by Jill Kargman
If only Finn were just sexy, but rock-stupid, I could let my fleeting thoughts of him roll away with the tides. But he was no testosteroned himbo who happened to have a way with plucking guitar strings and my interest.
He was brilliant. In a way I knew that already, thanks to his heart-piercing lyrics, but often artists have words attributed to them but that are actually rattled off by some closeted paid-off ghost writer. But now I was absosmurfly certain that the shadows really did course through his veins and not those of some work-for-hire faux poet. Our dialogue on that fateful flight was so intense as we did a hand-holding tango, with Death periodically cutting in for a twirl. It was as if we had pressed the fast-forward button on this insti-friendship, careening through the tumult and whizzing past normal pacing of two strangers chatting. Something happens in the midst of potential catastrophes, where the person beside you, if like-minded, becomes so fused to you that there is this illusion that they are the closest person to you in the universe, because they were in that trench beside you. Maybe that’s why army buddies are so close, or why Keanu and Sandra smooched in Speed.
Okay, whoa Nelly. I had to calm down. I exhaled visions of clutching Finn Schiller’s hand and calmly dialed Wylie.
“Babe! Yay, I was so glad when you landed safe,” he said. “How is it?”
“Wy, you have no idea how lucky I feel to have my pads on the ground.”
Wylie always called my big feet “pads” and said he loved cooking while hearing me “padding around the apartment straightening up.”
“Why? Bumpy ride.”
“To say the least.”
I regaled him with my escapade, toning down the Finn obsession part.
“No way!” Wylie marveled. “We were JUST talking about him! How fucking nuts is that?”
“Nuts.”
“That’s awesome, babe.”
“Barfing on idol is not so awesome, Doodlesby McClintock.” (Another nickname. We had many.)
“You’ll laugh about it one day,” he suggested.
I felt slightly annoyed that he didn’t quite grasp that, no, I wouldn’t laugh.
“Yeah, well, doubtful, babe. It was gnarlissssimi.”
“I’m sure he’s seen way worse than that, honey.”
I changed the subject and asked about restaurant meetings. Things were moving along swimmingly. He was filling me in on all the details when I looked at my watch. There was bidniss at hand. I needed to go and meet with the event planner and figure out the logistics of our launch.
“Babe, I’m so sorry to interrupt but I have to get up and pull my ass together.”
“Okay, babe! Talk to you later.”
“Bye, Wy—”
“Hey, Haze?” he asked.
“Yeah?”
“You said you’d call me more this trip, right?” he reminded. He’d said I barely checked in the last time I’d gone away and it bummed him out.
“Yes, I will,” I promised. “Love you.”
“Love you so.”
I hauled my ass off the bed, got dressed, and went to splash some water on my face. When I closed my eyes, I pictured Finn’s ice blue eyes. When I patted my cheeks dry, I caught sight of myself; I looked flushed and aglow. Oh boy. The thirty-year-old schoolgirl, how ridiculous.
Even more insane was that at my untender age I could not drive. Never learned. Never needed to. I always knew I wanted to go to school in New York where everyone walked everywhere. Some of my friends did share houses in the Hamptons (or as I call them, Cramptons, due to SUV traffic that induces suicidal thoughts) or “the islands” off Massachusetts, but the Lilly Pulitzer and whale pants explosion tended to make me itch more than the mosquitoes that devoured my flesh. I was sure, to the buzzing menaces, that I tasted something like warmed brioche bread pudding made by my Wylie. Better to stay in the city. Hence, no wheels.
So there I was, in the driving capital of the world, with my sunscreen, my shades, and my two feet. I started walking from my hotel, in search of a coffee shop, and then I would text Clarissa, the party guru, to come pick me up as I nursed espresso to further jolt my jittery blood. I took a table on the street, packed in among the countless other shade-wearing caffeine addicts, and texted her my location. As I pounded my iced beverage, I wondered who the eff all these people were and why they were just hangin’ in the middle of the day with no job to go to. They couldn’t, like, all be actors or screenwriters, right? Did they have family dough? Did they work at night? Sure there were areas of New York packed as well, but the city has so many tourists and it’s not like there was one industry everyone was all competing to break into. Surreal.
