“Hmm?” she asked, her distraction evident. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Hey, so I probably need to go schmooze some people—”
“And that’s not work?”
“Technically I suppose it is. But when the people I have to schmooze include this many rich, handsome men . . .”
Schmoozing had sounded like work. Schmoozing rich, handsome men sounded like torture. “Better you than me.”
“I’ll be back in a few. You have fun and be your delightful, fabulous self!” She squeezed my hand and then flitted off to join a cluster of Los Angeles elite, seemingly back to her delightful, fabulous self.
I surveyed the room and sighed. Who was I kidding? Yes, I looked good that evening, but I didn’t look like the kind of woman any of those gorgeous men would be interested in. Not that guy in the Armani tux, or that other guy in that other Armani tux that looked exactly like the first Armani tux. And most assuredly not that guy who looked like Hamish MacDougal, also in an Armani tux. Or was it Hugo Boss? Or—
Holy crap!
It was Hamish MacDougal in an almost-certainly-Armani tux!
I looked around for Fiona, certain she would direct me and, most likely, refuse to back down until I built up the nerve to go over and talk to him. At a minimum she would scare me to the point that I would become violently ill, and then I’d get to spend the rest of the evening hiding in a ladies’-room stall. But she was nowhere to be found. Where she had stood only seconds prior was instead a guy who sure looked a lot like George Clooney. But, no . . . it couldn’t be George Clooney. This guy, whoever he was, was looking at me. In fact, he had locked in, and it was as if he were drawing me in with his tractor beam. Me? I mean, I was certain he wasn’t actually George Clooney, but still. He sure looked like George Clooney. And it is a truth universally acknowledged that a guy who looks like George Clooney must be in want of a woman to talk to.
He smiled a sly little half smile as he walked toward me, and I tried to return the sly expression, but I just ended up feeling self-conscious. The miraculous thing was I think it actually came across as sort of a Princess Di shy-and-self-aware upward-glance thing, and the Clooney lookalike picked up his pace. It was me that he was coming to talk to. Alright, Liv, you’ve got this. He was actually wanting to talk to me. He would not ask me if I knew where the restroom was or where he could get his parking validated. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t even begin with the opening line I had heard more than any other throughout my life: “So, tell me about that friend of yours.” Nope. Not this time. This time I was about to get hit on—by a gorgeous, salt-and-pepper silver fox of a man in an Armani tux.
“Excuse me, George,” Fiona said as she swooped in between us and pulled me aside.
“George?” I whispered in a panic. “Did you just call him George?” I looked back at him with as much subtlety as I could muster, which was frightfully little.
“Livi, I need a favor. A huge favor. I’ll owe you forever.”
I spoke through tightly clenched teeth. “Fi, tell me that’s not George Clooney.”
She threw a casual look behind her at the man who was now taking a sip of some masculine-looking drink that I knew probably tasted like cough syrup and who was still looking straight at me with amusement.
“It is. He’s a big supporter. Now, listen—”
“He was about to hit on me, Fi! George Clooney was walking over here to seduce me!”
“Seduce you, huh?” She smiled and bit her lip. “Well, I am truly sorry to have interrupted the great Clooney seduction, but this is important . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she paused for a moment, and I could see her wheels turning. As was the norm when I saw Fiona’s wheels turning, I felt a rush of fear and excitement. “This is perfect! Oh, Livi, you have to do this for me.”
“Do what for you?”
“Make him pay!”
Oh no. Did Fi have a past with George Clooney of which I had somehow never been aware? I wouldn’t find that too surprising. Had he cheated on her? That dog! What kind of friend was I? I had almost fallen for another of her men! I had almost done it again! Although, in fairness to me, I’d had no idea they shared any history. Also in fairness to me, the last time I had fallen for one of Fiona’s men, he had been my man first. He had not been hers when I fell for him. But that was no excuse.
Stay focused, Liv.
Fiona and I were strong enough to survive that, and we would survive this. If Mr. Clooney thought he could come between the two of us, he had another think coming. Or did he have another thing coming? In this situation, both options seemed appropriate.
