Of course, some of those castoffs were things like a ten-thousand-dollar sofa and love-seat set, so it’s all relative.
“We’re home!” I say brightly, trying not to sound nervous. I turn on my living room light, and watch as Liam comes in, puts down his black Tumi overnight bag, and looks around. “It’s charming,” Liam says. “I love the Noguchi.”
I look around my living room. “The what?”
Liam points to my wood and glass coffee table. “The coffee table. Isamu Noguchi created that design in the 1940s. My parents have one in their living room. My mother tells me it looks very futuristic, in a kitchy mod kind of way. I still have no idea what she means by that, but I like it.”
“Thank you,” I say, relieved that he likes my (Drew’s) taste. “Can I get you a glass of wine, or should I just show you to the bedroom?”
That came out wrong. “I mean . . . your bedroom. I mean . . . would you like some wine?”
Before he can answer me, my home phone rings. I look over at the caller ID. It’s Whitney. She’s been pissing me off for days, so I decide not to answer.
My machine, however, does. “Hi, it’s Charlie. Leave a message.” Beep.
“Charlie, it’s Whitney. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I tried Liam on his cell, and he’s not picking up, and we have a check that was supposed to go to Sejeune prop house by the end of the day, but no one can find it, and I’m kind of panicking. Can you have him call me the second you get this?”
She hangs up as Liam checks his cell phone. “That’s weird. I’m not getting cell reception up here.”
“Yeah, that can be a problem in Silverlake,” I tell him. “The phone companies want to put up a tower in the neighborhood for better reception, but the residents won’t allow it. So, some phones work and some don’t. You can use my home line to call her back if you like.”
“Ah, the glamour of moviemaking,” Liam jokes. “I’ll only be a minute. In the meantime, here,” he says, opening his overnight bag. “I brought you this. A sort of ‘Thank you for having me / My God, do you need a drink as much as I do after today?’ present.”
Liam hands me a bottle of Clos du Val Cabernet.
“Wow. That’s a really nice bottle,” I say, impressed. “Let me get this open while you make your call.”
Hmm . . . the man brings over wine, compliments my taste in furniture. Maybe this whole roommate thing won’t be so bad.
Eww. Don’t think of him as a roommate. That would be gross. Think of him as a guy who wants to bring you wine and spend the night.
As I enter the kitchen, and pull out some glasses, I can hear Liam on the phone saying, “Hey, it’s me . . . No, the check was already sent to them yesterday. It’s in their office. . . . Hold on.” Then I hear him call from the other room, “Charlie, that’s your call waiting. Should I pick up?!”
“Answer, and tell them I’ll call them back!” I yell back as I pull out a corkscrew from the drawer.
“Charlie Edwards’s residence,” Liam answers in that adorable little accent of his. “No, she’s not available at the moment. Can I take a message? . . . Excellent. I’ve got it . . . . Hi, Whitney, I’m back. . . . They haven’t? Feck . . . well then, check with Monica and see if her . . . wait a minute, Charlie has another call . . . Charlie Edwards’s residence. This is Liam, who’s this? . . . Oh, I’m so sorry. Let me get off my line . . . Whitney, Charlie needs to take this call. Her friend just lost a baby. Let me call you right back.”
I nearly drop the wine bottle when I hear that. I run into the living room as Liam hands me the phone. Not knowing if it’s Jenn or Andy, I urgently say into the phone, “What happened? Are you okay? Do you need me to come over?”
“I’m fine,” my Mom answers matter-of-factly. “I’m just not pregnant yet. I did the test, and I’ll have to try again next month. It was a long shot. I knew that. Mostly, I was calling to check up on you. You sounded pretty down last night from the breakup, and I wanted to make sure you were okay. But the Irishman sounds adorable, so I’m hanging up now. Love you, bye.”
“Wait. Mom. Are you really okay?” I ask, realizing she’s already hung up the phone. Which is very unlike my mother—normally she talks for a month.
