Romantically Challenged

by Beth Orsoff

  The hostess, a woman in her mid-forties who likely spent her days sucking up to celebrities, was not surprisingly not at all interested in talking to me. When I told her I had a reservation for Michael and Julie at one o’clock she peered at me over the rim of her Armani frames. “We don’t make reservations in first names. Last name?”

  “My assistant assured me she made the reservation in our first names,” I said in my angry lawyer voice.

  She reluctantly checked her book. “No, there’s no reservation for a Michael or a Julie. What was the last name again?”

  Had this woman been even the slightest bit warm and fuzzy I might’ve told her the truth—that I was so pathetic I had resorted to a dating service that didn’t give out last names, and even they had stood me up. Instead I mumbled, “We must’ve had our signals crossed,” and ran out of the restaurant.

  Obviously my parking karma theory was right. From now on I wasn’t even going to look for street parking. At least not when I was on a date.

  * * *

  Celia finally returned my calls on Monday morning. She apologized profusely and told me it was all just a horrible mix-up. I didn’t care what her excuse was, all I wanted was a refund. Celia swore it would never happen again and attempted to placate me with an extra date for free. After ten minutes of cajoling, I relented. The worst was over. The only place to go was up, right?

  Chapter 26

  Helping Others

  I waited until 11:05 before I went next door to Simone’s office. “Where’s Greg?” Since his wife had left him, Greg had become a regular fixture at our Monday morning bitch sessions.

  Simone looked up from her desk with dark circles under her eyes. “He had a court appearance this morning. He must not be back yet.”

  “What’s wrong? Is Rosenthal on your case again?”

  “No, I had a fight with Todd.”

  “About what?” I always thought Simone and Todd had a great relationship. According to Simone, they never argued.

  “About the wedding. What else?”

  “I thought you’d settled that. Big wedding, New Year’s Eve, the Four Seasons Beverly Hills.”

  “That’s only the beginning. Now it’s bands, flowers, menus, guest lists, and rehearsal dinners, just to name a few.”

  “I thought the grooms left all those boring details up to the brides.”

  “Maybe guys without mothers, but Todd’s mother is alive and well and she’s driving me crazy.”

  “Can’t you have Todd tell her to back off?”

  “He’s telling me to back off. Apparently, my twenty-eight-year-old fiancé is a mama’s boy. I’m about ready to give him back to his mama.”

  This was serious. Simone almost never complained about Todd. “You don’t mean that. You’re just going through a rough time. Planning a wedding always puts a strain on a relationship.”

  “How would you know? You’ve never even been engaged.”

  Ouch. That hurt. I reminded myself that Simone was under a lot of stress and said, “True. But I’ve been a bridesmaid eight times and every single time the bride wanted to call it off at least once. But after the wedding, they all said it was worth it.”

  “The wedding maybe, but not the groom.”

  “Don’t you think you’re just pissed at him right now because he’s taking his mother’s side?”

  “Yes, but if this is the way he’s going to act after we’re married, then I’m not sure I want to be married to him.”

  Uh-oh. “Did you tell him that?”

  “At about three o’clock this morning at the top of my lungs. That’s when he left.”

  I’d known Simone six years and this was the first time I’d ever seen her cry. I handed her the box of tissues she kept next to her computer.

  “Thanks,” she said and blew her nose.

  “No problem. They’re your tissues.”

  She smiled for a moment, then started crying again.

  I returned to my office and rummaged through the bottom drawer of my desk. Buried under three back issues of California Lawyer magazine, half a dozen take-out menus, and a rubber stress ball, I found my mini dartboard. The picture of Scumbag was still attached, although I could barely make out his face through all the holes. I tossed the picture in the trash and carried my board and all the darts I could find next door to Simone’s office.

  “What’s this?” she asked when I set them down on her desk.

  “Consider it an early wedding present.”

  I picked up her pad and pen and drew two stick figures side by side. I labeled one Todd and the other Todd’s Mother. I added long curly hair and fangs to Todd’s Mother, then tore the drawing off the pad and handed it to Simone.

  “You can start with these,” I said, “and replace them with real pictures later.”

  She studied my drawing for at least ten seconds. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have real artistic ability?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Then you know you haven’t been lied to.”

  “Thanks, Simone.” Sometimes it was hard to remember why we were friends.

  “Although this actually looks a little like Todd’s mother. It must be the fangs.”

  I tacked the drawing onto the dart board, and propped it on top of Simone’s file cabinet. Then I handed her the black darts and kept the red ones for myself.

  * * *

  By the time Simone’s alarm rang warning us of Rosenthal’s impending return, our aim had really improved. Simone had hit Todd twice in the chest and his mother three times in the head. I’d concentrated on the mother and had managed to hit her once each in the head and chest, and had practically severed her right arm.

  “What are you doing after work tonight?” I asked as I gathered the stray darts.

  “No plans,” Simone said. “I figured I would just go home and feel sorry for myself. Why?”

  “We haven’t had an associates dinner in a long time. I think we’re due for one.”

  “I don’t remember us ever having one.”

