Fashionably Late

by Beth Kendrick

  “Oh yeah. Half the time he comes in here, he’s covered in mud and testosterone from some suicidal excuse for a sport. He even had a shower installed in the employee bathroom so he can get cleaned up before he goes out into the dining room.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know if Meena broke up with him because of all the cliff diving and whatever. All I know is, they had a big argument one night at the bar and when he got home after work that night, she’d moved out and taken all his stuff. The dishes, the flat-screen TV, the furniture, everything that wasn’t nailed down.”

  “Did he ever get any of it back?”

  “Nope. I think he just chalked it up to experience.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “He chalked a flat-screen TV up to experience?”

  “Believe me, it was worth some high-end electronics and a leather sofa or two to be rid of that chick. They were doomed from the beginning—she kept demanding a ring and he’s Mr. Restless Adventurer.”

  “Not the type to settle down?”

  “Not unless you count jumping out of airplanes as settling down.”

  I couldn’t suppress my smile. A man without a ten-year plan? Who didn’t want to settle down? Be still my heart.

  8

  Five hours later, I had given up on sincere cordiality and settled for twisting my lips into a panicky permasmile. A public relations exec glared at me and demanded, “Where’s the regular hostess?” A glassy-eyed former sitcom star screamed at me because the ladies’ room was out of toilet paper. I spent the entire shift wringing my hands over how to recognize the appropriate people and how to react “appropriately”—friendly and impressed without being obsequious. As Aimee explained, “A-listers want to know that you know who they are, but they don’t want you making a big deal out of it. So they get the best table and free drinks, but no autograph requests. If they wanted to be hounded and interrupted all night, they’d go to Planet Hollywood.”

  At eleven o’clock, my on-the-job mentor abandoned me to go eat dinner in the kitchen where, I suspected, she also wanted to flirt with the new expediter, a swarthy, aspiring action hero with biceps as big as volleyballs. I bent over to adjust the sandal strap digging into my ankle when an overdose of musky cologne inundated the hostess stand.

  A shiny Italian loafer appeared next to my shoe.

  “So…are we near LAX, or is that just my heart taking off?”

  I made a face. “Connor, I thought you were—” I started, snapping back into an upright position. But the man leering at me from a scant four inches away wasn’t Connor.

  Short, squat, and bald, wearing a suit jacket cut way too wide for his shoulders, this man reeked of entitlement and Acqua di Giò.

  “Hi.” I took a quick step backward, almost tripping over my own feet. “Welcome to Rhapsody. How many in your party tonight?”

  “You must be new here.” He closed in on me, practically licking his chops. “Don’t you know who I am?”

  The rough stucco of the wall grated against my bare shoulders. I had no more room to retreat. Where the hell was Aimee? “Excuse me, sir, could you hang on for one moment?”

  Lex Luther’s doppelgänger reached out and poked one finger into the shallow divot between my collarbones. He slid his hand up my neck and traced my jawline. “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t have to work all night. Why don’t you join me at the bar?” This was a command, not a request.

  “I’m really not allowed to drink at work.”

  He smirked. “Then let’s go somewhere else.”

  “I don’t think that’d be a good idea. I’m flattered, truly I am—”

  “Don’t bother playing hard to get,” he barked. “Girls like you are a dime a dozen. I know everyone here and if I decide I want you fired, you’ll be gone like that.” He snapped his stubby fingers two inches from my face.

  And then, just as I resigned myself to getting canned on my first day for refusing to prostitute myself to a guest, Connor materialized at my side.

  He leaned over, ostensibly to check a listing in the reservations book, and wedged his body between me and the lothario. Then, with a smile and handshake, he said, “Hey, Mr. Jamieson. It’s good to see you. I see you’ve met Becca, our new hostess. She’s Andrew King’s sister-in-law.”

  “Really. I didn’t know.” Mr. Jamieson backed off.

  “We’ve got your usual table ready, of course. Follow me.” And with that, Connor steered him toward the dining room.