I immediately call her back. She answers on the first ring. “Darling, I said I’m fine.”
“I know,” I say. “And I say I’m fine about the breakup. And we both know we’re lying. Do you want me to come over?”
“No. Your father’s here, Chris is here. I’m fine. I was just checking up on you.”
“You’re checking up on me?” I ask. “But you just . . .”
“Sweetie, the chances that a woman my age gets pregnant on the first round are not as high as the press makes it sound. But I’m a tough old broad. I’ll be fine. And Chris and I will try again next month. Meanwhile, get back to your guest. I’ve monopolized your time enough this evening.”
“But Mom—”
“I’m sorry dear, but I really must go. Chris and I are off to Hyde for drinks. Thank God I can drink again. It’ll make Thanksgiving so much easier.”
Then she hangs up on me again.
When I hang up, Liam looks at me sympathetically. “Was that your stepmom?”
“No, it was my real mom. But I guess she’s okay.”
“Your biological mother thought she was pregnant?” Liam asks, clearly stunned. “What, did she have you at twelve?”
I shake my head. “No. But if you ever meet her, say that. She’ll worship you.” I try to change the subject. “Did someone else call?”
“Oh, yes. Your friend Kate. She wanted to tell you that Jordan is an asshole, that there are plenty of fish in the sea, that she’s confirming tomorrow night’s cake tasting, and also to let you know that she is getting rid of all of her self-help books so Will doesn’t see them, and that she has a fabulous diet book for you. Oh, and she wanted to encourage you to give online dating another try, and said, and I quote, ‘Okay, so the first guy lied about his age, and showed up in a walker. That could happen to anyone.’ ”
I roll my eyes at that. “Oh, good Lord.”
“I have to say, and I mean this with love, you don’t strike me as the online dating type,” Liam says.
Okay, debate time: Do I focus on the words, “I mean this with love,” or the statement, “You don’t strike me as the online dating type.”
I can’t help myself. “What exactly is the online dating type?” I ask Liam.
Liam shrugs. “I’m not sure. But definitely not you.”
Before I can decipher that sentence’s hidden meaning, Liam throws me a curveball. “So, when did you break up?”
No, no, no. I don’t want Hot Guy knowing I’m used goods.
“I really don’t want to talk about it,” I say, turning back toward the kitchen, so I don’t have to look him right in the eye. “Can I get you that wine?”
“That would be lovely,” Liam says, wisely deciding not to press me on the breakup, and opting to lighten the mood with a joke. “You know what they say: ‘Misery Loves Cabernet.’ ”
“Really? I had always heard it was Misery Loves Merlot.” I joke back.
Liam laughs. “Ah, you Americans . . . always corrupting our language. Let me call Whitney back real quick, and I’ll be right with you.”
As I head back to the kitchen, I can hear Liam talking on the phone again. “Hi, Whitney, me again. . . . She did? Excellent . . . no, no, if we do that, we’ll need a fire marshal on set . . . you can check with the permitting office, but I’m almost positive. . . . Hold on, Charlie has another call. . . . Hello, Charlie Edwards’s residence . . . Um, let me think. Once we pass the age of fifteen, we no longer think with our penises . . . well, okay then, eighteen . . .”
“Tell Jamie to write his own material!” I yell from the kitchen as I pull the cork from the bottle.
“Oh!” Liam exclaims into the phone, “and there is no good answer to the question, ‘How many women have you slept with?’ So please
stop asking. . . . Not a problem. Thank you.” I hear him click back over. “Whitney? Yes, the general rule with the fire marshal is . . . oh wait, that’s for Charlie again. Hold on. . . . Hello? This is Liam, who’s this? . . . Hold on . . .”
Liam yells to me. “It’s your friend Dawn. She says to get off me, and pick up this phone right now!”
“Tell her I’m not on you and I’ll call her tomorrow!” I yell back as I pour the wine into the glasses.
