Gorgeous Rotten Scoundrel

by Nina G. Jones

  "My position with Brock kind of morphed into that anyway. I guess it depends on who it is."

  "Sadie, I am saving the best for last."

  The waitress finally arrived at the table and I could tell that Mindy was annoyed. She always has several hundred to a thousand thoughts running through her mind at once and cannot tolerate those around her who do their jobs slowly.

  "We'll just put our entire order in since it might take a while for you to come back again," she said, so nonchalantly that it was as if she had no idea she was being insulting. That's Mindy!

  The server graciously nodded. I am sure she has dealt with Mindy types many times in this restaurant.

  "I'll have a Caesar salad. No croutons, no parmesan, no dressing." I wondered why she would pay $20 for chicken on dry leaves.

  "I'll have the salad as well, no modifications, and a cup of tomato bisque. Thank you." I hoped my politeness would assuage Mindy's harshness.

  By the time the server left, I was bursting. "Well, tell me dammit!"

  Mindy glanced around the room and leaned in. She said it in an almost-whisper: "Heath-fucking-Hillabrand." This is where she lost me. I responded with a blank expression. "Ugh, you need to get out more. Here." She pulled out her phone and rapidly bounced her thumbs off the screen. "Look at him," she said, shoving the screen in my face. On her phone was a black and white photo of a man with both a perfectly chiseled physique and jawline. He looked off into the distance gazing at some invisible sunset. Damn, his everything is perfect. Printed across the white briefs adorning his ample crotch were the words Calvin Klein.

  "That guy? I've seen him on Times Square!"

  "Yeah, he's one of the highest-paid male models right now. He does some TV hosting too, and woman, he is just as stunning in person. He's also kind of a socialite, or whatever you call a male socialite? Maybe it's socialisto or something. So, he's known to rent a house in the Hamptons every summer and throw great parties. He wants someone to not only cook for him, but help organize these parties. It sounds like he is taking it up a notch. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

  "It actually does."

  "Great! Because after I saw the headlines about Brock, I told him I had someone. I knew you wouldn't leave," she grinned mischievously.

  I shook my head. Mindy always gets ahead of herself; luckily she was right this time.

  "So what's next?"

  "I am going to set up a meeting. You'll have to drive out to the house. Does early next week work for you?"

  "My schedule is very open these days," I said dully.

  "Perfect. I'll get back to you later with a time after I get in touch with him."

  After the quick lunch with Ms. Important, the lost feeling I had about Brock leaving began to subside with news of this potential new client. It sounded like a nice change of pace: planning parties, organizing the caterers, rubbing shoulders with the Hampton elite. Mindy has always been so clutch. Sometimes I felt like I was drowning in her boundless energy, but it was times like this that I realized she is really a great person to have on my side. I met Mindy in high school. She came from a rich family and she was one of those people who bought her friends. She took me on vacations, bought me clothes (even when I insisted she didn't), so much so that I often felt like I was using her. But really I liked having her around. She was secure, she would always be there, and she could be a lot of fun. She just wanted to have the same in return.

  I felt so great about the news that I decided to walk the 20 blocks to my Nonna's instead of taking a train. Maybe Brock leaving would be a good thing after all, just the kick in the butt I needed to step up my career-game.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I arrived at my grandma's rent-controlled apartment on the Upper West Side about 40 minutes after ending lunch with Mindy. Although she had slowed down in recent years, she loved her apartment and was fiercely determined to stay there. I was going to help her do that until it was no longer possible.

  I usually helped prep her meals for the week, and we also paid for a part-time home attendant to visit for a few hours every day and make sure she had everything she needed. This was the only reason I knew she would be fine with me in the Hamptons for the summer. I should still have been able to come down a couple of times a month, but even if I could not, the nurse would make sure she was taken care of and had company. I would have never even entertained the idea otherwise.

  "Oh, hi dear!" she said cheerfully as I entered the living room. She was sitting in her usual floral upholstered chair.