“Yes,” I calmly and somewhat sinisterly stated. “Let’s make him pay.”
“Great! Oh, thank you, Livi! You won’t regret it.”
She grabbed me by the elbow and turned me around, and we marched past George. As we did, I shot him a glance that I hoped was a glare but feared may have ultimately been nothing more than a disappointing puddle of attraction, melted by the warmth of the very Clooney-ness of his eyes.
Fiona was decidedly less affected than I. As we passed, she looked straight into those delicious, ooey-gooey eyes and said, “Pull out the checkbook, Clooney. The auction is about to begin.”
The disappointing puddle of attraction vanished, and I was once again committed to making him pay. Pull out the checkbook, Clooney! I’d never heard that expression, but I liked it. I wanted to add my own personal spin to it, but nothing good was coming to me.
Hope you brought your AmEx, Clooney.
I’ll put it on your tab, Clooney.
Nope. Nothing else worked as well.
Hang on . . .
“Auction?” I asked with fear and urgency.
“Yep. This auction is so successful for the Lakeside Society every year that it has its own clause in my contract. I have complete oversight and creative control over all events—as long as I keep the auction.”
She continued to rush and weave through A-listers and wannabes, but I didn’t see anyone who seemed to be an impostor like myself.
“Is this like a bachelorette auction, Fi? If it is, that’s a degrading and reprehensible way to treat a human, and I want nothing to do with it.” I wanted to add that I thought those things only existed as plot devices on The Nanny, but I didn’t want to detract from my moral-high-ground stance.
She kept pulling me forward as she responded to me over her shoulder. “Trust me, this is no big deal. It’s not like when one hundred bucks got Tony for the weekend on Who’s the Boss?”
Had every show used that storyline?
“As soon as the auction wraps up, the dancing begins. Your first dance goes to the highest bidder. That’s it. You dance with someone for four minutes, and a village in Yemen gets a well.”
We arrived backstage where bachelors and bachelorettes alike were having numbers pinned to their evening gowns and tux lapels. Right off the bat I spotted any number of actors and actresses whose names I didn’t know but whom I recognized from awful movies Fiona had dragged me to.
“This is ridiculous! I love you, Fi, and I’d love to help build a well in Yemen, but this is the worst idea you’ve ever had in your life. Look at these people! Who is going to bid on me?”
She smiled as she grabbed a number from one of her passing staffers and attached it to my gown with great care. “I’m sorry to ask you to do it. I am. But Charlize Theron has the flu. Someone has to step in, and you know what, Livi? You look gorgeous! I’ve known you since before you had boobs, and I assure you, this is the most beautiful you have ever looked in your life. You’re going to knock their socks off, and you completely deserve to be up there with the rest of these beautiful people. And as for who will bid on you? Well, I’m pretty sure George Clooney will.”
The thought of that was somehow so much more terrifying than the thought of no one bidding at all.
A young man with a clipboard and a headset ran over to where we stood and politely interrupted. “I’m sorry, Ms. Mitchell. I need her bio.”
&n
bsp; Ha! My bio. Yeah . . . okay. If there had been any chance of George Clooney—or anyone else—bidding on me, “lifelong writer of sappy greeting cards; working on the same screenplay for more than six years; currently mourning the loss of the man who was probably her soulmate; deathly allergic to wasabi” being included in my introduction should do the trick.
“Olivia Ross, graduate of Boston College, impressive history of work for Heartlite, Inc., screenwriter of upcoming major motion picture.”
Then, information in hand, he ran off before I could stop him.
“Fi! You made it sound like I write for the Heartlite Network or something!”
“Hmm. Did it sound like that? I just spoke the truth.”
“The truth?” I enunciated through my teeth. “‘Screenwriter of upcoming motion picture’ is the truth? Fiona!”
“No,” she corrected me. “I said ‘major motion picture.’ And yes. It’s the truth. You just don’t have a release date yet.”
“Or a production company. Or a script. Or any real reason to think I will ever have any of those things! Oh, Fi . . .”
