A Total Waste of Makeup

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  Jordan1313: I meant to the wedding. But…Ouch.

  AngelCharlie: Why ouch? What’s wrong with it?

  Jordan1313: No, no—ouch. It’s a guy expression. It means I’ve got a visual that will sustain me until tomorrow night’s party. How about…Damn!

  I can’t think of anything to write. I just stare at the screen. Finally I decide:

  You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.—Wayne Gretzky

  AngelCharlie: I’m tired of typing. Do you want to just pick up the phone, and call me?

  I hit SEND and nothing happens. I click my mouse to send again. Nothing. I start rapid-fire tapping when I hear, “Your session has ended. Thank you. Good-bye.” Then my phone starts ringing.

  It’s one o’clock in the morning. The fact that about five people could be calling me right now kills me.

  I race to the phone, hoping against hope it’s Jordan. “Hello?”

  “I just had the biggest fight with my mother.”

  About five people could be calling me with that news.

  “What happened?” I ask Drew, sighing inwardly, and not even bothering to ask why he didn’t call on my cell phone.

  “One of the women from the bridge club told her I was gay.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous,” I say, bringing the phone back to my computer, and staring at the screen. I told Jordan to wait for me if I got cut off. I wonder if he will. “Everyone in Hollywood is rumored to be gay. Did you tell her that?”

  “I did. But she said that Clara, that’s the woman from the bridge game, says her daughter’s friend slept with me. Her daughter’s male friend.”

  “It’s always a friend of a friend. Tell her to get names.”

  “It won’t work. Then she starts in on me about why don’t I have a girlfriend? Why am I so pretty? Why did I get that plastic surgery on my nose five years ago? Why did I coincidentally choose a woman who cheated on me after less than a year?”

  This is going to be a while. I walk over to my leather work bag, pull out the crew list of phone numbers, and get Jordan’s number. “You do have a girlfriend,” I remind him as I pull out my cell phone. “Dawn.”

  “Dawn’s not my girlfriend,” Drew insists. “Not yet, anyway.”

  I dial Jordan’s number. “Well, your mom doesn’t have to know that,” I point out. “She lives in Arizona. When are the two of them going to run into each other?”

  Jordan’s phone rings and rings. No answering machine picks up. Which means he’s still online waiting for me, and that his phone won’t cut him off. Damn it!

  “Tomorrow,” Drew says.

  “Excuse me?” I say, redialing Jordan’s number.

  “My parents are driving in from Phoenix for the wrap party. Dawn’s meeting them tomorrow.”

  Ring, ring, ring. Damn, damn, damn. “Did you tell me about this?” I ask nervously. “Because I don’t have it on your schedule.”

  “I’m telling you now,” Drew says. “Mom announced it to me while we were on the phone. She says that we’re obviously not close anymore, or I would have been comfortable enough to tell her I’m gay.”

  What is it about mothers? I think.

  “I think I need a Valium,” Drew says. “Did I ever have a prescription for Valium?”

  “No,” I say, hanging up my cell phone after two more tries to Jordan.

  “What about a prescription for Klonopin? I’ve been reading good things about that.”

  “That’s for panic attacks,” I say.

  “So?”

  “So, you don’t have panic attacks.”

  “Well, I need something.” Drew thinks for a moment. “What about Prozac?”

  “You can’t drink with it.”

  “Paxil?”

  “You’ve already been on it,” I remind him. “You didn’t like the side effects.”

  “What side effects?” Drew asks.

  I pause for a moment, trying to figure out how to say this tactfully. “The…um…sexual side effects.”

  “Oh yeah. Right.” I hear him turn on his television. “Turn on Channel 208.”

  I walk over to my remote, turn on my television, and flip to Channel 208. It looks like a golf game. I stare at it. “What are we watching?” I ask.

  “Golf.”

  That’s it. He says nothing else. I stare at the game, confused. “Why is everyone dressed weird?”

  “They’re not,” Drew says. “This is a game from the 1970s.”

  He keeps giving me answers like they won’t lead to more questions. “Well, if this game is from the 1970s, don’t you already know how it ends?”