  The next morning, over green tea and egg-white omelets, Claire reaffirmed everything Aimee had said about Connor.

  “He’s a little, shall we say, eccentric.” She jabbed her fork in the air with every word. “Doesn’t smoke, hardly drinks, loves to vacation in far-flung places like Bhutan and Belize. Into backpacking, sleeping outdoors, the whole gung-ho wilderness nightmare.”

  “Not your type?”

  “Why backpack when you can have room service and fluffy down pillows at the Four Seasons?” She shook her head. “No hablo L.L.Bean. Anyway, he’s only had one serious relationship in the whole time Andrew’s known him. And that fizzled out a few months ago.”

  “Meena. I heard all about it.” I sipped my coffee and feigned nonchalance.

  “Well, then, I’m only going to say this once. Watch yourself.” She folded back the sleeves of her pink cashmere robe. “Don’t get all infatuated with him. He’s unlandable.”

  I choked on my coffee. “Who said anything about landing him?”

  She gave me a pointed look. “I know you and Kevin are scrapping and you think you’re on some magic L.A. adventure straight out of the Disney animation studios, but I’m warning you, if you’re going to rebound, don’t rebound in his direction.”

  “Okay, first of all, I don’t even know what’s going on with Kevin right now. I gave the ring back, we agreed we need to take a few steps back, but I’m not entirely sure we’re broken up.”

  “Well, doesn’t that seem like the kind of thing you should be entirely sure about?”

  “Yeah, but he won’t take any of my calls, so…”

  She rolled her eyes. “Gee, Becca, let’s puzzle this out. Do you want to be broken up?”

  “Do I have to sit through another lecture on how you’re a hard-headed realist and I’m a deluded romantic if I say yes?”

  “No, I’ve given up on trying to talk sense into you.” She paused for a bite of omelet. “Besides, it sounds like he’s already broken up with you. Thank God your name isn’t on that mortgage.”

  “Then why would he insist on driving me to the airport?”

  “Who knows? Why do men do anything?”

  I mulled this over for a moment. “Well, if he wants to break up, then—”

  “No. Becca. We’re not talking about him. We’re talking about you. What do you want? Life is too short to be pussy-footing around like this. You think you have all the time in the world, but you’re…wait, how old are you now?”

  Lying about her age all these years must have permanently skewed her chronology. I smiled sweetly. “Well, I’m almost six years younger than you, so I guess that makes me twenty-four, right?”

  She scowled. “You only have a few years left to find the right kind of guy, so if you’re going to dump Kevin, you’d better get the lead out. Don’t waste your time on a guy like Connor. You should start hanging around the UCLA Medical Center or something, find yourself a cute cardiologist. That car-wreck-with-no-panties scenario might not be a bad idea.”

  Glancing down at my white-on-white breakfast, I asked, “Can I have some toast and jam or something?”

  “Sure, if you don’t mind all those carbs.” She started toward the state-of-the-art Sub-Zero refrigerator, pausing by the bay window to blow kisses to Andrew, who was backing out of the driveway in a low-slung, streamlined European sports car.

  He waved, then screeched away.

  “You know, I adore being married,” she mused, popping two slices of 7-grain whole wheat into the toaster. “I’m happy. Really happy.” She glanced
down at the massive diamond on her finger. “Turns out, it’s easy to be happy when you have a negative edge pool and a guesthouse.”

  “Claire.” I laughed. “It’s okay to admit you love your own husband. That doesn’t make you a deluded romantic.”

  “Fine. I love him. But don’t tell Gayle—I have a reputation to uphold.” She got a dreamy, wistful look in her eyes that I’d never seen before. “I love getting up with him and making his coffee. I love being introduced as Mrs. King. I love sleeping in the same bed with him every night. Of course, I also love my new house and my Benz, but luckily, it’s all a package deal. And guess what?” She sat back down and motioned me in, checking to make sure neither of the newly hired housekeepers were listening in. “We’ve decided to have a baby.”

  “Already?”

  “Yeah. We started trying a few weeks before the wedding—for all I know, I might be knocked up right now.” She beamed down at her minuscule waistline.

