Everyone Worth Knowing Read Online Free PDF

home.
    "Hi, this is Bette Robinson with account number six-threethree-
    eight. I need a car to pick me up at—"
    "All booked!" barked back an angry-sounding female dispatcher.
    "No, I don't think you understand. I have an account with your
    company and—"
    Click.
    I stood there soaking wet, anger boiling inside me.
    "No cars, huh? Tough," he said, clucking sympathetically without
    looking up from the book. I'd managed to skim Lady Chatterley's
    Lover when I was twelve and had already gleaned as much
    about sex as possible from the combination of Forever, Wifey and
    What's Happening to My Body? Book for Girls, but I didn't remember
    anything about it. Perhaps that had to do with a poor memory,
    or maybe it was the fact that sex hadn't even been a part of my
    consciousness for the last two years. Or maybe it was that the plots
    of my beloved romance novels crowded my thoughts at all times.
    Whatever it was, I couldn't even recall something snide to say
    about it, never mind clever. "No cars." I sighed. "Just not my night."
    He took a few steps out in the rain and handed me a long executive's
    umbrella, already unfurled, with the club's logo emblazoned
    on both sides. "Take it. Walk to Eighth, and if you still can't
    get a cab, talk to the doorman at Serena, Twenty-third between
    Seventh and Eighth. Tell him I sent you, and he'll work it out."
     
    I considered walking right past him and getting on the subway,
    but the idea of riding around in a train car at one in the morning
    was hardly appealing. "Thanks," I mumbled, refusing to meet what
    would surely be his gloating eyes. I took the umbrella and started
    walking east, feeling him watch me from behind.
    Five minutes later, I was tucked in the backseat of a big yellow
    taxi, wet but finally warm.
    I gave the driver my address and slumped back, exhausted. At
    this hour, cabs were good for two things and two things only:
    making out with someone on your way home from a good night
    out or catching up with multiple people in three-minute-or-less
    cell-phone conversations. Since neither was an option, I rested my
    wet hair on the patch of filthy vinyl where so many greasy, unwashed,
    oiled, lice-ridden, and generally unkempt heads had
    rested before mine, closed my eyes, and anticipated the sniffling,
    hysterical welcome I would soon receive from Millington. Who
    needed a man—or even a newly engaged best friend—when you
    had a dog?
     
    3
    The week following Penelope's engagement party was nearly
    unbearable. It was my fault, of course: there are many ways to piss
    off your parents and rebel against your entire upbringing without
    enslaving yourself in the process, but I was clearly too stupid to
    find them. So instead I sat inside my shower-sized cubicle at UBS
    Warburg—as I had every day for the past fifty-six months—and
    death-gripped the phone, which was currently discolored by a
    layer of Maybelline Fresh Look foundation (in Tawny Blush) and a
    few splotches of L'Oreal Wet Shine lip gloss (in Rhinestone Pink). I
    wiped it off as best I could while pressing the receiver to my ear
    and rubbed my grubby fingers clean underneath the desk chair. I
    was being berated by a "minimum," someone who only invests the
    million-dollar minimum with my division and is therefore excruciatingly
    demanding and detail-oriented in a way that forty-milliondollar
    clients never are.
    "Mrs. Kaufman, I truly understand your concern over the
    market's slight decline, but let me assure you that we have everything
    under control. I realize your nephew the interior decorator
    thinks your portfolio is top-heavy with corporate bonds, but I assure
    you our traders are excellent, and always looking out for your best
    interests. I don't know if a thirty-two percent annual gain is realistic
    in this economic environment, but I'll have Aaron give you a call as
    soon as he gets back to his desk. Yes. Of course. Yes. Yes. Yes, I will
    absolutely have him call you the moment he returns from the