly to a man I presumed to be her boyfriend, although her giant Chanel sunglasses prevented me from being able to tell if she was amused, indifferent, or sobbing. The press loved to compare the antics and attitudes of Anna and Miranda, but I found it impossible to believe that anyone could be quite as unbearable as my boss.
Behind her stood what I presumed to be a few Vogue editors, eyeing Anna warily and wearily like our own Clackers eye Miranda, and next to them was Donatella Versace.
I sipped my glass of champagne (and I thought I wouldn’t be having any!) and made small talk with an Italian guy – one of the first ugly ones I’d ever met – who spoke in florid prose about his innate appreciation for the female body, until Christian reappeared again.
‘Hey, come with me for a minute,’ he said, once again navigating me smoothly through the crowd. He was wearing his uniform: perfectly faded Diesels, a white T-shirt, a dark sport coat, and Gucci loafers, and he blended into the fashion crowd seamlessly.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked, keeping my eyes peeled for Miranda, who, no matter what Christian said, was still probably expecting me to be banished to the corner, faxing or updating the itinerary.
‘First, we’re getting you another drink, and maybe another for me as well. Then, I’m going to teach you how to dance.’
‘What makes you think I don’t know how to dance? It just so happens that I’m a gifted dancer.’
He handed me another glass of champagne that seemed to appear out of thin air and led me into his parents’ formal living room, which was done in gorgeous shades of deep maroon. A six-piece band was playing hip music, of course, and the couple dozen people under thirty-five had congregated here. As if on cue, the band started playing Marvin Gaye’s ‘Let’s Get It On’ and Christian pulled me against him. He smelled of masculine, preppy cologne, something old-school like Polo Sport. His hips moved naturally to the music, no thinking involved, we just moved together all over the makeshift dance floor, and he sang quietly in my ear. The rest of the room became fuzzy – I was vaguely aware there were others dancing, too, and somewhere someone was making a toast to something, but at that moment the only thing with any definition was Christian. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, there was a tiny but insistent reminder that this body against mine was not Alex’s, but it didn’t matter at all. Not now, not tonight.
It was after one when I actually remembered that I was there with Miranda; it had been hours since I’d last seen her, and I was certain she’d forgotten all about me and headed back to the hotel. But when I finally pulled myself away from the couch in his father’s study, I saw her happily chatting with Karl Lagerfeld and Gwyneth Paltrow, all of them apparently oblivious to the fact that they would all be waking up for the Christian Dior show in just a few hours. I was debating whether or not I should approach her when she spotted me.
‘Ahn-dre-ah! Come over here,’ she called, her voice sounding almost merry over the din of the party that had become noticeably more festive in the last few hours. Someone had dimmed the lights, and it was abundantly clear that the partyers who remained had been well taken care of by the smiling bartenders. The annoying way she pronounced my name didn’t even bother me in my warm and fuzzy champagne buzz. And even though I thought the evening couldn’t get any better, she was clearly calling me over to introduce me to her celebrity friends.
‘Yes, Miranda?’ I cooed in my most ingratiating, thank-you-for-bringing-me-to-this-fabulous-place tone. She didn’t even look in my general direction.
‘Get me a Pellegrino and then make sure the driver’s out front. I’m ready to leave now.’ The two women and one man standing next to her snickered, and I felt my face turn bright red.
‘Of course. I’ll be right back.’ I fetched the water, which she accepted without a thank-you, and made my way through the thinning crowd to the car. I considered finding Christian’s parents to thank them but thought better of it and headed straight toward the door, where he was leaning up against the frame with a smugly satisfied expression.
‘So, little Andy, did I show you a good time tonight?’ he slurred just a little bit, and it seemed nothing short of adorable at that moment.
‘It was all right, I suppose.’
‘Just all right? Sounds to me like you wish I would’ve taken you upstairs tonight, huh, Andy? All in good time, my friend, all in good time.’
I smacked him playfully on the forearm. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Christian.