And then Rachel tried to fix me up with some cousin. A dentist or a chiropractor from Scarsdale who was in town shopping a screenplay.
Oh, fuck it. I haven’t had a real date since I left New York. I don’t even know what a real date is anymore. But then, I’m not supposed to know what a date is anymore. I’m supposed to have moved on to a real relationship.
I roll over and stare at the magazine pile moldering by my bedside. Isn’t this what Vogue is for? Or the Psychoanalytic Review I’d mistakenly subscribed to back in my therapy days when I was trying to be my own best friend? I root around the pile and find amid the Food & Wines and the Brown alumni news a Vogue with Charlize on the cover. Jesus, how old is this? And why have I kept it? I flip through the issue. Nothing but the usual fashion screed, which was out of date two minutes after the issue went to press, a feature on brow lifts—have I been thinking of this? should I be thinking of this?—and, oh yeah, that director client I had that I managed to get into “People Are Talking About” when in fact no one had talked about him for years.
I toss the Vogue aside and roll back in bed, checking my watch: 8 A.M. I’ve been awake since five and have pretty much memorized all the cracks in the ceiling, not to mention the bags under my eyes when I mistakenly looked in the mirror earlier this morning.
I knew going out drinking last night was a mistake. But it was almost impossible not to. Not after the day I had. Not after we finished rolling the last calls on Troy, and Steven all but dragged me down to Tom Bergin’s on Fairfax, our usual hangout when we’re on “E! Watch”—monitoring news about clients on the Hollywood shows—because they have a TV and a bartender Steven once dated when he was in his Irish phase and we can get him to switch channels at will. Especially when Steven is doing shots.
“You’re not watching for Troy on Access Hollywood and ET in this office,” Steven said, handing me my bag. “Not with everyone here waiting to see blood in the water.”
In hindsight, we should have stayed, since my spinning of the whole thing—poor, harassed, recovering Troy—played like gangbusters. I almost felt sorry for him. They even flashed my official publicist statement on the screen. Word for word.
“I think this means you’re a published author,” Steven said, raising his glass.
After that we hit Ago. And then Falcon, where even in my lubricated state I realized the crowd was about a generation and several IQ points below where I tend to hover in the food chain. After that, things got hazy. I just remember feeling incredibly happy when I finally got home and found another message from Charles on my machine. “Just checking in.” Checking in? Checking in? How cool is that? We hadn’t even been on our date and already he was “checking in.” I was so happy, I crawled into bed with a box of crackers and my cell phone and caught almost all the Law & Order rerun I’d Tivo-ed before I fell blissfully asleep.
Now, all I feel is crumbs and the lump of the cell phone and the remote underneath me. And my head. Movement is clearly in order. The tidal pool that’s collected under my eyes is not going to recede by itself.
I make my way to the bathroom, where I fumble around for the Advil and squintingly assess the damage. In the early morning light . . . well, never mind. If I can spend the rest of the morning in the tub, tea bags on my eyes, downing about a gallon of Arrowhead, I should rejoin the land of the living. Or at least pass under Orso’s lighting. One of the best in town. All shimmery pinks and golds, like a Caravaggio painting. Or a Barbra Streisand special. Everyone in the restaurant looks rested. Serene. Ready for their close-up.
By the time I land at Orso, I feel about as ready for my close-up as I’m going to feel after hours in the tub, a quick trip to Fred Segal, and a professional blow-dry, although at the moment, the only one eyeing me is my sulky-looking waiter. Because Charles’s plane is late—he called while they were still over Albuquerque and I was still in the stylist’s chair—and because I live way up in the hills and not anywhere near the Peninsula Hotel, where he’s staying, he suggested we just meet at the restaurant.
Oh, great. Two cars, which will screw up any chance of a long and lingering good-bye at my house or his hotel. No chance of that now. Not in the Orso parking lot buzzing with valets.
“No problem,” I lie, yelling over the dryer. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Look, I know the car thing is a bummer,” Steven said when I reached him right before I was leaving for the restaurant. “But let’s remember what’s really important.”
“That we’re both designated drivers?”
“That no matter what happens, you still have to work with this guy. For this guy.”