  "Hi Nonna," I scooted down to kiss her on the cheek and took a seat on the floor beside her. Almost all of her furniture was covered in clear plastic, the kind that nearly rips off a layer of hamstring skin if you sit on it while wearing shorts on a hot day, so I avoided sitting on it as much as possible.

  "How are you sweetie?"

  "Good. I think I have a new opportunity for the summer."

  "That is lovely."

  "Yes, but I don't want to get too excited about it. It's not even close to being in the bag. Watcha watchin'?"

  "Come again?"

  "What-are-you-watching?"

  "Oh, yes. The Price is Right." Her speech had become more labored in the past year. I could tell her mind was still sharp, but her mouth couldn't quite keep up. I would also have to speak loud and slow, the way you speak to someone who barely understands English, otherwise I would have to repeat myself indefinitely.

  "Your favorite."

  She smiled, revealing her pristine dentures.

  "So I am going to make you some chili and some chicken soup. You can alternate throughout the week. How does that sound?"

  "Whatever you like to make. Just make sure the chili is mild or my hemorrhoids will act up."

  "Noted!"

  As I was prepping the veggies for the chili, I got a text from Mindy.

  Mindy:

  He wants to see you sooner than I thought. Can you do tomorrow at 11?

  Of course I was available, so I accepted the meeting. She replied that I would need to drive to his house and meet him there. He'd fill me in on everything, including the requirements, payment, and the length of my stay should he choose to hire me.

  Mindy:

  My advice is to wear something that highlights how attractive you are. Not slutty, but this is not a corporate thing, so you have some freedom.

  I thought the suggestion bizarre, but I figured what Mindy was alluding to was this was not just a chef opportunity, but a party planner opportunity and I needed to look the part. Not a problem, I am a clothes horse and had plenty to choose from to show him that not only could I cook, but I could be hip too.

  With no real chores for the rest of day, I stayed with my grandma until after dinner, far later than I usually did, until she was ready for bed. After saying our good nights, I headed home.

  Home was on the border of Williamsburg and Bushwick in Brooklyn. Unlike my grandmother, I was not one of the lucky ones to have one of the few dwindling rent-controlled apartments in NYC and I wasn't an NBA superstar or Wall Street banker. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't Oliver Twist or anything, I lived comfortably. I wasn't going on any yacht trips to the French Riviera anytime soon, but I paid my bills, I had food, and some money left over for treats to myself. Really though, I loved living in Brooklyn. It always felt more like home to me than Manhattan. And since I was at Brock's and my Nonna's all the time, I got my fair share of life in the center of the city.

  I lived in an old warehouse turned apartment building. My apartment was a studio, about six hundred square feet, which is a shoebox in most of the country but is pretty spacious for New York City. The building hadn't really been updated, and it was one of those work/live spaces, so it had that rustic (read: old and weathered) appeal. Despite not being rich, I had a taste for the finer things when it came to fashion and design. So, in my free time, I scoured eBay and Craigslist for furniture and decor. I was lucky to have a friend like Mindy who was often sent designer duds for free or rece
ived them in swag bags at events. She also revised her wardrobe nearly every season. So, between my thrifting and Mindy, my clothing collection was pretty impressive, even to the astute eye.

  My apartment had gray-painted concrete floors, chipped throughout to reveal the cracked gray bare concrete. Why my landlord painted gray floors gray is beyond me. These weren't the luxurious, heated concrete floors you see in the magazines. No, they were cold as ice, even in the Summer. So I almost always wore house socks and covered my floors with an eclectic collection of rugs. In fact, my entire apartment was a well-curated hodgepodge of items I had picked up over the years. It wasn't huge, and nothing was new, but it was my little personalized box of space in this enormous city.

