The Cocktail Collection

by Alice Clayton

  Initially I’d been a little worried that the Parent Trap shenanigans would make things uncomfortable, but the ladies had made me proud. They took it in stride, and since each wound up with her new better half, all my worries went by the wayside.

  We giggled as we got caught up on friendly gossip, waiting until the food arrived for any big news, as was protocol.

  “Okay, who’s going first? Who has news?” Mimi began, and we settled into our ritual. Sophia paused from shoveling in the waffles, indicating that she would serve the first volley.

  “Neil has to go to LA for a sportswriters in television conference, and he asked me to go with him,” she offered. Mimi and I nodded.

  “Ryan is thinking of letting me reorganize his home office. You should see it—his filing system alone made me break out in hives,” Mimi reported, shuddering.

  “Natalie Nicholson referred two new clients to me—Nob Hill, very posh, thank you very much,” I added, pouring myself more coffee from the carafe as they congratulated me.

  We chewed.

  “Neil talks in his sleep. It’s the cutest thing. He calls out football scores.”

  “Ryan let me paint his toenails last night.”

  “I told Simon I’d go to Spain with him.”

  Here’s the thing about a spit take: In the movies, they’re hysterical. In real life, they’re just messy.

  “Wait a minute, wait a goddamn minute. . . . What?” Sophia sputtered, juice still dribbling down her chin.

  “Caroline, you told him what?” Mimi managed, still choking as she waved the waiter over for more napkins.

  “I told him I’d go to Spain with him. No big deal.” I grinned. It was a big deal indeed.

  “I can’t believe you had the nerve to sit here and talk about random shit all morning and not tell us this. When did this happen?” Sophia asked, leaning forward on her elbows.

  “The night I went on a date with James.” I smiled.

  “Okay, that’s it. No more dicking around—spill it.” Mimi rounded on me with a butter knife and a frown.

  “What the hell, Caroline? I can’t believe you kept all this from us. When did you go on a date with James? And don’t you dare leave anything out. Tell us everything now, or I’ll let Mimi loose on you!” Sophia warned. Mimi gestured again in a menacing way with her knife—in a very West Side Story menacing way, mind you. I imagined an actual fight with Mimi would involve hitch kicks and barrel turns. . . .

  Nevertheless, I took a deep breath and spilled. All of it. Why I went out with James, the feelings that had been percolating with Simon, how James called me a decorator, how I kicked him out. They listened intently, only interjecting occasionally when they needed clarification.

  “I’m so proud of you,” Sophia said when I’d finished. Mimi nodded in agreement.

  “For what?”

  “Caroline, there was a time when if James told you to jump, you’d fucking jump. I guess we worried his showing up in your life would take you back to being that girl again,” Sophia explained.

  “I know you were worried. You’re both sweet, and no one will ever take care of me as well as you, even though you worry like old chickens in a henhouse.” I smiled at my fierce ladies.

  “So you sent James Brown packing, and then what happened?” Sophia asked, and I finished the last of the story: Simon’s entry, his apology, the disappearing Purina, his invitation . . .

  “So you just, had this epiphany in the bathroom, just like that? Go to Spain with Simon?” Mimi finally asked.

  “Yep. I didn’t really overthink it. I just, I can’t explain it . . . I just know I should go on this trip. I mean, I’ve always wanted to go to Spain, and I know he’ll be a good tour guide, and, come on, how much fun will it be? We’ll have a blast together!”

  “Bullshit,” Sophia stated simply.

  “Come again?”

  “I call bullshit, Caroline. You’re going because you want something to happen there with him. Don’t deny it.” She eyed me severely.

  “I deny nothing,” I quipped, signaling the waiter for our check.

  “No more harem, huh?” Mimi asked.

  “So it would seem. I’m not a fool. I know a man like him doesn’t change overnight, but if Giggler is out of the way before Spain? Well, then, that’s a Simon of a different color, now isn’t it?” I grinned cheekily, wiggling my eyebrows at my girls.