  “Well, of course I know how it ends. That’s why it’s on ESPN Classic.”

  Again—like it won’t lead to another question. “But if you already know how it ends…”

  “Haven’t you ever seen Romeo and Juliet?” Drew asks.

  “Yeah…”

  “Well, you knew how that ended,” Drew points out.

  We watch the golf game for the next five minutes, while I continue to try to call Jordan (both his home and cell numbers) from my cell phone, to no avail.

  “Now that is a beautiful shot,” Drew says appreciatively. “What about Seroquel?”

  “It’ll put you to sleep for twenty-four hours, and you’ll miss the wrap party.”

  “Krispy Kreme?”

  “As far as I know, those are still available over the counter.”

  “Excellent. Bring me a dozen—three chocolate, with the sprinkles, three of the classic glazed, and six of whatever you’re having.”

  “You know what would be even more fun? Why don’t you call Dawn, and ask her to bring you donuts? I’m sure she’d love to see you,” I say, hoping to get back to my conversation with Jordan.

  “I can’t do that!” Drew insists. “Then I’d have to tell her why I’m upset, which means I’d have to admit that my parents are coming tomorrow because my mother’s crazy. I can’t have her knowing how screwed up my family is. I’m still at the point in our relationship where everything has to be light, fun, and romantic.”

  Do I sound like that? My God, I sound like that. It sounds so bad when you hear it out loud.

  I sigh out loud. “Drew, it’s getting late, and I’m in my pajamas…”

  “How much do I pay you a week?” Drew asks, clueless.

  I make the mistake of thinking this is a genuine question. “Right now? Two thousand dollars a week.”

  “And, do you think if I’m paying someone two thousand dollars a week, I even want to hear the sentence, ‘It’s getting late’?”

  I sigh, “All right, but you’re paying me back for the donuts.”

  “Ah, I love you,” Drew says happily. “I swear, if you weren’t already spoken for, I’d snap you up in an instant.”

  I don’t even know what that means. But before I can ask, he interrupts my thoughts with, “Okay, I need to go get high, so I have the munchies when you get here. Bye.”

  And he hangs up on me.

  When we get off the phone, I race online, but Jordan is off. He sent me an e-mail:

  I waited for fifteen minutes, but you didn’t come back. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow night.

  xoxo

  Jordan

  Damn it!

  I try his phone again, and get his machine: “Hi, this is Jordan. I’m not able to come to the phone right now. Please leave a message.” Beep.

  “Hi, it’s Charlie,” I begin, then can’t think of what to say. “I’m really sorry. I got a call from…” I can’t say Drew. That’s the type of thing that gets rumors started. “A friend. And, uh, she…”—I lie, knowing that if he got a call, I’d rather hear it was from a he—“she was pretty upset so I couldn’t get off.”

  I wait for him to pick up, but he doesn’t.

  “Anyway, I’m really sorry…I guess I’ll see you tomorrow night,” I say, then slowly put down the phone.

  Life is not fair.

  Alas, why is it never not fair to my advantage?

>   Nineteen

  You should never have a job that you hate so much you think “Thank God it’s Friday” every week of your life.

  I write in my journal Friday, around eleven in the morning.

  I spent the night at Drew’s house, in one of his superplush guest rooms. I don’t know why I hate going to his house in the middle of the night. It’s like a hotel there. My room was decorated exactly to look like a suite where he once stayed at the Four Seasons.

  We talked about his parents at great length that night, and I said I’d tell Dawn about meeting them tonight at the wrap party. (To “soften her up,” as I told Drew.) That was more for Dawn than Drew. If she had to have a “Meet the Parents” freak-out, I’m sure she’d rather have it around me than around Drew.

  So much is going on at this wrap party tonight. Tonight—the last night I will ever definitely see Jordan. God, I’m tensing up just thinking about it.

  But the spa day will help. I need to pull out all the stops. I need to be gorgeous and enticing. I need a facial. I need my skin exfoliated and buffed to a glow. I need a massage, so I can feel relaxed and confident tonight. I need…

  Frankly, I need a drink. I’m not looking forward to this spa day at all. I feel ridiculous. But I’m trying to be upbeat for it.

