by Gigi Blume
“How’s Harriet these days?” Martín asked her once he found the courage.
“Oh, fine,” she answered distractedly. “I didn’t realize the walls are purple.” She scrunched her nose. That was something I knew she’d want to change.
“I thought she might come today,” he said so quietly, Emma must not have heard him.
She tapped her chin, looking up. “I like the copper tiles on the ceiling. Can we get those polished?”
“Uh… sure, I guess,” he said.
Aesthetics were something I figured we could discuss far into the future. For now, I wanted to see the books and go from there. I was sure there were leaks in the budget we could fix if we tightened our belts, and a shiny ceiling wasn’t on my radar. Still, I was pleased Emma was taking interest in the project considering her initial reaction a week prior. It was exciting. Once we got everything in order and made the cosmetic changes Emma would oversee, we could announce our ownership to the press with a grand re-opening. When I expressed those thoughts to Martín, Emma rolled her eyes playfully. This was what I could give her. I couldn’t give her more than friendship. It wouldn’t be fair. But I could give her this.
Our relationship was in a perpetual state of perfect symmetry: I was always looking out for her, and she was always pushing her boundaries—making me laugh, bringing joy to my otherwise busy life. We were made for each other.
We left the bar a couple of hours before they opened for customers, so Martín and staff could prepare. We spent the afternoon on Emma’s deck, reading in companionable silence, watching the sun set over the horizon to the crashing of waves on the shore. It was a perfect day. Mrs Woods sat with us for a while, chatting about nothing of consequence. I wanted to reach out and hold Emma’s hand. Just hold it while the sky went from blue to orange to black, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Two friends with such a bond, even the space of a twenty-four measly inches was like the Grand Canyon. I made an excuse to budge up closer to her with the pretext of sharing my phone screen to watch dog videos. She rewarded my efforts by resting her head on my shoulder.
I could have stayed that way all night. But the cold February breeze set in, and we eventually went inside for another organic dinner. I could hear Rosario’s protests with every bite. And who could blame her after Mrs Woods threw out all the Crisco and chemical cleaners?
I glanced at the pile of avocados on Emma’s plate—the only fat permitted in this new dietary dictatorship.
“Would you like to come back to Karaoke Unplugged with me?” I asked her. “I’d like to watch operations while the night is in full swing. Get some insight on how the place is run.”
Maybe get a burger, too, but I wouldn’t say that in front of Emma’s mum.
“You work too much, Jaxson, dear,” said Mrs Woods. “If you don’t rest, you’ll make yourself sick. You should try meditation.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, ma’am.”
Truthfully, I could hardly tear myself away. Emma’s house was so much more home to me than my own place. But I promised Martín I’d return, and Emma admitted she was tired and would go to bed early. So off I went, but before I did, she walked me out to my car and kissed me. On the jaw. Not even on the cheek. It was that awkward spot between chin and jawbone that was neither the lips nor the earlobe. Underwhelming as far as kisses go but still enough to make my free-falling stomach give the Olympic luge a run for its money. To answer Mrs Woods' admonishment: I worked too much for a reason. If I stopped long enough to entertain my instincts, I’d make myself a lot more than sick. I’d make myself crazy.
8
Emoji Dating
Emma
Another tenner in the kitty, if you please.
I plastered the sticky note smack dab in the middle of Stella’s computer screen. I could smell victory in the air. Or was that her patchouli? Elton and Harriet were halfway in love already. Of course, nosey Jaxson just had to follow me into Stella’s office. I certainly wasn’t complaining, especially since he looked huggable in that wool jumper. It was a pleasant distraction, and I still felt the warmth in my fingertips when we returned into the rehearsal studio. Unfortunately, Harriet was gone by that time.
I couldn’t figure out why Harriet took the bus home. What kind of nutter takes public transportation in Hollywood? She could have been mugged. Or worse. She could have broken a heel. I decided I’d encourage her to drive her clunker car from then on.