  “Then we’re definitely due for one. I’ll ask Greg if he wants to come too.”

  * * *

  At a quarter to eight, Greg and Simone walked into my office with their suit jackets on and their briefcases in hand. “Come on Burns,” Greg said. “You organized this dinner. You don’t want to be late.”

  We walked through the lobby side by side, an army of three in dark suits. Simone was the first to notice the huge bouquet of long stem red roses on the security desk.

  “Hi Bobby,” Simone said to the seventy-two-year-old security guard. “You must be really good if the women are sending you flowers.” She really was a shameless flirt.

  Bobby blushed. “It was after hours so I couldn’t let the delivery man upstairs. I was going to bring them up to you myself when I took my dinner break.”

  “They’re for me?” she cooed as she snatched the card from its plastic fork. Bobby was the only one of us who believed she hadn’t already seen her name in big black letters on the outside of the envelope. As she read, a huge grin spread across her face.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “Baby, I’m sorry,” she said in a soft voice. “Let me make it up to you. Dinner tonight at eight. Our place. I’ll have the champagne on ice. Love Todd.”

  “I didn’t know Todd could cook,” Greg said.

  “He can’t,” Simone replied.

  “Then what’s he going to do? Order a pizza to go with the champagne?”

  “Our place isn’t our apartment,” Simone said in a tone that made it clear that it was incredibly obvious and Greg was the only idiot that didn’t get it. “It’s Spago.”

  Yeah, that Spago, where on any given night you’re practically guaranteed to spot at least one celebrity. Supposedly it had great food too. I’d never been.

  Simone pulled her cell phone out of her purse and turned towards the windows. “Hi honey,” she said into the receiver. After a pause she said, “I just got them.” Another pause
. “I’m on my way. Love you.” She shut her phone and turned back to me and Greg.

  “Sorry guys, you understand.”

  “Sure Simone,” I said, and handed her the vase of flowers. “See you tomorrow.”

  She took off in the direction of the parking garage escalators, her black pumps clicking against the marble tiles. I watched Greg stare after her until she disappeared around the corner.

  “She’s got great legs, doesn’t she?” I said to Greg.

  “She’s got a lot more than that,” he replied.

  “She’s a real looker,” Bobby chimed in.

  “All right,” I told them. “I’m not one of the boys, ya know.”

  “Sorry,” Bobby said and looked down, pretending to study the security camera images on his television screens.

  “You’re cute too,” Greg said. “It’s just different.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m attractive in an approachable way. Simone’s a goddess.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Thanks, Greg.”

  “You know I’m just kidding with you.”

  “I do?”

  “Of course you do. Come on, I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “At Spago?” I asked hopefully.

  “No, at Il Paio, where you made a reservation when you thought you were paying.”

  * * *

  I met up with Greg in the restaurant’s bar. I was only five minutes late and he was already sipping a martini and talking to an attractive Asian woman. He didn’t waste any time.

  We shared a pizza and a pasta and our best dating horror stories. My near death experience trumped Greg’s worst date, but he shocked me by telling me he’d already slept with two different women. He’d only been separated from his wife for six weeks.

  “How many times did you go out with them before you slept with them?”

  “The first one, I think her name was Nancy, was a one night stand. The second one, Carol, I actually went out with a few times.”

  “How do you get these women to sleep with you so fast?”

  He put down his fork and spread his arms out. “Well look at me. They can’t resist.”

  “C’mon, I’m serious.”

  “They know the rule just like I do.”

  “What rule?”

  “The three date rule,” he said. “You either get some by the third date or it’s over. Surely you’ve heard this before?”

  Of course I had. “I thought that meant fool around, not sleep together.”

  “What do you think fooling around is at our age. Second base?”

  “I don’t know. But I know I’ve gone out with guys more than three times before I’ve slept with them.”

  He smiled, more to himself than to me. “There are always exceptions.”

  “You mean you’ll give them four dates if you think they’re really hot?”

  “I’ll actually go up to six dates for a really hot woman. Especially if I’m dating multiple women at the same time. That sort of takes the pressure off any one relationship.”

  I used to think Greg was a nice guy. It’s not the first time I’ve made that mistake. “Were you like this before you were married?”

  “No,” he said, suddenly serious again. “I dated my wife for four years and I was faithful the entire time. And that includes the three years after the wedding before she moved in with her jogging buddy. I have a lot of lost time to make up for.”

  “I kind of feel the same way. Except for me it’s about dating men, not sleeping with them.”

  “What’s the point of dating if you’re not going to sleep with any of them?”

  “It’s not like I set out not to sleep with them. I’m just only interested in sleeping with the right guy.”

  “Which means what?” he said, and signaled to the waiter to bring us our check. “The guy you’re going to marry?”

  “No, but it has to be a guy I would at least consider marrying.”

  “Those don’t come along very often. You’re going to have to go through an awfully long dry spell.”

  “Tell me about it!”

  “Well if you change your mind, I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “Thanks for the offer. You’re really sweeping me off my feet.”

  He spread his arms wide. “Don’t knock it ‘till you try it.”

  “I’ll wait for the movie.”