  I meet Dawn at the Virgin Megacenter on Sunset and Laurel Canyon promptly at ten o’clock. Actually, I just had to get a latte from the Buzz coffeehouse in the plaza, so it was 10:02, but there’s no way she would ever know, because she’s always late. Dawn, of course, is nowhere to be found. I call her cell phone, and get the machine.

  “Hi, this is Dawn. I’m not home right now. You know what to do.” Beep. “Hi, it’s me. I’m sure we said ten, but I figured just in case you overslept, I should check in.” The elevator door opens, and a gorgeous black girl steps out. “Never mind. I think I see you.”

  I click my phone shut, and walk right up to…Tyra Banks. Damn it! They don’t even look alike, other than the damn perfect bodies. “Sorry,” I say as I make an immediate right, going toward Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant.

  “Charlie?” Tyra asks. I turn around, surprised. I met Tyra last year for all of an hour at some party Drew was throwing. How the hell did she remember me?

  “Hey, you. I didn’t recognize you at first,” I stumble. Has anyone ever said that to her? “How are you?”

  We give each other a hug. (In L.A., anyone you’ve ever met gets a hug at the very least. And if they’re a member of the opposite sex, they usually get a kiss as well.) “I’m good,” she says. “Working a lot. Has your love life gotten any better since we last spoke?”

  Good Christ—I have no idea who I was even dating/obsessing about we when last spoke. “No, it didn’t,” I say remorsefully. “But I’m hanging in there. How’s yours?”

  “It’s good. I heard about Drew’s latest breakup. Can you send him my sympathies?”

  “I will,” I say.

  The elevator door opens, and Dawn walks out. She’s looking perfect, as usual, in a low-rise sweat suit, and carrying a big black bag. She stops in her tracks when she sees Tyra. Dawn looks so stunned that I wonder from the look on her face if they dated the same guy.

  “Uh, Tyra, this is my friend Dawn,” I say awkwardly.

  “Hi. Have we met before?” Tyra says brightly, extending her hand.

  “I think so,” says Dawn, looking pained as she takes the super-model’s hand. “I think we met at the MTV awards last year at one of the afterparties.”

  “Right. Good to see you again,” Tyra says, then turns to me. “I’m in a bit of a rush. Will you say hello to Drew for me?”

  “Of course,” I say, forcing a smile and worrying about Dawn. Why does she look so upset?

  Tyra kisses me on the cheek. “It was great seeing you.” And she’s off.

  Dawn and my eyes follow Tyra as she disappears into the Virgin record store across the way.

  “I know her stylist, and those boobs are actually real,” Dawn tells me in disgust.

  “So?”

  “So?!” Dawn nearly shrieks. “So it’s, like, just totally unfair that a woman can even look like that—much less that she pretty much succeeds at anything she tries.”

  I’ve never known Dawn to be jealous of anyone’s looks, or anyone’s success. As we make our way to the lobby of Burke Williams, it occurs to me for the first time that Dawn may be insecure about her own beauty and success. Dawn never seems insecure about anything. When the Lord deals you four aces, it’s hard not to be grateful.

  Fortunately, I come armed with newfound, sage advice. “You know a friend of mine once said that if everyone walked into a room, and dumped their problems on the floor, when they saw what everyone else’s problems were, they’d be scrambling to get their own problems back before someone else got to them first.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dawn snaps.

  “It means you shouldn’t be jealous of anyone else. You don’t know what kinds of insecurities and issues they have to deal with every day.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! You’re gonna tell me not to be jealous of a woman who doesn’t have to clean her own toilet. Grow up. And stop taking those fortune cookies so seriously,” Dawn says, opening the spa door for me. “Add ‘in bed’ to the end of the sentence, and be done with it.”

  We enter the lobby, and the man at the front counter cheerfully says, “Welcome to Burke Williams. I’m George. What can we do for you today?”

