I should really get Botox or Dysport—it would keep me from furrowing my brow in confusion so often. “What do you mean you’re not?”
“I told my family I wasn’t flying in until Thursday. I have to fly to San Francisco Monday for a big meeting, so I thought I’d head to LA a couple of days early and see friends before the wedding craziness begins.” He leans in to me, inhales my scent, then grins. “You smell like a combination of champagne, chocolate, and Chanel No. 5.”
“Thank you,” I say brightly. Wait, is he flirting with me? “I’ve had a bit too much champagne tonight. Chocolate too. There was a lot of both left over from Seema’s shower today.”
“Too much champagne? That’s a shame. Because I have a lovely Bordeaux I brought all the way from Paris, and I could use someone to share it with.” Jay leans toward to me seductively, and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. Instead, he looks over my shoulder and raises his hand “hello” to someone behind me. “Andre. The eagle has landed. You can toss the bags anywhere.”
I turn around to see Andre, his chauffeur, standing by my door with a black bag in each hand, smiling (possibly in amusement) at Jay. “Yes, Mr. Singh,” Andre says, then puts Jay’s bags down next to the couch. “And it’s good to have you back in town.”
“Happy to see you too.” Jay stands and pulls Andre into a sloppy “I love you, man” hug. “Sorry you have to get up so early Monday to pick me up.”
“Not a problem,” Andre says, hugging him back, then nodding to me. “You have a good evening, ma’am.”
“Thank you. You too,” I say. Andre closes the door behind him, and I stand up and walk over to the door to lock the bottom lock, then the dead bolt.
Then I turn to Jay.
Wow—he is still so beautiful. A perfect six feet tall, glowing bronze skin, eyes you could lose yourself in for days. It’s been a while since I looked at a man and got all googly-eyed—and I’m liking that feeling.
The first time I ever met Seema’s older brother was back when I was rooming with her in our freshman dorm in college. He was two years older, a junior at Stanford majoring in French literature (apparently much to the chagrin of their parents). I thought he was the most sophisticated and intelligent man I had ever met. Not to mention so breathtakingly handsome that the first time I met him I actually giggled. Then I stared at the floor, the wall, the ceiling, and anywhere else I could find that was not him for at least an hour.
He stayed on our couch for a long weekend, and during the seventy-two hours that he was there, he slept with not one but two women, both of whom bugged Seema for months asking about him. His James Bond–worthy success with the ladies sort of cured me of my crush. But I am embarrassed to admit—only sort of. One could say, “The heart wants what it wants.” But I think it was other parts of my anatomy that craved his attention.
Nonetheless, I was a virgin then and never got together with him. He lived his life as a bon vivant, and bon vivants are scary when you’re of a certain age—that age ranging anywhere from eighteen to, say, thirty-two.
“How have I not hit this?” Jay says cheerfully yet seductively as he makes a show of waving his hands around my body. “I swear, you could be a Frenchwoman: you get better and better with age.”
I shake my head and smile. “You know, if that came from anyone but you, it would be horribly cheesy. Yet, somehow when you say it, you’re charming as always.”
“I’ll bet you look even better when you’re not wearing Eeyore slippers,” he says playfully.
I look down and am immediately mortified. Indeed, I am in Eeyore slippers, which match my fetching Eeyore shorty pajamas. I smile and shrug. “Well, maybe if you had told us you were coming a few days early, I could have worn something more Victoria’s Secret and less Disney Store,” I flirt.
“A powerful incentive to do so next time,” Jay flirts right back. “So, do you have any interest in sharing a Château Calon-Ségur Saint-Estèphe with me? Or are you off to bed?”
“Yes, and no,” I answer, having never heard of a Château blah-blah-blah, nuh-nuh-nuh, but figuring a handsome man bringing me French wine can only be a good thing.
Jay unzips his suitcase. “So, how’s Seema doing? She seemed pretty stressed the last time I talked to her.”
“She’s fine. I think she’ll be better once this is all over and they head to Kenya. Did you pack your sherwani?”