Just as I was going to get a second cup, I jumped. My phone vibrated once. A text message. Clarissa must be pulling up. I reached into my pocket and retrieved my new iPhone. But it wasn’t her. It was another 310 number.
“Hi there. How’s the tummy?” It was Finn.
As the youth of America says, “OMFG.” Shaking, I hit forward to Kira and added “HLY SHT, FS TXT!” and hit send. I wasn’t sure how to respond to him so I wrote “hola! Pas de vom, thank god.”
Like a desperate acne’d teen, I stared at my phone on the table. Moments later, it shimmied in zapped communication. “Great! Dinner tonight?” My breath quickened as sweat started to form on my brow. Suddenly, the phone rang. Clarissa.
“Hi, doll! Pulling up now, hon!”
“Okay, I’m walking to the curb.”
I quickly wrote back “sure!” and hit send, instantly regretting the exclamation point. How queer. What the fuck was I thinking? Clarissa’s white BMW slowed next to me, and I hopped in, looking like the Angel of Death next to her Kira-esque blond self. I looked her over. She was definitely TOAST—Tits On A Stick, and her French manicured paws and feeties made her look part porn star part Texan cheerleading virgin.
“Girl, you need some sun, love!” she said, glancing at me through her oversize Nicole-Richie-during-Rachel-Zoe-era shades.
“Yeah, I kinda boil myself in sunscreen, actually. Instant lobster. I’m Irish and super fair.”
“Oh s’all right honey, I can take you to Hollywood Tans, where Jennifer Aniston and everyone goes! You just strip down and put these goggley things on and they hose you down in brown!”
Sounds attractive. I’d rather be Smurf-blue than cheesily airbrushed orange-beige, but I changed the subject while praying for the phone to vibrate again as my stomach did not just somersaults but full-on triple back handspring round-offs worthy of the Romanians.
“First I’m gonna take you downtown. There are two huge event spaces I use there that rock—industrial, loftlike, very New York, very airplane hangar chic. Let’s see what you think.”
The first was great but not heart attack–inducing. She tried to explain that at night the vista was even more amazing, but it felt like I’d seen it before. The second was quite impressive, with huge cavernous ceilings and pipes running over the ceiling but again, not mind-blowing, and I wanted my boss’s eyes to explode from the sockets.
“Let’s keep going,” I said, sighing to a somewhat disappointed Clarissa. “I like this area though, let’s try and stick downtown. It feels more in sync with the style of the game, and we’ve done the whole beach thing, I like the gritty city vibe of this part better.”
As we were walking out, my phone rang. Vomit times ten. Finn! Holyshitholyshitholyshit.
“Hello?” I said, trying to quell the quake in my voice. My nerves could have registered on the Richter scale they were so tremor filled.
“Hazel. It’s Finn.”
“Hi!” I said, sounding like a fucking teen. “Um, so psyched for dinner, that’s great.” Ugh, psyched?! Did I say teen? I meant ’tween.
“Yeah, I’ll pick you up at your hotel at nine. Is that good?”
“Sure, perfect.”
“Do you need a minute?” Clarissa interjected.
As I nodded no, Finn said, “Oh sorry, Hazel, are you in a meeting?”
“No, uh, I’m with
an event planner, looking at spaces for the party downtown.”
“Yeah? God, you should use my candy factory.”
“Your factory? What are you, Willy Wonka?”
“No, no, I bought this old factory and warehouse. It was an investment I guess, I got it fifteen years ago thinking one day I’d turn it into condos or something when I hang it up with the music.”
What? My first thought was YOU CANT HANG IT UP! But then my job kicked in and I asked about the space, if it really was available to rent for a night.
“Rent?” He laughed. “It’s Badass Games, just take it. I’d be stoked. Just let me bring a few pals, and we’ll be square.”
“I’m sorry, please do not tease me like this,” I begged of him, looking wide-eyed at Clarissa. “Are you serious?”
“Totally. We’ll stop by tonight, my manager has the keys, I’ll grab them this afternoon and we can go after dinner. It’s enormous and really raw with sick views. It’s actually perfect for this game.”