  Dawn answers before I can open my mouth. “I’m Dawn Fraiche. I should be scheduled for a milk bath, a Japanese shiatsu massage, then a Savannah’s Surrender”—a what????—“then an Ultimate Facial. My friend here has the Stress Therapy Day, but she’ll have the Fango Mud bath, and she doesn’t want the Ultimate Facial, she wants the Nourishing Facial.”

  “I do?” I ask.

  “Of course you do,” Dawn says to me confidently.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Why what?” Dawn turns to look at me as though it’s just occurred to her I’m even here.

  “Why don’t I want the Ultimate Facial?”

  “Because they massage your feet, which you hate. Oh, that reminds me…” She turns back to George. “Did Drew Stanton call you with his credit card number?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” George says brightly. “This morning.”

  “Great. We’ll be needing pedicures as well. Just charge it to his card,” Dawn says. “Oh, and do you know if Kate Lopez scheduled a massage?”

  “Let me check,” George says, then taps his keyboard a few times. “Yes, she called this morning. She’s scheduled for three o’clock.”

  “Kate’s coming?” I ask Dawn.

  “Yeah. She’s meeting us here at two-thirty, after her show. Apparently, she talked to Mike this morning.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “She wouldn’t say. All she said was, ‘Men are fuckwits. I need a massage, and some quality girl time.’”

  “Amen to that,” George says, and nods in appreciation.

  “Okay,” Dawn says to him in her “black girl fabulous” voice, and they high five.

  Then she turns to me. “I almost forgot.” She pulls a wrapped birthday gift from her big black bag, and hands it to me. “This is from Kate and me. Happy birthday.”

  “Yay,” I say happily, and tear open the paper. Inside is a shoebox with the Jimmy Choo logo.

  “You didn’t,” I say, beyond excited.

  “We did,” Dawn says, clearly proud of herself. “Size seven. The ones you were looking at last month.”

  I pull them out, and they are stunning—open-toed high heels with rhinestones on the straps.

  “Those are so cool!” George exclaims.

  “Aren’t they?!” I agree, taking off my shoes right there in the lobby to put on my new Jimmy Choos.

  “That’s why we need the pedicures,” Dawn says, admiring the shoes. “When I told Drew about them, he insisted we add pedicures to our day.”

  I put them
on, and they fit perfectly. They are truly the coolest shoes I’ve ever owned. “I love them.”

  “I knew you would,” Dawn says. “I have to be honest, though—I had to wear them on a video shoot. The wardrobe person gave them to me for half off at the end of the day.”

  “Jimmy Choos half off are still twice what I spend on your birthdays,” I say happily, taking them off to put my tennis shoes back on. “These are going to be perfect for tonight.”

  “Together with your black silk skirt…,” Dawn says.

  “I’m not sure about that skirt,” I say quietly, knowing I’ve already lost this battle. “It’s kind of tight on me….”

  “And that red wraparound top,” she continues, deliberately ignoring my “too tight” comment. “You will look divine.”

  George finishes typing on his computer. “Okay, your herbal baths are at eleven, and the rest of your treatments begin at the top of every hour at noon, one, three, and four. Please go to the quiet room five minutes before your treatments begin, and your therapist will come for you.”

  “Thank you,” we both say.

  “We encourage you to spend the next hour enjoying our facilities. We have a whirlpool, sauna, and steam room, and you’re welcome to use any of those for as long as you like. Would you like someone to lead you in, and give you a tour?” George asks us.

  “No,” Dawn says, opening the double doors to the spa. “I’ve been here before. I can show her around.”

  “Great!” George says, and hands us two keys with little ropes on them. “Here are your keys. Lockers forty-six and forty-seven.”

  We walk through a hallway, and the sounds are hushed. There is a fountain up ahead of us, gurgling soothingly while quiet music plays in the background. The hallway is kind of cold, but the atmosphere is relaxing.

  “I think that’s called the waiting room,” Dawn whispers. “It’s the only place where both men and women are allowed.”

  We turn left and head to our lockers.

  “That’s the quiet room,” Dawn says, pointing to a bunch of overstuffed leather chairs. “You go there right before your appointments and read magazines.”