“Yeesss…,” he says, dragging out the word to two syllables and sighing. “And my turban. And my tuxedo. The way she nagged me, you’d think I was planning to go to her wedding in beachwear and flip-flops.”
“In fairness, that was your signature look back in college.” I want to add that it was a fantastic look on him, but I don’t have the nerve to say that aloud.
Jay pulls out a bottle of red wine. The label has a heart on it. “Back in college I also thought wine coolers and Budweiser were acceptable forms of libation.” He holds up the bottle. “Trust me—I’ve upgraded.”
Jay smiles at me warmly. I know this is wrong, but after all these years I still want to kiss him. Actually, I want to climb on top of him like a kitten on a scratching post.
My cooler head soon prevails, and I break eye contact. Getting together with Jay would be a complete disaster for a variety of reasons: First, he’s Seema’s brother. Next, he’s thirty-five and has never been married. Plus, he lives on the other side of the planet. And finally, he’s slept with enough women to make Hugh Hefner blush and give an STD lecture.
“Let me get you a corkscrew,” I say, grateful for the excuse to escape to the kitchen.
“Seema tells me you’re single again,” Jay says casually as he follows me to the kitchen. “So now that you’re a free woman, when are you coming to Paris to stay with me?”
The question takes me completely off guard and makes me think of my missed passport charm from earlier today. “School’s finished, and I’ve got nothing to do besides watch summer reruns and eat. How’s your Bastille Day looking?” I joke as I pull a corkscrew from a drawer.
Jay puts the bottle on the counter and leans into me. I can smell his breath. It’s a combination of red wine and mint, and all I can think about is how it would feel on my neck.
“Let me check.” He pulls away from me and quickly checks his iPhone. “I can make myself free every night that week.” He tells me as he reads his screen. “I’ll probably have to go in to work a few of the weekdays, but I can play hooky a bit, and we can always send you off to the Louvre or Notre Dame on the days that I’m busy.”
“Wait … you’re serious?” I ask, allowing myself to get the tiniest bit excited. “Could I really come stay with you in Paris?”
“Of course. I’m staying with you these next few days, why shouldn’t I return the favor?”
Technically, he’s staying with his sister, not me, I think to myself as I hand Jay the corkscrew and watch him open the bottle effortlessly (everything he does seems effortless).
Then again: a free place to stay in Paris. Hard to resist.
I pull out two wineglasses. “I’ll think about it.”
“Let me tempt you further.” He pours our wine. “I live in Montmartre, right in the middle of the eighteenth arrondissement,” he says in such lilting French, I want to grab him by his loosened silk tie, pull him to my room, and have my way with him immediately. “On your first day, we could hit the French market in the late morning, I’ll make us some jambon blanc et fromage sandwiches, and we’ll do a picnic at the Parc du Champ de Mars, next to the Eiffel Tower. Then we’ll head to the Musée d’Orsay, which if you ask me is even better than the Louvre, and check out the Monets, the Manets, and the Gauguins. I remember years ago you had this coffee mug of Monet’s Water Lilies painting. You should see it in person. It’s incredibly soothing. I could stand there and stare at it for hours.”
He remembered that mug? I loved that mug. Whatever happened to that mug? “Ummm … Well, I…”
Jay continues to entice me in more ways than one.
“For dinner, we have an abundance of choices. After all, it’s Paris. There’s this wonderful little place I go to called L’Escargot Montorgueil, obviously in Montorgueil, that, yes, has the best snails you’ve ever eaten, but also a beef fillet you would love. Or if you like chateaubriand, we could go to Le Tastevin. Or there’s an amazing little boîte in the Latin Quarter—”
“Have you ever been to the restaurant in the Eiffel Tower?” I ask him excitedly.
Jay pauses for a second, which makes me self-conscious.
I quickly backtrack. “I just … I know it’s lame, but I’ve always wanted to eat at the Eiffel Tower. It’s sort of a bucket-list thing.”
“You mean the one on the first floor, or the Jules Verne?”
“Um … the Jules Verne?” I guess, not having any idea which one I mean.