“Amazing! Oh my god, thank you so much, it sounds incredible.” If he were any other person I would have instinctively added “you’re such a rock star!” EXCEPT THAT HE FUCKING WAS A ROCK STAR.
“Okay. See you later, Witch Hazel.”
I hung up feeling like a team of ER doctors just yelled “clear!” and defibrillated my chest.
“It seems we might have a potential space,” I told Clarissa, in a controlled pant. “I think we may’ve struck party gold.”
Chapter 11
If one is lucky, a solitary fantasy can totally transform one million realities.
—Maya Angelou
Clarissa and I stopped at her offices, Brand Link Communications, so I could meet the girls who worked for her (all gorgeous, manicured, and va-va-voom), and while she hopped on a call with a fashion client, I stole a moment to call my sister.
“I fucking cannot believe you are having dinner with Finn Schiller.”
“Kira, what do I do?”
“What do you mean, go get decked out and look your fiercest!”
“I have a boyfriend.”
Kira didn’t say anything.
“Your silence is speaking volumes.”
“You did get a free pass, Hazel . . . ,” she teased. “At Trip and PJ’s. I heard it with my own ears.”
“That was a drunken parlor game, I would never!” I protested. The second I said it I knew it was a lie. “Okay, I admit it. I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ve been obsessed with him my entire adult life!”
“I know,” she said, as if trying to help me hatch a plan. “I mean, you know I love Wylie . . . Her voice trailed off. “BUT THIS IS FINN SCHILLER!”
“Thanks, I know,” I said, suppressing annoyance that my older sis wasn’t doling out the magical advice she has always had at the ready.
“Okay, maybe just casually slip in something about Wylie tonight—” she offered.
“No! That’s so presumptuous!” I protested. “Kira, he doesn’t see me like that. We might even work together on this event!”
“Really?”
“Yeah! He has this space and he loves my company and he wants to help. I mean he so would never think of me as anything other than a pal. He has bejugged Hefner girls throwing their tanned boobies in his face! I’m pale and raven-haired and tomboyish. He wants hemlines that show your pubes, not black jeans.”
“You don’t know what he wants, first of all. And secondly, it’s just a matter of fact, you live with Wylie, I mean you should mention that, I think.”
“Okay, yeah, you’re right . . .” I nodded to myself. Then I snapped out of my foolish worry. “But really it’s so psycho presumptuous to think Finn Schiller would even care!”
I saw Clarissa walk up to the glass door and motion for me to come. “Anyway, I gotta go, I have back-to-back meetings until tonight.”
“Please tell me you’re primping a little. None of this casual Bella Swan rocker girl bullshit. Femme it up. Just a little. Please.”
“Stop!” I said. “I have to go!”
“Report ASAP or sisterhood over.”
“Bye, Kira!”
Ugh. I looked in the mirror in Clarissa’s office as I gathered my things. I had a serious boyfriend. He was my best friend. But . . . I was dining avec the person who intrigued me most. Maybe a little effort wouldn’t hurt?
Chapter 12
Dear love, for nothing less than thee
Would I have broke this happy dream,
It was a theme
For reason, much too strong for fantasy,
Therefore thou waked’st me wisely; yet
My dream thou brok’st not, but continued’st it.
—John Donne
Cue the Roy Orbison music! Just kidding. No Pretty Woman primp montage for me—yet. I had to see how my meetings went. But I was a working girl—not in the Hollywood Boulevard kind of way (I’d probably score all of twenty-five bucks, if that), and I had shit to do.
First was the security firm. Four huge black guys explained how they would work the valet and press areas plus red carpet and “step and repeat”—the annoying but necessary billboard with our logo behind the velvet ropes where the celebs would “step”—pose, often hand on hip—then repeat, for the paparazzi. As Clarissa explained how her girls would deal with clipboard lists along with security, my phone buzzed with a text. Finn.
“You like Indian?” he’d written.
“I could eat human flesh if it had tikka masala sauce on it,” I zapped back.
Moments later: “LOL.”
Victory! I made Finn Schiller laugh. LOL. Dyingdyingdying. I would break bread with my idol. Naan, apparently.
The next buzz came an hour later.
“Done—taking you to one of my favorite spots, Electric Lotus.”