  There were no closets of course. The space was literally a box. So all of my clothes were hung on rolling garment racks placed against the wall or folded in various mid-century modern dressers I had snagged online. I stared out the original-to-the-building windows, which tilted open instead of sliding up and down (they sucked as insulators, but were still one of my favorite features of the apartment), and looked out through the dozens of rusty panels at my view of the city: industrial buildings, an elevated subway station, storage facilities, and squat red brick buildings. I sighed resolutely, and turned back to face the apartment to prepare for my unexpected interview.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I woke up the morning I was to meet Heath with a sense of resolve. I was going to get this gig. Party Planner to the Stars. Mingling with wealthy partygoers all summer would be just what I needed to expand my business network. This was mine.

  I used a barrel curling iron to press soft curls into my long black hair. For makeup, I went with a soft peach blush, nude lipstick, and some variations of olive green eyeshadow and hunter green eyeliner to bring out my honey-speckled eyes. I rocked some edgy, skinny faded black jeggings with a horizontal leather detail on the knees, pairing them with a cream silk blouse, leaving the top few buttons undone (just enough for sex appeal without being an invitation to motorboat). Black ankle boots with just enough of a heel for added height, but not too spiky as to elicit thoughts of how they might look in the air, topped off the look.

  I hopped into my 1999 Toyota Camry, which was about as average of a vehicle as one could have. But it was all paid for and well-maintained, and it wasn't worth investing in a new car as much as I used public transportation. In fact, I only kept the car for transporting food to catering gigs. The weather was nice enough to drive with the windows down, and surprisingly, I enjoyed the drive, already making plans in my head about how I would return to the city every two weeks or so to check in on my Nonna. As the meeting fell on a Wednesday, traffic was minimal and I got to the East Hampton home in three and a half hours. Since we were meeting at his home, I stopped for a quick bite to eat and to kill time so as not to catch him off guard. At about 10:50, I pulled up to the road that the GPS indicated would lead me to his house.

  When I turned up to his driveway, it did not look at all like the traditional Hamptons homes I expected from endless Real Housewives episodes and the occasional spread in Vogue. The driveway, which wound through tall stalks of bamboo, was paved with tiny pebbles Elegant, vaguely Japanese water fountains trickled into lily-dotted ponds and faux water pumps rhythmically poured water, allowing for a retreat-like feel. It had just the right amount of Asian-inspiration, providing a zen-like ambiance without feeling like I had entered an Epcot version of Japan. I pulled up to the garage and parked my car in front of one of its closed doors. There was not a peep of life outside of the home. The house was multi-tiered with a flatness about it that complimented the Asian modernist theme. If I had to guess, I would say they were cedar planks that lined the exterior walls of the house; a brownish-black dark steel framed the entire structure.

  I tip-toed to the front door and took one last deep breath before ringing the doorbell. I stood there for maybe a minute or two, but there was no response. I pressed the doorbell again, this time harder, feeling I may have not done it properly the first time. Another thirty seconds. This house is big, give him some time. I rang again. Nada. I remembered that Mindy gave me Heath's cell number just in case I got lost, so I called him, feeling very uncomfortable and embarrassed that I might have driven out all this way to get stood up.

  After four rings, the phone went to voicemail. His voice was deep, but playful.

  This is Heath, leave a message!

  I hung up, feeling a mixture of frustration and disappointment. The previously tranquil sounds of the water fixtures now served as mocking reminders of the silence around me. One more ring and I'm gone. I should have left right then. I took another deep breath to calm myself and pressed the doorbell. This time, the door whipped open. Heath stood there, squinting into the sunlight. His blond hair was disheveled. He was shirtless, in a pair of worn jeans with the top button undone and barely holding onto his hips. He brought his right arm overhead and leaned it against the doorframe; the tension this created made his abs flex. Mindy was right, even half asleep, he is divine.

  He cleared his throat. "Oh yeah, the chef, right?"

  I nodded. "Did I get the time wrong? Mindy said..."

  "No, no...come in. I had too much fun last night." He stepped aside and extended his arm to welcome me in.