Jay hands me my glass of red. “I have not, but it sounds perfect. Then we end the night with drinks and a cheese course at the bar at George V, then go back to my apartment, where we’ll split a bottle of your favorite something in front of the fireplace. And that’s just day one.”
Shit, I could never afford all of that, I think to myself. But instead I say, “Don’t you have a girlfriend who would be mad if I was there?”
Jay cocks his head, confused. “Does Seema think I have a girlfriend?”
“Oh. No, I just … I mean, looking at you, I kind of always assume you have a girlfriend.”
“No,” Jay promises me, furrowing his brow as though trying to decipher how I could have come up with such an odd conclusion. “When our parents came out last fall, I did introduce them to Jacqueline. But we weren’t a real item or anything. She was mostly doing me a favor. You know how moms get when you’re in your midthirties and there are no grandchildren on the horizon.”
I do indeed. Something tells me that for men it’s more of an annoyance. With women, we take it to heart, decide there must be something inherently wrong with us, then get even more depressed than our mothers.
Jay swirls the wine in his glass, leans in to sniff it, then takes a sip. “Not bad, but I think we should give it ten minutes to open up.” He gently takes my hand and cheerfully pulls me toward the living room. “Let’s go make out on the couch for a while.”
I grab my glass and allow myself to be pulled to the couch, knowing he’s not the least bit serious. Jay has had opportunities to have his way with me since we were young, and other than a kiss hello in college on the lips (which has, sadly, turned into a kiss on each cheek since he moved to Europe), I am chaste in his eyes.
Jay leads me to the couch, and we both take a seat. Instead of leaning in toward me, he leans back against the corner of the sofa and lounges his right arm out as if to invite me in for a hug. “So, what is going on in your life? Tell me everything. How’s school treating you?”
Ugh. I don’t know exactly what Jay does for a living, but I do know it makes a healthy six figures. In euros. So anytime we talk about work, I feel like a Vegas lounge singer talking to Beyoncé. “Oh, you know, same old, same old,” I answer nervously.
Why am I so nervous? It’s not as if I’ve never been on a sofa with this man before. It’s not as if I haven’t known him for a million years. And, yes, okay, I still think he’s hot, but after this many years knowing a person …
“And your cousin Julie?” he asks, killing the mood completely.
Julie and he had a brief fling back in college when, granted, I had a boyfriend. Then they hooked up a few years ago when he came to Los Angeles, when I, once again, had a boyfriend.
Naturally, I was jealous as hell both times.
“Julie’s good,” I tell him, my voice cracking. “She’s married now, so she has a date to the wedding.” Good God, why do I say things like that out loud?
Jay nods. “Husbands are good for that—built-in dates.”
“Yeah,” I say awkwardly, nodding as well. Then I take a nervous sip of wine and blurt out, “Guess you’re gonna have to find someone else to dance with to Eric Clapton that night.”
He smiles at me, shakes his head slowly, and asks in confusion, “Eric Clapton?”
“Yeah. Remember, sophomore year our dorm had this dance, and you were flirting with Julie, and then “Wonderful Tonight” came on, and you were talking about how he first released it in 1977, but it didn’t really take off until more than ten years later, and she grabbed you and you guys danced, and then … well … um, you know.” I dart my eyes around the room, unable to make eye contact any longer.
Jay cocks his head. “Wow. I vaguely remember that. I’m surprised you do.”
“Three point one four one five nine two six five.” Butterflies are doing cartwheels in my stomach. “Those are the first nine digits of pi. I have a good memory.”
Why did I say that? Did that even make sense? What is wrong with me? And how quickly can I get to my bedroom, slam my door, jump into bed, and throw the covers over my head, scared of this ghost of crushes past?
Jay stares at me as if he’s trying to figure me out. (Good luck with that—I’ve been trying for thirty-two years to no avail.) I try to make eye contact with him again, but I once again get so nervous, I turn away. “Can you quit doing that?”
“What?”
“Looking at me like you’re studying me. I hate that.”
“Sorry,” he apologizes, unruffled. He takes a sip of his wine, then puts it on the coffee table and watches me again.
Dude, thanks for listening.
“You know, I actually was kind of trying to get you to dance with me that night,” Jay confesses.