  “But don’t you want to spend some time alone, just the two of you? To bond as a couple?”

  “I think we’re as bonded as we’re gonna get.” She shrugged. “We both want children, and let’s face it, I’m not getting any younger. I can’t wait to decorate the nursery. We’re going to redo the guest room down the hall from the master suite—I’m thinking white and green, with a bunny theme. There’s this great Italian artist in Santa Monica who specializes in murals for kids’ rooms; I was thinking we could paint a whole wall with scenes from Peter Rabbit…”

  My eyes glazed over while she yammered on about Beatrix Potter and trompe l’oeil. Finally, when she started in on the merits of half-day preschool versus a European au pair, I interrupted.

  “So anyway—”

  “…And that’s why it’s great to have the resources we do, you see? Our child can get bumped up the waiting list at Crossroads. All it takes is a phone call. Well, a phone call from Kate Hudson, but I’m actually pretty sure that one of my yoga buddies has a class with her, so—”

  “Great. Back to Connor. How long has he been living out here?”

  It took her a minute to snap out of her maternal reverie, but after a few sips of tea, she was once again ready for boy talk. “I’m not sure. He grew up in Colorado, I think. One of the ski resort towns—Aspen or Steamboat Springs or something.”

  “He mentioned he used to work construction in Denver.”

  Claire wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t surprise me at all. He has a do-it-yourself streak a mile wide. The man has no middle ground—he’s either wearing an Armani suit and cufflinks or a sweat-soaked grimy T-shirt.”

  I grinned. “I think that’s kind of sexy.”

  “Hey. What did I just say about steering clear of him?”

  “But—”

  “He’s the opposite of Kevin Bradley, I grant you that. But do you really want to spend your prime dating years wandering through snake-infested canyons, courting death on white-water raft expeditions and remodeling roach-infested old houses?” She nodded. “Oh yes. That’s what he does for fun. That and take heart-stopping risks with his stock portfolio.”

  “Well, it seems to be working out for him.”

  “Sure, he’s stocked up on Armani suits today, but he could lose it all tomorrow, and then he’d be”—she shuddered—“poor.”

  “A fate worse than death,” I said dryly.

  “Hey, at least if I die I’ve got some fabulous black Valentino to wear at my funeral.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and propped her freshly pedicured toes up on the empty chair next to us. “I keep telling you, you have to look at the bottom line: financial security. Especially if you’re going to be a total professional washout like me and need someone else to carry you through the rest of your life.”

  “Hey.” I touched her arm. “You are not a washout.”

  She flipped up the collar of her robe and stared at the sunlight pouring in through the window. “There’s no point in denying it.”

  “How can you say that? Look at everything you’ve done.”

  “Everything my husband’s done,” she corrected. “I don’t even pretend to have a real job anymore.”

  The toaster dinged, breaking the long silence.

  “Thank God I found Andrew.” She got up and stacked the toast on a translucent white china plate.

  “Claire—”

  She silenced me with a wave of her hand. “Listen. You did the right thing coming out here. Don’t give up on your design stuff. You’re very talented. And I’m…” She turned away from me and grabbed a jar of strawberry preserves. “I’m sorry about the wedding gown.”

  I shrugged. “A month sleeping in your guesthouse, driving your car ought to make up for it.”

  “No, it was horrible, what I did.” She rubbed her forehead with her palm. “I had to have the name-brand dress to go with the name-brand ring and the name-brand groom. Total bridal psychosis, what can I say?”

  “You could do a lot worse than Carolina Herrera,” I conceded.

  She turned around to meet my gaze. “No, Becca, yours was better. Yours was perfect.”

  This was the first time that anyone except Connor had said anything remotely encouraging about my prospects as a designer.

  “Well I spent part of last week redoing the hem and changing the color from ivory to plum,” I confessed. “If you still want it…”

  “Of course!” She presented me with my customary, calorie-laden breakfast of toast and jam. “It’ll be perfect for the charity dinner we’re going to next month.”