Harriet stopped by my house on Sunday a little flustered and a little wet from the rain. I could hear the telltale sounds of her squeaky Honda Civic before she entered the driveway, and I greeted her at the door, hardly able to wait to tell her Elton wanted to record the song. Not that I could get a word in edgewise. She began talking without preamble right in the doorway.
“He texted. Oh, my stars, he texted.”
She said a bunch of other stuff, too, but she spoke so fast I could hardly make out a syllable.
“Wait, slow down, and come inside.”
She shed her wet coat, and I gently coaxed her into the living room. “Take off your shoes, dear. Your socks are probably wet.” I frowned at her trainers, wondering why she wasn’t wearing the boots we’d bought. “Now, what’s this text business?”
“He asked me out,” she squealed. “Oh, Emma, I can’t believe it.”
“What?” This was amazing news. But why via text? Elton probably couldn’t wait until he saw her on Monday. I joined in the squealing, and we probably appeared like two pre-teen girls at a school dance. Mum’s head poked around the corner disapprovingly. I ushered Harriet into the solarium where the heat of a fire warmed the room. It was a cosy contrast to the ominous grey clouds and tumultuous black waves we could see through the floor-to-ceiling windows. We sat on a loveseat where Jaxson and I often liked to read or take naps. He always got the poor end of the sitting arrangement because only one of us could truly stretch out on that small sofa, and it was always me. He was kind enough to allow my feet to rest on his lap.
“I’m delighted he asked you out already,” I admitted, tossing her a throw blanket to warm her up. “I knew you had it in you.”
He certainly didn’t waste any time. It took forever for Randall and Annie to get together. I almost lost my mind over the ordeal.
“He said he wanted to ask me for a long time, but he was too shy to ask.”
“Really?” Elton didn’t strike me as the shy type considering how he hammed it up at the rehearsals. “I suppose musicians are like that when they’re not on stage.”
Perhaps that’s why he didn’t give her a ride on Friday. Because he was too shy. That was adorable.
“Emma, please help me. What do I say to him?”
“Well, what was the wording of the text?” I didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding on her part.
“Do you want to see?” She dug out her phone and handed it to me, opening the text message. I looked at it curiously. She must have tapped the wrong contact because the name on the screen read Roberto.
“Harriet, this isn’t it.” I pointed to the name on the screen. She giggled and shrugged.
“That’s the right number all right. His first name is Roberto.”
“Elton’s first name is Roberto?” Was Elton a middle name?
“Not Elton,” she said nervously. “Martinez.”
“I’m a little confused. Elton asked you out… using Martín’s phone?”
She just blinked wide-eyed with a flush in her cheeks. Oh, snap. No wonder she came over so out of sorts. Elton hadn’t asked her out at all. It was that bartender chap. And the whole business made Harriet uncomfortable. I scrolled through the texts. There were three.
“What do you think?” she asked, wringing her hands on her lap. “Is it too… short?”
“Well, he certainly gets to the point. I’m surprised he used full sentences and not that deplorable text message lingo. Or worse—emojis.”
The bloke probably got help on it.
“Wha
t should I do?”
“You must reply immediately,” I said, handing her back the phone.
“Right.”
“But let him down gently.”
“Let him down?”
I took her shoulders and looked her squarely in the face, trying to give her strength. “Harriet. Nobody likes to turn a guy down. It’s not fun. But you can’t string him along, either. It will make it easier on both of you.”
“Oh.”
“It’s probably best this is done over text message, so you don’t have to see the disappointment on his face.”
“Oh no,” replied Harriet rather solemnly.
“But he’ll get over it by tomorrow. Men are like that.”
“You think I… shouldn’t go out with him?”
This took me by surprise. Was she considering it? That would break Elton’s heart.
“Wait a sec. Were you thinking of actually going out with Martinez?”
“Is that a bad idea?”