“You were?”
“Mm-hmm. You asked me to dance to Ricky Martin’s ‘La Vida Loca,’ and I said no. Then at some point a slow song came on, but it was really lame. I can’t remember why I didn’t—”
“Spice Girls. ‘Two Become One,’” I interrupt, nearly yelling out the answer.
Jay appears startled by my outburst, but quickly shrugs it off. “I’m sure you’re right. Anyway, then some slow Clapton came on … which was more my speed … but you had a boyfriend then, so…”
His voice trails off, and I let silence fill the room.
“I had kind of a crush on you back then,” Jay admits.
I turn to him, eyes wide. “You did? Seriously?”
“Why do you think I came to visit Seema so often?” he asks, chuckling a little.
Jay Singh—THE Jay Singh—had a crush on me once? Me? Wow. Wow. Wow. Say something clever. Prove to him you’re worthy. I finally come up with “I had a little bit of a crush on you back then too.”
He seems surprised. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I reiterate nervously. “I mean, I always had a boyfriend, so there was nothing I could do about it back then.”
“You shouldn’t have let that stop you,” he says jokingly (half-jokingly?). “You’d be amazed how many girls I’ve dated who’ve had boyfriends at the time.”
Okey-dokey. Now what? I put the wineglass back up to my lips, then decide to put it back down. I want to be clearheaded (or relatively clearheaded) for this.
Well, let’s see … Choice number one: slowly stand up from the couch and head to my bedroom, careful to turn around and eye him seductively right before disappearing into my boudoir.
In Eeyore pajamas? Difficult to pull off.
Choice number two: look at him coquettishly while I sip my wine and hope he thinks to make a move on his own?
I’ve spent more than a decade waiting for him to make a move. Once, when I tried to eye him coquettishly, he asked if I had something in my eye.
Choice number three: skip the wine, the coquettish look, and the trip to the boudoir, and pounce on him like a poodle on her favorite chew toy!
“So, do you have a date to the wedding?” Jay asks me, interrupting my internal debate.
“Huh? Oh. Not really,” I say a bit too quickly. “I mean, kind of…”
But before I can explain the Jeff situation, Jay leans in and kisses me.
It’s a s
oft kiss. No tongue, no expectation. Just a very nice, sweet kiss.
I have no idea what to make of it.
So I do what most women do in this situation—I fill the room with lots of unnecessary words. “Jeff’s my date. Remember my old boyfriend from my sophomore year?”
Jay looks disappointed, and I quickly try to think of a way to backtrack. But before I can explain further, we hear Seema and Scott walk up the front walkway.
We both immediately retract to opposite sides of the three-cushion couch.
“I’m just saying, it was a little strange to walk in on, that’s all,” I hear Seema argue to Scott as we hear the key going into the lock.
As the key unlocks the dead bolt, I can hear Scott continue the heated discussion. “So you’re mad because I was talking to the stripper, instead of letting her grind me?”
“I’m not mad you were talking to her!” Seema says, clearly mad. “I just don’t understand why you needed to talk to her about where our future children are going to elementary school.”
“The LA public school system is very complicated,” Scott points out as Seema opens the door. “You’ve got your magnets, your charters, plus open-enrollment options. And that’s not even taking into account looking for a house near a good neighborhood school.”
Jay jumps off the couch (so quickly as to almost be insulting) and jokes, “And then there’s preschool. You’ve got your blocks, your colors, should you focus more on letters and numbers, or sandbox time?”
“Jay!” Seema practically squeals. “What are you doing here?”
“Apparently missing the weirdest bachelor party on record,” Jay says, pulling her into a huge hug.
“I thought you weren’t coming until Thursday,” Seema tells him as Jay and Scott shake hands.
“When is the rest of the family coming?” Jay asks.
“Monday. Well, except Auntie Hema, she’s already here.”
“Then I’m not coming until Thursday.”
Seema shakes her head at his answer, then jumps up a bit and gives him another hug. “Oh, I’m so excited to see you! Let me go put on my pajamas, and we’ll stay up all night catching up.”
Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink Page 5