  “But you damn well better wear it this time,” I warned her.

  “I will.”

  “And if anybody asks who designed it, you’d better drop my name like a slippery bowling ball.”

  “I will,” she vowed. “I’m all about keeping my promises these days. Wait and see.”

  After I finished my first Friday night shift at Rhapsody, I felt the way I imagine new mothers must feel after they give birth to triplets—drained, sweaty, in desperate need of pharmaceutical intervention. (Though in my case, the agony was localized in my toes and ankles.) Curse that Aimee and her so-called foolproof formula for success: “Wear your hair down and the highest heels you have, then watch the tips roll in.”

  “But won’t that permanently disfigure my feet?” I’d asked.

  “Don’t worry. Plastic surgery’s come a long way.” She’d pointed down at her own French-pedicured toes which, if I wasn’t very much mistaken, were encased in sassy lime green Christian Louboutins. This season. She had quite a luxurious wardrobe for a restaurant hostess, but I was starting to figure out that an L.A. woman’s income often had no bearing on her lifestyle choices. Rumor had it that Lily, one of the bartenders, had just bought a shiny new black Cadillac Escalade.

  “She just lives for that car.” Aimee had explained. “And in it. The payments cost as much as her rent, so she just sleeps in the backseat at night. Luckily, it’s pretty roomy.”

  At Aimee’s urging, I’d worn my highest-heeled sandals and mercifully lost all feeling in my toes by 9:30. I could only hope that the pitiful excuse for health insurance I’d COBRA’d over from the boutique would cover the inevitable amputation.

  When I finally finished my shift, I collapsed on the luxurious new bedding in Claire’s guesthouse and tried to rally enough energy to struggle out of my clothes and brush my teeth before turning out the lights.

  My eyes fluttered closed. Personal hygiene was overrated.

  The high-pitched chimes of my cell phone jerked me back into consciousness. I groaned, fumbling through my purse. Maybe I’d forgotten to punch out of the computer system at work. Maybe Lily the bartender needed somewhere to sleep.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Becca.”

  “Kevin?” I rubbed at my eyes with the heel of my hand. “It’s…two-thirty.”

  “I know. But I need to talk to you.”

  “Okay. I’m listening.” I struggled up into a sitting position. “I’m glad you’re finall
y calling me back.”

  “Well, I had to wait until I was ready. I’ve had a lot to think about over the past few days.”

  “Okay.”

  Long pause, during which I almost fell asleep. Then he cleared his throat and announced, “I’m not giving the ring back.”

  My eyes popped open. “Okay.”

  “Not even if you beg.”

  “Okay.”

  “And as for the house, I’m going ahead with that whether you’re on board or not.”

  “Okay.”

  “That’s all you have to say?” he demanded. “ ‘Okay’?”

  “Well it sounds like you’ve made up your mind,” I said carefully. “And I agree—we’re not good for each other right now. Honestly, this breakup is—”

  “Who said anything about breaking up?”

  “You just did,” I pointed out. “Not giving the ring back, building the house without me…”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean we’re breaking up. I’m just taking a few steps back until you reevaluate your life and get your priorities straight.”

  “Well, that’s a very generous offer and I sure do appreciate it,” I said, dishing out a double helping of sarcasm, “but I have my priorities straight.”

  “No, you don’t. So I’ll hold on to the ring and wait till you’re ready.”

  “You don’t get to make all the decisions.” I bristled. “I like it out here. And I refuse to put everything on hold indefinitely. We’re either in love or we’re not.”

  He tsk-tsked. “Why do you always have to oversimplify everything?”

  I gave myself over to all the aches and pains pulsing through me for a moment—my feet, my legs, my head, my heart—and then I said, “We’re done. Someone has to call this breakup what it is. We’re done.”

  “I understand you’re upset right now, but—”

  “You’re right. I am upset. But I’ve been thinking about this too, and it’s the right decision. You’re not happy, I’m not happy. We need to make a clean break and move on.”

  “You don’t mean that.” His voice shook.