  Chapter 27

  The Opposition

  The conference room at the offices of Carr Geary & Rogers, Jared Kinelli’s attorneys, looked like most firm conference rooms—a long, narrow table with a dozen low-backed swivel chairs atop industrial gray carpet. The only item that ever varied even slightly was the furniture. This one had a black formica table with black leather chairs. Not very original, but the seats were comfortable. And the offices were conveniently located only eight floors below mine.

  I stared out the window at the Santa Monica Mountains view until the door opened and a stocky man in his mid-thirties with dirty-blond hair and horn-rimmed glasses walked in. I gave him a seven and a half on a scale of one to ten, but only because of the suit. Without it, he wouldn’t be higher than a six and a half. Seven at the most. A good suit can do that for a man. I suspected he knew that.

  He extended his hand and introduced himself as Steve Rogers. Once he started talking, I detected a slight Midwest twang. After a few minutes of chitchat about our respective caseloads and the weather, I brought the conversation around to Rosebud.

  “We have a very strong case,” Steve Rogers announced.

  “Really,” I replied, casually sipping from the Pellegrino his assistant had brought me. “From our perspective, it’s a classic he said/she said. Very difficult to prove.”

  “Usually that’s true, but in this case it’s a repeat performance for your client. That will make it a lot easier.”

  I knew he was referring to the case filed against Rita Levin when she was at Worldwide. “The allegations in the complaint were never proven and you know the settlement is inadmissible.”

  “Yes, but you know that most people think where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  A cliché, but no less true.

  We continued the debate in gracious tones for another ten minutes until Steve told me he’d consider settling the case for half a million dollars. That’s when I packed up my briefcase and walked out. I went as far as the reception area before I allowed Steve to cajole me back into the conference room. I knew the next settlement figure he proposed would be much more reasonable. I’d learned that trick from Rosenthal.

  After another five minutes of debate and a promise to speak again soon, I took the elevator back to the thirty-second floor. When I got back to my office I checked my messages and was surprised to find one from Celia at Just A Date. Luckily, she’d only left her name and number and not the name of the company. She was the first call I returned.

  “I have great news,” she said. “Michael called me this morning. His business trip was cut short and he’ll be back in town from Thursday to Sunday and would love to meet you. Are you available?”

  “I need to check my calendar.” The guy stood me up once already. I didn’t know if I wanted to give him another chance.

  “I almost forgot,” she added. “He asked me to tell you that he went to The Range on Saturday looking for you too. You must’ve just missed each other. He wanted me to make sure you knew that he didn’t stand you up.”

  I assumed Celia was not a mind reader, so this was probably the truth. “Okay. But I think this time we should do a weekday and a different restaurant.”

  “Just tell me where and when, and I’ll make the reservation as soon as we hang up.”

  “Let’s say Friday at one o’clock. It will need to be a restaurant near my office.”

  “You’re in Century City right? How about Il Paio?”

  “I was there last night. How about Il Toro instead?” It was another trendy Italian restaurant, but one I’d never been to. I wanted to meet someplace where they didn
’t know my last name.

  “I’ll call you Thursday to confirm.”

  “Promise?” I hoped it sounded like I was joking, even though I wasn’t.

  “I promise,” Celia said. “And you need to promise to call me after the date and tell me how it went.”

  I figured she was still trying to make it up to me for her screw-up last time, but I wasn’t going to let her off that easy. “Do you take such a personal interest in all your clients’ love lives?”

  “Yes, we ask all our clients to call us after the date to tell us how it went. We use the feedback to help us find your next match.”

  Wasn’t a dating specialist supposed to be more optimistic than that?

  * * *

  I arrived at Il Toro five minutes late. I rushed inside and waited impatiently while the nineteen year old hostess/actress (she was beautiful and this was L.A.) talked on the phone. When she hung up, I gave her my first name and held my breath.

  “What’s the last name?” she asked.

  Not again! “I’m sure it’s under my first name,” I said and peered down at the reservation book. When I found the entry for Julie and Michael, I pointed it out to her. The words ‘Just A Date’ were in parentheses next to our names. Was that really necessary?

  “Oh right,” the hostess said and smiled at me.

  I was sure she was thinking this is the pathetic girl that can’t get a date on her own. I wanted to say ‘Just wait until you’re thirty-two miss perky breasts.’ Instead, I kept my mouth shut and followed her to a table for two in the center of the restaurant and, not coincidentally, directly in her line of sight.

  According to the L.A. Restaurant Guide, Il Toro boasted a European ambience. I learned that’s code for the tables are so close together you can’t help but overhear the conversation of the person sitting next to you. In the future I needed to remember to choose a larger restaurant.

  I hid behind my menu while I waited for Michael. At first I just skimmed it. Then I read it from cover to cover. When the waiter re-filled my water glass for the third time I ordered an iced tea. Then I started nibbling on the bread he’d left in the center of the table. After I’d finished two slices of focaccia and a breadstick I pulled out my cell phone and checked my messages. I looked at my watch again. It was 1:20 p.m. I decided I would wait until 1:30 and then leave.