  “Why, Caroline Reynolds, I do believe you plan on seducing this man,” Sophia said, and Mimi clapped her hands with glee.

  “Simon’s going to bring back the O!” Mimi cheered, attracting more than a little attention.

  “Oh, hush. We’ll see. If, and this is a big fat if, ladies. If I ever allow anything to happen between Simon and me, it’s gonna be on my terms. Which would include no harem, no drinking, and no hot tubbing.”

  “I don’t know, Caroline. No drinking? I think it’d be criminal to be in Spain and not be indulging in a little sangria,” Mimi piped up.

  “Well, I do enjoy me some sangria,” I mused. Visions of Simon and me, sipping sangria while watching the Spanish sunset. Hmmm . . .

  Text between Simon and Caroline:

  So are you the type of girl who wears a big floppy hat on the beach?

  Pardon me?

  You know, those crazy giant beach hats? Do you have one?

  As it happens, yes. Is this a concern of yours?

  Concern, no. Just trying to get a visual of you on the beach in Spain. . . .

  How’s that working out for you?

  Pretty spiffy.

  Spiffy? Did you just say spiffy?

  I typed it actually. You got something against spiffy?

  This explains the old records. . . .

  HEY!

  I enjoy the old records. You know this. . . .

  I do know this. . . .

  Are we really going to Spain together?

  Yep.

  Are you home? I didn’t see the Rover this morning.

  Checking up on me?

  Perhaps. . . . Where are you, Simon?

  Have a shoot in LA, driving back in a few days. Can I see you when I get back?

  We’ll see. . . .

  I’ll play records for you.

  Spiffy.

  “So, since things are all completed on the Nicholson project, I was thinking . . . I have a jump on the commercial project I’m starting next, and you mentioned before that I could take some time off before we get busy for the holiday season, that, well, maybe I could—”

  “Spit it out, Caroline. You trying to ask me if you can go to Spain with Simon?” Jillian demanded, not trying very hard to hide her smile.

  “Maybe.” I winced, dropping my forehead to the desk.

  “You’re a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions. You know I think it’s a good time to take vacation, so why should I tell you whether you should go away with Simon or not?”

  “Jillian, to clarify, I’m not going away with Simon. You make it sound like some illicit affair.”

  “Right, right, it’s just two young people off to enjoy a little Spanish culture. How could I forget?” Jillian drawled, insinuation all over her face, as well as a little satisfaction. She was enjoying my squirming.

  “Okay, okay, so can I go?” I asked, knowing I would never hear the end of it but past caring.

  “Of course you can. But can I just say one thing?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Like I could stop you,” I grumbled.

  “You couldn’t, actually. All I ask is that you have a good time, play hard, but take care of him while you’re there, okay?” she asked, her face taking on a seriousness I rarely saw.

  “Take care of him? What is he, seven?” I laughed, stifling it immediately when I saw she was not kidding.

  “Caroline, this trip will change things. You must know that. And I love you both. I don’t want either of you to get hurt, no matter what transpires while you’re there,” she said softly. I started to make a joke, but I stopped. I
knew what she was asking.

  “Jillian, I don’t know quite what’s going on between Simon and me, and I’ve no idea what’s going to happen in Spain. But I can tell you, I’m excited about this trip. And I get the sense he is too,” I added.

  “Oh, my dear, he’s definitely excited. Just . . . Oh, never mind. You’re both adults. Go crazy on each other in Spain.”

  “First you tell me to be gentle, and now you tell me to go crazy?” I grumbled.

  She reached across the desk to pat my hand affectionately. Then she took a deep breath and changed the mood in the room entirely. “Now then, fill me in on where we stand with James Brown. What’s left to be done?”

  I smiled and flipped my planner open to the end of the week, when I would be finished with all things James Brown.

  A few nights later I was settling into my couch comfortably with Mr. Clive and Barefoot Contessa when I heard something in the hallway. Clive and I looked at each other, and he jumped off my lap to investigate. I knew Simon wasn’t due home for another day or so based on his texts—and the fact that I might have been counting the days—so I followed Clive to my old post: the peephole.