“It will be fine, Liv. I promise. You’re next, as soon as Robert Downey Jr. leaves the stage. Just have fun with it. I assure you, you are a worthy replacement for Charlize Theron. And if that isn’t enough for you, just know that there is a lot of free-flowing champagne out there tonight. And even more free-flowing money. Every person out there is here to either make a difference or be seen looking like they care about making a difference. Someone will bid on you. I have no doubt.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Robert Downey Jr. return backstage, just as I heard the announcer say something about Heartlite.
“Please welcome Ms. Olivia Ross.”
Fi gave me a quick hug followed by a gentle shove, and before I could turn and run the other way, I was on the stage, in the spotlight. For the first time in my life, I was so grateful for the spotlight. I had always avoided it at any cost, but never before had I realized that when you are in the spotlight, you can’t see the crowd. I realized how much symbolism existed in that epiphany, and I got lost in my thoughts and social commentary. So lost, in fact, that I began to feel at peace as it dawned on me that celebrities couldn’t help but be self-centered. After all, when they are in the spotlight, how can they possibly be aware of those around them in the dark?
“Five thousand dollars.” The deep voice came from the audience, but I couldn’t see who it belonged to.
“Alright, gentlemen,” the auctioneer spoke, and I was glad that I could at least see him. “Mr. Ralph Fiennes gets the bidding started at five thousand dollars.”
Ralph Fiennes. Ralph Fiennes? He was a little old for me, but he was a good-looking guy, best I could recall. And in The English Patient he had been positively dreamy, when it came right down to it. I couldn’t think of what else I had seen him in, but—
“Mr. Fiennes,” the auctioneer continued, “is perhaps most well known as Lord Voldemort in the Harry Potter films.”
Oh, that’s right. Well, I could get past thinking of him as an evil wizard if I had to. Surely his real nose was much less snakelike.
“And, of course, his critically acclaimed and award-winning role in Schindler’s List.”
As the audience applauded to show their appreciation, I couldn’t help but pout. That’s what I knew him from. Yeah, a snake nose and a creepy voice were one thing, but being the bad guy among a whole army of Nazi bad guys in Schindler’s List was something else entirely. Why couldn’t Liam Neeson have bid on me? Even so, he was simply an actor, playing a role. And if he wanted to bid five grand to dance with me, I would just focus on The English Patient and all the water we would be responsible for in Yemen and have a lovely time.
“Don’t let him win so easily, gentlemen.” The auctioneer spoke once again, overpowering the silence in the room and The English Patient visions in my head. “Who will raise the bid for a chance to spend some time with Ms. Ross? Mr. Fiennes was Maid in Manhattan. Let’s see if he’s made of money.”
Oh no. You portray the man who killed Harry Potter’s parents, and I can look past it. A sadistic Nazi, and I will remind myself our time together is all to benefit a good cause. But lowering yourself to a stereotypical rom-com with a pun-based title alongside J.Lo? No. Some things can’t be overlooked.
“Ten thousand.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as an appreciative giggle seemed to overtake the crowd. I was offended. Were they sympathy bids? Was the audience in on the joke? But as my eyes began to adjust and I followed the eyes of everyone in the room to the guy with the salt-and-pepper hair in the back corner, smugly holding up his bidding paddle, I realized that those appreciative giggles were just the soundtrack that accompanied George Clooney wherever he went.
It was the next bid that caught me off guard. You know . . . because George Clooney offering up more than my share of the rent for half a year, just for the chance to dance with me, happens every day.
“Twelve-five.” I sensed more than saw all of the heads turn their focus from one side of the room to the other. “No, actually, let’s go on up to fifteen thousand. What are these nights for if not to make Clooney pay through the nose?”
The room erupted in laughter, but I stood there in stunned silence, straining my eyes to see if what I thought to be true could actually be true. Or did my dialect-challenged ears deceive me yet again?
“Well said!” The announcer laughed as he waited for quiet to once again overtake the crowd. “The gauntlet has been thrown! The current bid is fifteen thousand dollars by Mr. Hamish MacDougal.”