That is unfortunately true. The latest rumor going around is that Charles is the heir apparent to head the New York office. That Stan Woolfe—the W of DWP—is definitely retiring and Charles is to take his place. That he and Suzanne and G will be the jolly triptych heading BIG-DWP although G, technically, is the head cheerleader. Or owner. Or the ranking partner. Or whatever he is.
“So think twice before you fuck your boss,” Steven said. “Since you’re already fucking with G.”
“Thank you, Dr. Phil,” I said, clicking off. “I’ll be sure to keep my knees closed and my résumé open.”
I check my watch. I’ve been here for ten minutes and still no sign of Charles. First the car thing and now he’s late and the waiter has already been by twice—“No, I’m still waiting for my guest, thanks”—and I’m starting to get paranoid. Maybe I got the night wrong. Or the place. Maybe I got the whole thing wrong. Why didn’t I bring something to read? Right. Marion the Librarian. Just the look we’re going for.
I think about calling him. See if he’s stuck in traffic. Or lost. It happens. No. Too anal. Too something my mother would do. The waiter drifts by again and I wave him off with another shrug and pained smile. The universal sign for No-I-still-don’t-know-where-the-hell-my-date-is-but-I-swear-he’s-coming-so-don’t-pity-me-
yet.
I’m in the midst of feeling officially pathetic when a new fear hits me. I haven’t seen Charles since before the photo shoot with Troy, which was almost two weeks ago, and what if I’m remembering him wrong? What if he’s not Mr.-Nantucket-sailing-trip-taxi-ride-through-snowy-Central-Park-perfect but really an asshole? Just an East Coast asshole and I don’t recognize the breed anymore? I’m starting to work myself up into a genuine panic, when I see a blurred figure at the door.
Okay, forget Fear Number One. He didn’t stand me up. As for Fear Number Two, there’s no way this guy’s an asshole. Not in that button-down shirt, suede baseball jacket, and with his wavy gray-streaked hair, although I admit I’m a pushover for preppy-looking guys. A holdover from college that even my three years with Josh couldn’t erase. Like bisexual women who go back to men because they just miss fucking.
“Hey,” Charles says, putting a hand to my shoulder. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Hey, no problem,” I say, half-rising and giving him a brilliant “no-problem” smile. That’s me. Miss No Problem.
He sinks into the chair, gives me one of the crinkly-eyed smiles I remember, and I feel Miss No Problem begin to weaken. “So,” I say brightly, fumbling for the menu.
We do the “God, flying these days” speech, which ends in the usual “What can you do?” eye rolling, and then head into the “Should we order a drink?” portion of the evening, and I’m thinking we are off to a good if not exactly great start when Charles says something behind the wine list that I can’t quite catch.
“Sorry,” I say, lowering my menu.
“I said, I’m so glad you were able to move our meeting to dinner. Made it so much easier for us to get together, given my time here.”
Your time here? Your time here?
I must look stricken. Or pissed. Because he starts to backtrack. “And I mean your time, your time as well,” he says, stammering slightly. “I know you’ve been busy. With Troy. And actually I want to hear about that. I’ve heard versions from Suzanne. And G, of course. But I nee
d to hear about it from you. Get up to speed.”
I am falling down a rabbit hole of my own stupid hopes. This isn’t a date. This isn’t Kevin Costner and Susan Sarandon getting together at the end of Bull Durham after two hours of sexual tension. This is a business dinner. With my new boss. How could I have been so blind? Didn’t I go over this and over it? Fly it all by Steven? And didn’t I play and replay his message a million times? “I’m sick of work getting in the way of this.” This! This! How the hell did I mistake that?
I feel my face flush and my shoulders sag under my new black cashmere sweater. The one I bought just a few hours ago. The one with the boat neck. The one that makes me look like Audrey Hepburn.
In my dreams.
I am losing my will to live. Or the energy to get through the rest of the evening. The rest of this business dinner.
Before I can say anything, the waiter flies up and in the flurry of drink ordering—yes, a bottle will do nicely—I try to rally what dignity I have left. What forces I have left. Like Henry V before the St. Crispin’s Day battle. If it had been waged at the intersection of Wilshire and Santa Monica boulevards. I mean, I finessed Troy. And G. And without the advantage of Orso’s lighting and a good bottle of Pinot Grigio. I can certainly finesse Charles. If this is a business dinner, then I’m working it. And you. I am Miss No Problem.