  As I peered out into the hallway, there was a flash of strawberry-blond hair at Simon’s door. Who was visiting Simon? Was I wrong to stare? What was that package she had? The woman the hair belonged to knocked once, then twice, and then before I knew it, she whirled about and looked directly at my door, curiously staring at my peephole. Not accustomed to anyone staring at my peephole, I froze, eyes unblinking as she appraised my door. She crossed the tiny landing, and rapped soundly on my door. Surprised, I jumped back a little, bumping into my umbrella stand and letting her know there was, in fact, someone home. I turned my face to the side and shouted, “Coming!” Then I proceeded to walk in place as though I was headed for the door. Clive looked on with interest, tossing his head and assuring me I was not nearly as clever as I thought I was.

  I made a great noise of clicking the locks, and then opened the door.

  We appraised each other instantly, in the way that women do. She was tall and beautiful in a cold, patrician way. She wore a black suit, severely cut and buttoned up to the collar. Her strawberry blond hair was twisted and pinned back, although one solitary piece had marched away from her sisters and now hung in her face. She pushed it back behind her ear. Her cherry-red lips pursed as she finished looking me over and offered a thin smile.

  “Caroline, yes?” she asked, a solidly British accent piercing the air as clearly as her attitude. I already knew I didn’t care for this woman.

  “Yes, can I help you?” I suddenly felt underdressed in my Garfield boxers and tank top. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, feet clad in giant socks. I shifted my weight again, realizing I probably looked like I had to pee. I also realized at the same time that this woman made me nervous, and I had no idea why. I straightened up immediately, putting on my game face. This all took place in less than five seconds, a lifetime in the world of Woman Figuring Out the Other Woman.

  “I need to drop this off for Simon, and he mentioned that if he wasn’t at home to leave it at the flat across from his, that Caroline would take care of it for him. You’re Caroline, so here you go, I suppose,” she finished, thrusting a cardboard box at me. I took it, taking my eyes off hers for a moment.

  “What does he think I am, a mailbox?” I muttered, setting it on the table just inside the door and turning back to the woman.

  “May I tell him who dropped this off, or will he know?” I asked. She was still looking me over as though I were a great puzzle.

  “Oh, he’ll know,” she answered, her cool tone sounding musical but clipped at the same time. As an American, I’ll admit I am always fascinated by a British accent but could do without this particular side of superiority.

  “Okay, well . . . I’ll make sure he gets it.” I nodded, leaning my hand on the door. I closed it ever so slightly, but she didn’t move.

  “Is there anything else?” I asked. I could hear Ina working on her shortbread in the other room, and I didn’t want to miss any KitchenAid porn.

  “No, nothing else,” she replied, still making no move.

  “Okay, then, have a good night,” I said, almost making it a question as I started to close the door. Just as I did, she stepped forward enough so I was forced to catch the door before it hit her.

  “Yes?” I asked, my irritation beginning to show through. This limey was stopping me from seeing the completion of the pecan squares I’d been waiting for all episode.

  “I just, well, I’m really glad to have met you,” she answered, her eyes finally softening and a hint of a smile breaking through her facade. “And you really are quite lovely,” she added. I stared back at her. Her voice sounded oddly familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.

  “Um, okay, thank you?” I answered as she started for the stairwell. Her heel caught just slightly, and she stumbled a little. As I closed the door, she began to giggle as she worked her shoe loose. That’s when I realized who’d just visited.

  My eyes widened, I’m sure to the size of dahlias, and I hurled the door back open. I gaped at her, and her face broke open into the widest cheeky grin. She winked as I blushed. I’d been present for some of this lady’s greatest moments.

  She wiggled her fingers at me and disappeared down the stairs. Clive brought me back from my stupor by nipping me on the calf, and I closed the door.

  I sat on my couch, pecan squares all but forgotten as my brain processed everything.

  Giggler had said I was lovely.

  She basically told me Simon had told her I was lovely.

  Simon thought I was lovely.

  Was Giggler out of the harem?

  Was there even a harem left?