“She’s says she’s not on me, and she’ll call you tomorrow. . . . Well, you have a gorgeous voice, too, thank you . . . Hello, Whitney? No, it doesn’t matter if we went out of the thirty-mile zone, we’d still need one. So just call them tomorrow morning, and book . . . hold on. . . . Edwards’s residence. . . . This is Liam. Who’s this?” He listens. “Oh, you must be the boyfriend. Let me get rid of my other line. I’m sure she’s anxious to speak with you.”
Oh shit!
I race out of the kitchen as Liam says into the phone, “No, no. Let me get off my other line. She’ll be right with you. . . .” He looks up at me as he listens to the other end. “I can, but she’s right here. I . . .” Liam stops talking. He presses a button on the phone, then says, “Whitney, just go ahead with everything we talked about, and I’ll see you in the morning . . . you, too . . . good night.”
Liam clicks off the phone, and then hands it to me. “I’m afraid he hung up.”
I look down at the phone. I’m torn between wanting to talk to Jordan, and not wanting to be completely humiliated in front of Liam. At that moment, I think of two new things to write in my book of advice:
Always keep your dignity during breakups. Even if it’s killing you inside, let him leave.
and
Tolerance for other races, cultures, or religions is a sign of intelligence. Tolerance for staying in a bad relationship is a sign of stupidity.
I put up the palms of my hands to show that I’m not taking the phone. “No. You know what? If he wants to talk to me, he’ll call back.”
“Absolutely,” Liam says, trying to give me moral support.
“How about that wine?” I ask, determined not to let Jordan get to me.
“Excellent idea,” Liam says cheerfully.
I turn back toward my kitchen to get the wine. Liam puts the phone back on the charger, then follows me. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks sympathetically.
“No,” I say, picking up the filled glasses. “We broke up, I’m single again, and that’s all I’m going to say about it.”
“Then I won’t mention it again.”
“Good,” I say, handing him his glass, then raising my glass for a toast. “Here’s to the movie.”
Liam raises his glass, “Here’s to my gracious hostess, who kept me from killing the star of my movie.”
My face falls as I lower my hand before drinking the toast. Liam notices my reaction. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just your boss is really getting to me. I know we’re lucky to have him working for scale and all, but to kick someone out of his own home . . .”
“I just don’t understand why men give off such completely mixed signals!” I say in exasperation.
Liam narrows his eyes. “Are we talking about Drew, or the boyfriend?”
“Ex-boyfriend,” I correct him.
“Ex-boyfriend. Jordan, is it?” Liam asks.
“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” I say again. I take a sip of wine, then try to brighten my voice as I ask, “Can I give you a tour of the house?”
“That would be lovely,” Liam says. “And let me thank you again for taking me in. I suppose I could have booked a hotel room . . .”
“It’s just that he wouldn’t make a commitment, so he basically wanted us to be in this dating limbo . . . ,” I blurt out.
“And we’re back to the boyfriend?” Liam asks.
“Ex-boyfriend,” I remind him.
“Ex-boyfriend,” Liam starts to say, but I interrupt him.
“I mean, it’s one thing to take a job in Paris in the fall for a couple of months. But he took a job in Germany in February! Even though he gets job offers in Southern California all the time, he’d rather be in the dead of winter in Germany with Stacey than in balmy Southern California with me. What does that say about me?”
“I don’t think it says anything about you,” Liam responds. “He might just—”
“And even if Stacey really is happily married,” I interrupt, “which I doubt, I’m not convinced Genevieve is really a lesbian. He could have just been saying that.”
Liam furrows his brow. “I’m sorry. Who’s Genevieve?”
“This girl in Paris who may or may not be trying to sleep with him.”
“There’s a girl trying to sleep with him?”
“There are probably two,” I reason, taking another sip of my wine before I continue. “The problem with dating an attractive man is that there are always at least two girls trying to sleep with him.”
Liam thinks about my statement a moment. Then he asks, “So how long were you two dating before his wanderlust became a problem?”