“Ah, Troy, well that is a story,” I say, shaking my head and putting on my best you-don’t-know-the-half-of-it smile. “But first,” I say, raising my water glass in mock salute, “thanks for taking the time to meet with me.”
We’re on the last of the bottle and the remains of the osso bucco is crusting on our plates. We’ve tagged all the bases. Work. His promotion. G. Troy. I take it as a good sign that I got him to laugh during my recitation of Troy’s shoot-out at the Chanel boutique. But then I did leave out the part about Troy kissing me. Not going to push my luck. Not when G doesn’t know about it. Not when it’s the only kiss I’m ever going to have for the rest of my life.
We’ve also talked about the Yankees, real estate, our junior years abroad (I went to Scotland, he went to Madrid), our intended careers (mine in publishing, his in international law), our detours into publicity (both accidental, and in my case criminally so).
“It doesn’t sound like it’s the kind of job you ever envisioned for yourself,” he says, looking in the candlelight less like a boss than a friend.
“Well,” I say, fiddling with my wineglass. “I try not to think about it, Counselor.”
We talk more. About our childhoods (mine in Philly, his in D.C.), my divorce, his divorce (I knew it), how it seems like you can never live up to your parents’ expectations no matter what you do (well, with my parents that was true; his father was a lawyer, so technically no one except his clients lived up to his expectations), whether the electoral college should be abolished (Gore would be president!), and how we both love, love, love the bar at the Ritz Carlton in Boston. A table overlooking the Garden on a crisp fall day, a nice Sauvignon Blanc, and a lobster sandwich. “Sometimes I think I could live in a Cheever short story,” I say before I remember my own upbringing on the Main Line was supposedly pretty Cheeveresque.
“I think you should get back to that bar one day,” Charles says, and for a second I can’t read his expression—wistful, mocking, sincere, patronizing?—and I wonder if I was wrong about this being a business dinner. You go out for dinner with girls, even girls you don’t know, and of course you wind up talking about your divorce and your parents and how you can’t stand your own sister most of the time. But not with guys. Not straight guys. And certainly not with your boss. Not unless it’s a date.
Before I can parse this further, I hear a burbling sound. And another.
“I think that’s you,” Charles says.
“Excuse me?”
“Your phone?”
“Oh,” I say, fumbling for my bag. Why didn’t I turn it off? “Actually this could be a Troy thing,” I say, suddenly fearing the worst. “Hello?”
“Where the fuck are you? And don’t say in bed.”
Rachel, and from the roaring sounds in the background at a party. Oh, the party. The one I said I’d meet her at and then forgot to cancel when I made dinner plans with Charles.
“Actually, just finishing dinner,” I say casually. “With Charles. You remember I said he was coming back to L.A.”
“ ‘Charles.’ That’s cute. At least you stood me up for a good reason,” Rachel says, and I can tell she’s only slightly pissed. Or on her second martini.
“So how’s it going there?” I say.
“How’s it going there?”
“Oh, you know,” I say blandly, giving Charles a what-can-you-do? shrug.
Rachel gives me the rundown—the party’s at the house of some kid director of one of her studio’s upcoming releases—and tells me that if I’m, if we’re not there in thirty minutes, she’s leaving. I know the party will be the usual cutthroat jockeying of egos disguised as fun. Like a Jim Carrey movie. I make noncommital noises and hang up.
“There’s a party?” Charles says. He sounds surprised but not unpleasantly so.
“You know Hollywood. There’s always a party.”
He asks me if I’m planning on going. I’m about to say, are you crazy, I’m planning on going home and crying myself to sleep, when I realize it’s the perfect face-saving coda to the evening.
“Actually, I did tell her I’d stop by.”
“Well,” he says, leaning forward and smiling in his warm, crinkly-eyed way. “Then let me go with you.”
Really?
Not so fast. “Oh no. You must be exhausted,” I say, waving him off. “Besides, it will just be a work thing. They’re all work things.”