Okay now. This girl was more confused than I thought. She didn’t realize how hot she was. Or how much Elton was so obviously into her. My vision tunnelled. Why was she so set on sabotaging her own love life on the first chap who paid her any attention? She was so much better than that.
“Tell me what to do,” she pleaded. “You have so much more experience than I.”
HA! I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. The truth was, all those ‘boyfriends’ the public thought I had were just fabrications by the gossip magazines. When would I ever find time to date? I was too busy hanging out with Jax.
I shook my head vehemently. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly meddle.”
“But I need your advice.”
“Harriet, this is your decision. It’s not my place to tell you what to do.”
She sighed and slumped over, deep in her conflicted thoughts.
“Well, if you won’t tell me what’s best, then I guess…” She rubbed her temples. “Do you think he’s a nice guy?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
She seemed on the verge of tears. I took both her hands and calmed her by running my thumbs in soothing circles. That always calmed me down when Jaxson did that to me.
“Listen, Harriet. I’m not the type to interfere, but I think you’ve already decided in your heart.”
“I have?”
“Yes. If you are absolutely certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt that Roberto Martinez is by far—and I mean head and shoulders more charming and wonderful than any other man you know or will ever know, then nothing can keep you from him.”
“Oh. Okay.” She thought about that for a moment, twisting her features to help her brain work around her feelings. At length, she said, “He’s not head and shoulders more charming than Jaxson.”
I guffawed. “Of course not. Jaxson might as well be from another planet. It wouldn’t be fair to compare him to anybody. But what about someone more average? Someone like, I don’t know, Elton. How does that Martinez fellow stack up against him?”
Her gaze shifted to the floor, and her whole face wrinkled like one of those Shar Pei dogs. I wondered if Elton preferred Shar Peis to Chihuahuas.
“Do you think I should…” Harriet looked at me imploringly as if she just needed validation for an answer she’d already decided upon. I nodded, waiting for her to finish the sentence.
“I should definitely text him.”
“Definitely.”
“And tell him…” Her fingers stroked her phone.
“Yeah?”
“Tell him… no?
Whew!
“Is that what you absolutely want?” I asked.
“Yes? No? Yes?” she stuttered, trying to read my expression, searching for approval. But I was Lady Gaga—pure poker face.
“Yes,” she said with finality. “This is what I want.”
I hugged her, squeezing tight. “I didn’t want to say anything to sway your judgement while you were still trying to decide, but now you’ve made up your own mind, I think you made the right choice.”
“You really think so?”
“I do.”
“Then why do I feel so terrible?”
“Because you’re a good person who doesn’t want to hurt people’s feelings. Imagine if you went out with every guy that asked you. That would be silly.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s probably true.” She looked at her phone again with a frown. “I hope he won’t be too upset.”
“If it meant so much to him, he wouldn’t have asked you out with a text. Don’t read too much into it. Most guys are just looking for a casual hook-up.”
She scrunched her nose. “Really?”
“Sure. But there are good ones out there. Chaps who’d like to record your voice, for instance.”
Her eyes, rimmed with pink, lit up with hope. “Record my voice?”
I nodded, smirking for her sake. “If you hadn’t left so abruptly on Friday, you would have heard all the wonderful things Elton said about you and your singing. He said it was music from heaven.”
She blushed. “I’m sure he was referring to the song you wrote.”
“Nonsense. He specifically praised the performance. And you should have seen his face. He was all googly eyes and dopey smiles.”
“He dopey smiled? For me?”
“Yes. He kept sighing and gushing,” I replied. “Really, I was almost embarrassed for him.”
She smiled, recovering from her thoughts about that punk rock bartender easily at the mention of Elton’s admiration. The former, although kind of cute, was a little too gormless for someone like Harriet. And if she was even a teeny bit impressed by a guy who drove all over Los Angeles for boba, she’d certainly appreciate a Broadway sensation like Elton. If only she had taken a ride from Elton on Friday. They would certainly already be a couple, and then she wouldn’t have to feel bad about informing that Martinez guy she had a boyfriend, thank you very much. But there was no sense in bringing that up. Certainly not to Stella. She’d make me put ten quid in the pot.