I sigh. “Oh, I don’t want to talk about it,” I repeat. Then I take my wineglass and walk out of the kitchen, toward my stairs. “Want to see the guest room?”
Liam nods his head “yes,” then follows. As I walk up the stairs, I can’t help thinking about Jordan again. “And what was up with that phone call? He calls me, then hangs up. I mean, that’s so ‘ball’s in my corner,’ right?”
I turn around to Liam, who shrugs. I decide to continue ranting as we walk into my guest room. “And, you know, I know you answered the phone, and we had that picture in the paper. But I’m caught between a rock and a hard place, because if I call him back, then I lose any power I had. But if I don’t call him back, then in his mind, we’re either having raucous sex right now, or I am plying you with wine, and trying to seduce you. And, either way, once again, He-llo! we just broke up yesterday, I’d at least wait until the body was cold. I mean what kind of a slut does he think I am?”
I sit down on my guest bed, and wait for an answer from Liam, who stands in the doorway, wine in hand. “Were we in the paper?” Liam asks. “What paper?”
“It’s not important. I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, sighing, and taking another sip of wine. “This is really good wine, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Liam says, walking into the room completely, then taking a look around.
As he looks out the window to admire my view, I notice an open pack of Marlboros on the side table. Without thinking, I pull a cigarette out, and pop it into my mouth as I lie down on the made bed.
“This room is fantastic!” Liam says, turning around. “I love your view of . . . what on earth are you doing?”
“Drysucking a cigarette,” I say, then close my eyes, and deeply inhale my unlit cigarette. After a few blissful moments, I open my eyes to see Liam watching me with an unreadable expression on his face. “I quit smoking recently. That’s why I’ve gained so much weight.”
Liam jolts his head back a little. “Have you gained weight?”
That makes me sit up. “How are you not married?”
Liam laughs, “Oh, I’d tell you, but we haven’t got that kind of time. Now I know you don’t want to talk about it, but can I offer my opinion?”
I’m not sure I want to hear it, but I nod.
“Men who actually want to break up don’t tend to call the next day. Unless you still have their key.” Liam reconsiders. “And even then, some men just pay a locksmith to change the locks.”
I fall onto the bed again. “Never mind. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Wait, I’m not done. If he doesn’t know what he has, then he’s a fool.”
Why is it the only hot men who ever say this to me out loud are the ones who only want to be friends?
Twenty-one
I spent the rest of the evening absolutely enchanted with my new houseguest. Besides being gorgeous, he
was also ridiculously well traveled and well read. He had been everywhere, and done everything, from skiing in Gstaad to wine-tasting in South Africa. He had stayed in a hotel made entirely of ice in Sweden, and a hotel made entirely of salt in Bolivia. He was fluent in five languages. He was very funny, and he watched Food Network.
He was totally out of my league.
It was weird: At the beginning of the evening, no matter what Liam and I talked about, all I kept thinking about in the back of my mind was Jordan. I kept wondering if he’d call back, what he wanted to say, what he was thinking about.
But then he didn’t call back. And as the night wore on, and I talked to Liam longer and longer, I stopped trying to guess what Jordan might be thinking and feeling, and started concentrating again on what I was thinking and feeling.
It had been a while since I had done that.
Which was good and bad. Because unfortunately I have a condition many single women my age face: I have OCDR: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder in the Romance department. My condition is chronic. So now, instead of obsessing over Jordan, I have started obsessing over Liam.
Earlier in the evening, Liam and I finished off the wine, and said our good nights. He didn’t kiss me. Instead, he walked into his room, smiled, and said good night. I said good night back, then went into my room.
And then the nocturnal obsession began.
First of all, what happened tonight? We spent most of the night laughing, and within two feet of each other. On several occasions, he touched my shoulder. Why is it that he didn’t suggest we open another bottle of wine? And if we were having such a good time, why is it he suddenly announced that we both had an early day, and should get to bed? What did I do wrong?
Or is it that he doesn’t think I’m very cute?
Misery Loves Cabernet Page 19