“Sooooo psyched!” I wrote back. No sooner did I hit send than I felt like a world-class doof. That’s what my sister and I called dopes. I was a doof. No: I was queen of the dooves. That’s the plural of doof. Our other favorite was “gormph.” But that’s only for doof-ish guys, and the plural is not gormves but gormphs. You can make up your own rules when you make up your own words.
Then, for the next couple hours, nothing. Pas de vibration. I felt like a foolish idiot middle-schooler checking incessantly. I was in a meeting with the stationer, a hundred-year-old letterpress in Los Feliz. Normally it would be an environment that turned me on—Pantone color wheels, paper samples, industrial machines that would press our killer logo into the cardstock—but instead my mind was adrift. I nodded as if attentive as I reached my arm into my muslin tote with a silk-screened Kelly Bag on it and retrieved my fluorescent yellow–covered iPhone for a peek. Nada. Fuck! What the hell was wrong with me! I had a boyfriend! Wylie was my family. Why the hell was I compulsively checking to see if this guy—no, this rock star—was writing me! I must be delusional. I was losing my marbles, officially, I drank the Kool-Aid, morphing from cool cat into loser plebeian fan in my four phone-checks.
I walked out of the lot of the press back to my car, shaking my head to myself. Hazel you fucking loser idiot. Snap out of it! I thought of Cher in Moonstruck, hoping a momentary slap could actually beat the desire out of me. As she found . . . no such luck. I got in the hot car and rolled down the windows. And then: Cosmo’s moon appeared from behind the curtain of clouds. My phone buzzed just as my soul buzzed, tipsy with excitement.
I opened the message. “Sorry I’ve been MIA this pm—laying dwn some trcks w/ the guys. Can’t wait to see you tnight.”
Crack highs couldn’t possibly be better. Elation. Nervously I texted back “me neither.” And then another: a smiley face.
I pulled out of the driveway with a shit-eating grin beaming brighter than my fluorescent headlights, wondering what the night would have in store.
Chapter 13
I have too many fantasies to be a housewife.
I guess I am a fantasy.
—Marilyn Monroe
It was nearing six. Meet
ings finished, I meandered in a daze into the early evening, like my body was an avatar controlled by remote as my real self lounged around, eating bonbons, dreaming of Finn. His music played in the car and in my head during meetings. His voice accompanied me into elevators, garages, up the steps to a front door, as if perched above my head in a cartoon bubble, all-caps reminders of clever things he said or little witticisms he rattled off with the ease of breathing.
After my last work thing—a tech run-through with the sound and lighting guy with Clarissa in a crappy vegetarian joint I’d seen on Entourage, I asked to be dropped off at Kira’s mother ship—Beverly Hills. Whenever I visited L.A. I felt more at home on Vermont—in Silverlake or Los Feliz. But Ki and my parents preferred Rodeo Drive. I happened upon a swank salon so I wandered in, hoping to get a quick blow-dry. A little primp wouldn’t kill me, right? Shit, I just never played those girlie girl games, no beauty binges, nary an Alicia Silverstone shopping spree at the mall. But Finn made me feel like a girl, not the cool tomboy the guys at work liked me for, or the normal slobby Hazel who Wylie waited for at Urban Outfitters, but a real girl. Femme it up, Kira said. Ally Sheedy, here I come.
Bingo, they had an opening. I put on the robe and was offered tea as a “washing technician” scrubbed my scalp with intoxicating apple cider–infused shampoos and cream rinses. I got it. This shit was actually fun and enjoyable. They even had a footrest for my outstretched gams.
I exited feeling like a million bucks. I hoped it wouldn’t get addictive, I could get used to this, like my sister with her weekly standing appointments at Frédéric Fekkai. I drove back to my hotel where I tried to figure out what to wear, eventually settling on my same jeans but this time a slightly more feminine white lace blouse with piping of black velvet ribbons around the short sleeves. It was Edwardian granny-chic but remained a tad sexy, due to my black cami underneath. I exhaled in front of the mirror. Less is more, I thought. Especially ’cause Finn was used to Hooters Girls and the like. Better to be myself. Better to be demure. Better to keep him guessing.