  What did this mean?

  Would I only think in questions now?

  And if so, who is Eric Cartman’s father?

  Text between Simon and Caroline:

  What are you doing?

  What are YOU doing?

  I asked you first.

  You sure did.

  Waiting . . .

  Me too . . .

  Jesus you’re stubborn. I’m driving back from LA. Happy now?

  Yes, thank you. I’m baking pumpkin bread.

  It’s a good thing I’m at a gas station right now and not driving or I would have a hard time keeping the car on the road. . . .

  Right, the baking gets you worked up, doesn’t it?

  You have no idea.

  So I probably shouldn’t tell you I smell like cinnamon and ginger right now?

  Caroline.

  My raisins are soaking in brandy this very minute.

  That’s it. . . .

  I peered out the window again, scanning the street below, and still no sign of the Rover. The fog was quite thick, and although I didn’t want to be a nag, I was becoming a little concerned that he wasn’t home yet. Here I sat, with cooling loaves, and no Simon had shown up to inhale them. I picked up my phone to text him, but then called instead. I didn’t want him texting while he was on the road. It rang a few times, and then he picked up.

  “Hi there, my favorite baker,” he purred, and my knees clanked together. He was like the best Kegel exercise ever—instant clench.

  “Are you close?”

  “Pardon me?” He laughed.

  “Close to home. Are you close to home?” I asked, rolling my eyes and unclenching.

  “Yes, why?”

  “There seems to be a lot of fog tonight. I mean, more than usual. . . . Be careful, okay?”

  “That’s very sweet of you to be looking out for me.”

  “Shut up, mister. I always look out for my friends,” I scolded, beginning to get ready for bed. I was a multitasker from way back. I could do my taxes while getting waxed and not bat an eye. I could certainly get undressed while talking to Simon. Ahem.

  “Friends? Is that what we are?” he asked.

  “What the hell else would we be?” I shot ba
ck, pulling off my shorts and grabbing a pair of thick woolen socks. The floor was chilly tonight.

  “Hmmm,” he muttered as I took off my T-shirt and slipped into a button-down to sleep in.

  “Well, while you’re hmmming, I have to tell you about a visit I had earlier this week from a friend of yours.”

  “A friend of mine? This sounds intriguing.”

  “Yep, Julie Andrews accent, buttoned-up Brit? Ring any bells? She dropped off a box for you.”

  His laughter rang out immediately. “Julie Andrews accent—that’s brilliant! That must have been Lizzie. You met Lizzie!” He laughed like this was the funniest thing ever.

  “Lizzie Schmizzie. She’ll always be Giggler to me.” I smirked, sitting on the edge of my bed and applying some lotion.

  “Why do you call her Giggler?” he asked, playing innocent, and I could tell he was on the verge of absolute hysterics.

  “You really need me to tell you? Come on, even you can’t be that thick—never mind, walked right into that one.” I cut him off before he could regale me with how thick he was, indeed. I’d been pressed up against that very thick in a hot tub, so I was familiar. Kegel. And, thank you, another Kegel.

  “I like messing with you, Nightie Girl. It gives me a chuckle.”

  “First spiffy, now a chuckle? I worry about you, Simon.” I returned to the living room to turn off lights and get the place ready for bed. This included freshening Clive’s water bowl and hiding a few Pounce treats around the apartment. He enjoyed playing Big-Game Hunter while I slept sometimes, with the Pounce, of course, playing the part of the big game. Some nights the pillows were unfortunately involved, as well as any hair ties, loose shoelaces, and pretty much anything else that seemed appealing around two in the morning. Some mornings my place looked like Wild Kingdom had been filmed overnight.

  “Well, no worries. I’ll pick it up when I get back. So did you two have a nice chat?”

  “We chatted briefly, yes. But no dirty secrets were shared. Although with the thin walls, I’m already a bit familiar. How is the lonely haremette? Missing her sisters?” I flipped off the lights and padded through the kitchen to fetch the big game. I was dying to ask him if he’d actually broken up with Giggler. Did he, did he not?