  "Have a seat." He was barefoot and hadn't even attempted to find a piece of clothing to cover his bare torso. I guess I missed the memo that this was a shirts-optional interview. Heath strolled over to the fridge with the ease of someone who hadn't just woken up to an interview he had completely forgotten about. "Orange juice, coffee, vodka, all of the above?" He sounded a bit like a car salesman.

  "No, thank you. I'm fine." Guys like Heath have always made me tense, at least upon first meeting them. I know his type. They walk around like they own the world, like they can have whatever they want, and it's because they do and they can. But I had my share of guys like him, and I vowed since the last one that never again would I fall for the bullshit. I don't just mean fall in love, I mean even as a friend, I wouldn't fall for the fake charm bullshit. I would be the thorn on his side. I would tell him exactly what I thought of him.

  "Suit yourself." He poured himself a glass of juice before taking a seat across from me in a camel-colored leather Herman Miller Eames chair. I want that chair. He placed his cup on the ottoman (I prayed in my head that he would not spill OJ on that extremely expensive piece of furniture) and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes as if examining my face. I leaned back subtly, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

  "Where are you from?"

  "New York."

  "No, I mean ethnicity. You've got a look about you."

  "A look about me?"

  "I mean that in a very good way. Different. Intriguing."

  "I'm Italian, Puerto Rican and Japanese, in varying percentages." Does he realize he's breaking about ten different employment laws in this interview and it hasn't even been ten minutes?

  "That's an interesting mix."

  "Yes. And you? What are you?"

  "Oh, I'm just white. Some German, British, I think I'm one millionth Portuguese or some shit," he said, taking a swig of his juice. I nodded, waiting for the interview part of the interview. "So, yeah, I heard you are a good chef, that you used to cook for Brock Jameson? I need someone to help keep me lean. Traveling a lot has gotten me off course."

  "You look great."

  "I know, but I have to maintain." I know. Typical cocky response to a compliment. "You must know how to cook healthy. I always imagine chefs to look like Paula Deen, but it looks like you have a tight body under that blouse. I mean that in a professional manner, I have to see nice bodies all the time in my line of work." Woah. If he was ugly, he would so not get away with this shit.

  "Thank you. I guess."

  The clacking of heels from somewhere in the large house came closer and closer until a leggy, amber-haired, Slavic-looking chick appeared around the corner. She was wearing high-heeled mules and a button-down dre
ss shirt – mostly unbuttoned. That's it--That's where his top must have been all this time. My presence seemed to be of no consequence as she headed to the kitchen and began to make herself some coffee.

  I think my mouth must have been agape because Heath interjected. "That's Ilyana. She's a guest of mine. Say hi Illy." If by guest of mine he means the girl I humped last night and was probably humping when the doorbell rang, then sure.

  "Hi." Illy said dryly, with a sarcastic little wave. Her accent was indistinguishably Eastern European. Her left boob would come in and out of sight as the shirt moved with the wave.

  I cannot believe I am seeing a stranger's tits at 11:30am on a Wednesday.

  Heath turned back around to face me and he gave me the quick once over, clearly trying to peek into the opening of my blouse. Pig.

  "I need a smoke. Let's go outside."

  "Sure." I hate smoking. He lead me out the back of the house to a lush Japanese garden. It was hard not to swoon over it, it even had one of those little bridges over a little pond. "Your house is gorgeous by they way."

  "Thanks, I just rent it for the summer." He pulled out a bowl of weed, lit it up, and took an inhale. "Want?"

  He has to be fucking kidding me. "No." And then I finally blurted out something to him that was out of the bounds of proper job-interview conduct, but we were well past that point thanks to him. "You know, if you're so interested in preserving your looks, smoking would be one of the things to scratch off of the list."

  He didn't say anything at first, not because he was speechless, but because he was holding in another lungful of weed. He puckered his full lips and slowly released the smoke to his right as to not get it in my face, all the while maintaining eye contact with me. How polite.

  "You're right," he said, pointing his index finger at me with the same hand that held the bowl. "But, just a little here and there makes life so much better." He smiled the smile people pay millions to photograph. It's so beautiful that it's a weapon.