I didn’t mean to gasp, but I couldn’t help it. I knew then that my cover was blown. It had to have been blown. I had managed to play it so cool while the first two Hollywood heavyweights bid ridiculous amounts of cash on me. But I could have no doubt that any belief I actually belonged there had been washed away by my gasp. I couldn’t even make myself care about that, though. I strained my eyes to get a look at Hamish. I’d been so distracted by George Clooney wanting to marry me and make lots of babies, I’d forgotten he was there. I was no longer worried about being onstage, or even who would eventually win me. My only concern was whether or not he knew it was me. Was he bidding on some supposedly successful screenwriter, or was he bidding on the girl from the coffeehouse?
Ralph dropped out early, thank goodness, but the bidding between the other two gentlemen continued on. As the money got ridiculous, I reminded myself that they were making huge tax-deductible contributions, and that it had nothing to do with dancing with me. But I also found myself falling into fantasies, which I so rarely allowed myself to do. I knew that I would likely be able to talk with both guys after the auction, regardless of who won. So who did I want to win? Did it even matter? What if Hamish was bidding on the girl in the unflattering sweatshirt and the even less flattering first impression? That would mean something, right? Had he been thinking of me for the past six years, toying with the idea of rushing down to our couch each February 4, just in case?
February 4. It was February 4! It had been six years to the day, and there he was, bidding fifty-five thousand just to dance with me. Hold on . . . Fifty-five thousand dollars? Could I have heard that right? Hamish MacDougal on February 4.
Talk about ironic.
And then, of course, my thoughts went to Liam.
Not now, Olivia, I lectured myself sternly. It’s time to move on.
I heard the crowd laugh as George demonstrated extreme cool and humor by sitting down and ordering another drink as he raised his bid to sixty thousand. He seemed to be saying he had nowhere to be and could do this all night.
“Livi!” At first I didn’t realize that the calling of my name had come from just offstage left, but once I did, I turned to see Fiona waving her arms in an attempt to get my attention. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
I easily heard her over the crowd noises, if only because her lips were moving so emphatically, but I knew I was probably the only pe
rson able to make out what she was saying. Not that I had a clue why she was saying what she was saying.
I shrugged my shoulders as I glanced at her.
“I didn’t know he would be here. I’m so sorry!”
I raised my eyebrows. She didn’t know he’d be here, and she was sorry? If I knew Fiona Mitchell, I knew the odds were pretty good that she did, in fact, know Hamish would be there—and that Charlize Theron was never even scheduled to participate.
Well played, Fi. Well played.
I winked at her and smiled, grateful for once for the overly dramatic way she had of taking matters into her own hands. Then I turned back to the crowd, ready to fully enjoy the conclusion of what I knew would go down in the history books as the most surreal night of my life.
“One hundred thousand dollars,” a voice rang out from a far corner of the room, far surpassing George’s last bid, and suddenly it was time for everyone else to gasp.
“Well, well, well!” The auctioneer shuffled through the papers on his podium as the Los Angeles elite burst into applause and whistles. “Mr. Clooney? Mr. MacDougal? Shall either of you be outbidding the gentleman?”
“The gentleman” was clearly some unknown, or the man responsible for selling me would have referred to him by name. No! I didn’t want an unknown. I wanted Hamish! Or I at least wanted George. Yes, that would be fine. I would settle for George Clooney if I had to. I would somehow pull myself up by the bootstraps and make lemonade out of lemons. But the unknown gentleman was not welcome.
I took turns looking at each of them, imploring them not to give up on me now. It was George who first raised his hands in surrender, laughing good-naturedly as he joined in the applause for the mystery man. I turned to Hamish, hoping against hope that he thought four minutes with me, a few years ahead of schedule, was worth more than one hundred thousand dollars—but knowing how ridiculous that was, even in the context of the evening. He winked at me as he lowered his paddle to the cocktail table in front of him and gestured that the man in the back was the victor.
Plot Twist Page 11