But no. He’s keen to go. Eager to go. To get out and experience the Hollywood scene although, thank God, he doesn’t use those exact words. Nothing worse than some out-of-towner dying to find The Hollywood Scene.
“Get the address and I’ll order the espressos,” he says, signaling for the waiter. “I’ll even drive us.” He turns back and gives me another crinkly smile. “Let’s keep this going.”
The party is north of Sunset off Doheny. A good neighborhood although technically not Beverly Hills. Still, the house itself is impressive in that bullying L.A. way. New England Colonial on steroids. So Greenwich manqué. Or Home Alone. We dropped my Audi at my house, so Charles is driving us in his rental. A black BMW. The 5 series. Nice. And he can actually drive in L.A., which hardly any New Yorkers can.
By the time we hit the valet stand at the end of the drive, the party is going full bore. Probably the third quarter. The front door is open and light pours onto the flagstones. Voices and laughter float in the night air. Over in the shadows on the front lawn, I see a group smoking and laughing.
“Very West Egg. Or is it East Egg, I can never keep those straight,” Charles says as he hands the keys to the valet and we begin our trek up the drive. Up is right. It’s one of those houses sited at about a twenty-degree angle up from the street, and in my mules, I feel myself starting to slip. Fuck.
“Here,” he says, reaching out for my arm. “Hang on to me.”
Oh, honey.
Outside might be faux Greenwich, but inside we step into a corner of Britain’s Home Counties. Black and white slate and limestone tiles cover the hallway floor. On the wall, an equally dizzying series of hunting prints. Some dogs, some horses, some horses and dogs. Against the other wall, an antique bench and a coatrack holding a riding coat, a checked driving cap, and several riding crops. On the floor are several pairs of well-worn riding boots. As if.
I know for a fact that the director is the latest thirty-year-old whiz kid. Grew up in Jersey. One low-budget indie comes in a gusher. Now he’s got a studio deal and this stage set. Usually these overnight wonders head to Malibu. Rent a beach house. Or Trousdale. Pick up some mid-century white box, toss down a shag carpet, some Eames chairs, a little Noguchi, and call it home.
&nb
sp; But this is off the charts. Almost Old Hollywood in its clueless ostentation. Like Tony Curtis. Or Nancy Reagan. The house is steps from the Strip, with the clubs and tattoo parlors and Larry Flynt’s house of sex, where the dazed-looking tourists and weasel-chested rockers kill time fingering the crotchless panties and the rainbow-hued dildos. But up here, up here this is Disneyland.
“Well,” I say, rolling my eyes at Charles. “Tallyho.”
We head into the living room. More Hollywood English manor. Beamed ceiling. Leather sofas. A DJ scratching out Kid Rock. And the usual Hollywood demimonde. Guys in baggy jeans, T-shirts, and V-neck sweaters. The women: low-riders, tight, midriff-baring sweaters, and three-inch heels. Britney may be over but like Farrah’s hairdo, her navel-baring style lives on. Over the pounding sound system, snatches of conversation drift our way. Turnaround. Development deal. Option clause. Yeah, I’ll have another hit.
“I told you it was a work thing,” I say to Charles, hollering over the crowd.
“No problem,” he hollers back, and I wonder if he’s making a joke. “Let’s find the bar.”
I know by now the bar will be a figment of imagination. Judging by the hour and the energy in the room, everyone has moved on to other mood enhancers. The bar, or what’s left of it, will be dead soldiers in a kitchen manned by the usual bored-looking, non-English-speaking help.
“Sure,” I say, heading for the kitchen. Or where I think the kitchen might be. But we’ve barely moved when Charles is waylaid. Some actress. The usual Amazon with surgical enhancements and special needs. They met in New York a few months ago when she was looking for new representation. Or that’s as much as I gather before she hauls Charles off for further consultation—“Hey, I’ll catch up with you,” he says—and I’m left to make my own way to the kitchen. Nothing like taking someone to a party where they know more people than you do.
In the kitchen, the bar is clearly finito. Empties and tired- looking Latinos. I give an embarrassed smile and am about to back out, when I spy a half-empty bottle of warm Chardonnay and pour myself a glass. Probably not the best idea after last night, but then so far, not much of this evening has been the best idea.
So 5 Minutes Ago Page 12