Harriet sent the text while I brewed her a cuppa, and I insisted she stay the night because of the rain. And because I was sure her car had a rust hole in the roof. We stayed up all night watching chick flicks and eating ice cream. In the morning, as I forced myself out of bed, she was just too cute to wake up. Mum, who had taken a liking to Harriet, promised to let her sleep in and take her to an afternoon spa treatment. We both agreed a day of pampering and beautifying was exactly what Harriet needed.
Elton would have no choice other than to fall madly in love.
9
Spaghetti Face
Jaxson
Week two of rehearsals was upon us and still no bloody Frank Churchill. Emma tried to convince me to find a new actor, but we needed Frank. He was the one addition to the cast that would bring in the young female crowd. With Frank attached to our picture, we were almost guaranteed to be picked up by a studio.
He was what was hot in young Hollywood, dubbed the ‘Blue-Eyed Crooner’ or ‘Millennial Frankie.’ He was the heartthrob posted on the walls of teen girls, and I counted on him to make Field of Hearts a box office explosion.
Frank was a problem I could deal with. Unfortunately, a new diva was in town, and his name was Elton Wardlow. Who knew he was so extra? I began to wish I’d let Emma’s little friend, Harriet, fill in for Frank at the table read. I had to admit the sprite was growing on me. A tad too eager perhaps, but nice. And it was sweet how Emma was trying to help her friend out. There were worse things in the world than an actor without talent. Hollywood was full of them.
Emma was so intent on having Harriet around all the time, I was beginning to get used to her presence. That was why I found it curious, yet hopeful, not to see her on Monday. Perhaps she was whisked away by the dashing Spanish bartender from Karaoke Unplugged.
That night, over a much-deserved dinner of drive-thru spag bol, I brought it up. We’d discovered a hidden park in a residential neighbourhood and spread
out our feast from Taste of Italy Express.
“How is your little friend?”
Emma quirked her brow and licked marinara sauce from the corner of her lip.
“Which friend? I have so many.”
“Do you now? That’s splendid.”
“Mmmhmm. I travel in a pack now,” she said with a smirk.
“Oh? A pack. Like wolves?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Yeah. Or maybe whatever you call a group of cats. I like cats.”
“A clowder. That’s what you call a group of cats.”
“Really? A clowder? Rhymes with chowder?”
I nodded, smiling at her silly face all covered in sauce.
“How do you know this?” Her bright curious eyes widened.
“It came up in research for a screenplay I was writing once.” I drained my water bottle in one swig.
“Please tell me it’s a screenplay about dazzling female cats in stilettos.”
“No, but you might be on to something. That’s high concept. Do you think we could get Streep?”
“I’ll talk to my people.”
“Good enough.” I leaned my elbows on the cement picnic table and watched her finish her garlic bread. I loved the way she ate with total abandon. To the world, she was Hollywood’s sweetheart. Her flawless face covered in expertly applied cosmetics graced billboards all over the city. She was a household name. Yet here she was, devouring carbs to her heart’s content without a care in the world who might walk by. I found a rogue napkin at the bottom of the take-out bag and dabbed her chin. She giggled, taking the napkin and rubbing it wildly back and forth across her mouth. Whatever gloss she’d applied in the morning was long gone, leaving a natural tint and a soft flush to her lips caused by excessive friction of the rough paper. Only a speck of sauce remained—just under her eye. I decided it was too cute to let her know about it. I smiled at the pure simplicity of this picture-perfect scene, focusing on the sauce so I wouldn’t get lost in her beauty. I took a sip from her water bottle, cherishing this moment. She could have headed home to her mother’s terrible cooking or gone out with one of her cat friends. But she was with me. I prayed her clowder of Sheilas wouldn’t cause too much strain in our friendship.
