By the time we were done, we decided that Jordan was absolutely flirting, and that I had to make my move tonight.
My spa day ended about an hour and a half later, after an amazing facial that consisted of four layers of stuff spread on my face, and something called “extracting,” which is basically getting all the gunk out of my pores. It was painful, but I have to say, I positively glowed after the facial was done.
I didn’t want to leave—I mean, I really didn’t want to leave.
But I only had a few hours to get ready for the party, and I was so relaxed, I was going to need yet another nap when I got home.
I decided I would ask Drew for the same present for Christmas.
And my birthday next year.
And Groundhog Day.
And I had a new bit of advice for my great-grandniece:
Money can’t buy happiness. But it sure can rent it for a while.
Twenty
Every action has a consequence.
And, damn it, tonight I am going to take action!
I spend over two hours getting ready. I try on at least five different outfits, then start putting different tops with different skirts. I can’t decide if I want my look to be short, tight, and slutty; or long, flowing, and dignified.
Until Dawn calls. “Hello?”
“Don’t make me come over there and make you change into the red top and black skirt,” she threatens without preamble.
So I wear the red top and black skirt—frankly, because then I can blame her if I don’t get any type of positive response from it.
After that, it was another hour of makeup and phone calls, where I actually called Dawn to ask if I should wear the “plum” eyeshadow with the shadow called “spun sugar,” or go for “lilac” instead.
Eventually I look in the mirror and decide that I look okay (which doesn’t sound good, but for me, on a scale of 1 to 10, that’s a 45). Then I take my car keys and head out the door, determined to change my life.
Okay, well, at least my dating life.
Okay, at least for tonight.
The wrap party is in an elegant hotel in Marina Del Rey, a beach city just south of Santa Monica. Unfortunately, I was one of the first people to arrive: not only no Jordan, but no Drew, or Dawn either. Not even a Keenan.
I walk around admiring the ballroom, which is decorated all in white, I’m not sure why. But it looks dreamy—white tablecloths, white chairs, white Christmas lights drizzled throughout the room. Even the bar is done all in white.
And, speaking of the bar, did I mention all the drinks were comped? So I head to the bar by my lonesome, order a Merlot, and walk out to the lanai to gaze at the view.
The hotel has an amazing view of the harbor, with all the local boats bobbing in the light breeze. It’s a bit nippy out, but the lanai has heat lamps over all the tables, so I make my way over to the table with the best view, sit down, and contemplate what’s next.
I am starting to feel nauseated. You know that feeling they call butterflies in your stomach, when you know you’re about to see the person you really like, and you can’t help but feel sick? I guess it’s called butterflies in your stomach, because if you said a guy made you physically ill, that might be construed as a negative.
But that’s what I am feeling. It probably doesn’t help that I haven’t eaten all day, but I wanted to look thin for this outfit.
The second I see the waiter with the silver tray of shrimp the size of a baby’s foot, I abandon thin for yummy.
“Shrimp?” he asks. I take four, each on a toothpick, and down them like a woman from a deserted island. The waiter strolls away from me, over to a couple by the fence. I stop the poor waiter on his way back inside, and grab four more.
As I hastily stuff my face, I hear from behind me, “You really do get a body like that through indiscriminate eating.”
Oh, hell.
I turn around, and there’s Jordan, looking gorgeous in a burgundy jacket and tie and black pants. He’s grinning from ear to ear.
Shit, shit, shit.
“Well, this is embarrassing,” I say through a mouth bursting with shrimp. “I’m sorry. I haven’t eaten all day. I’m famished.”
“Hey, nothing sexier than a woman who has a voracious appetite.”
I’m not sure if that’s a line or not. And I don’t care. He just said “nothing sexier.”
I unceremoniously pop the last of the shrimp into my mouth. “Well, then I guess you’re going to worship me.”
I can’t believe I am feeling this at ease with him. The butterflies have magically gone away. I’m just really happy to see him.
“I already worship you,” Jordan says, sitting down. He looks at me lasciviously. “And if we were online, I’d make a joke about being on my knees worshipping you.”
I crinkle my nose up, in on the joke. “But since you’re not, you won’t.”
“No. Then it wouldn’t look real,” he says, then scoots his chair a little closer to me. “So what happened to you last night? I waited, just like you told me.”
“I’m sorry, a friend called me, and—”
Before I can finish my thought, I hear a loud, “There you are, Jordan. Perfect table!” followed by several crew members walking over with their wives and girlfriends. We are immediately at a table full of very loud partygoers.
Rats.
“So,” I ask Jordan, trying to act like I’m actually happy to have all the new company (as if!), “Was this the group I missed today?”
“In the flesh,” Keenan says. “Have you met my new bride, Constance?”
“I haven’t,” I say, and immediately begin talking to the woman on my right for the next twenty minutes or so.
I had no choice. The second this group showed up, Jordan went from “flirty, interested guy” to “totally not interested, just one of the crew” guys who hangs out with his buddies. So, I just talked to the other women at the table for the next hour, making sure it looked like Jordan and I were just friends, and that I wasn’t interested in anyone at the party.
During that next hour, Jordan somehow managed to end up on the other side of the table from me. It wasn’t his fault. He went to get drinks for everyone, and when he returned, someone had taken his seat next to me. I didn’t want to be bitchy, and say, “Sorry, this seat’s taken,” but when Jordan came back, I could have sworn he looked disappointed.
Finally, I just threw caution to the wind, and left the table. “I’m going to go look for Drew,” I announced to my tablemates.
There were mild protests (I notice not from Jordan), but I insisted I was working tonight, then I made my way inside.
And good thing I did. Jordan was right behind me. “Do you mind having some company?” he said, catching up to me.
“Not at all,” I say. Aaahhh—my plan worked. I thought if I could separate myself from the herd, he might start the hunt again.
Pink’s “Get the Party Started” is playing, and people have begun getting on the dance floor. “Would you like to dance?” I ask him.
He tenses up his shoulders and puts his hands in his pockets. “I’m not much of a dancer.”
I let it go. “No problem. Maybe after another drink or two.”
“Speaking of which, I need another beer. Can I get you something?” he asks.
“I would love a Merlot,” I say, and walk with him to the bar.
“So,” Jordan begins, “this friend of yours—was she okay?”
“Yeah,” I say awkwardly, still not wanting him to know it was Drew. “Just my sister. Some wedding-day jitters, that’s all.”
“Oh,” he says, and I can’t read his expression. I’m not sure if he believes me or not. “Well, one of these days, we should switch to DSL, so neither of us gets bumped offline by a phone call, and we can talk longer.”
I smile. “I would like that.”
He smiles, and we have an awkward couple of seconds. I think maybe he’s going to kiss me, but instead he turns to the bartender
to order a Sam Adams for himself and a Merlot for me.
“Make that two Merlots,” I hear Dawn say to the bartender from behind me, “and I think it would be easier on all of us if you just handed over the bottle.”
Jordan and I turn around to see Dawn, looking stunning as ever in a dark green cocktail dress. “Have you met them yet?” I ask, referring to Drew’s parents.
“Yes. They’re out parking the car. Drew told them it was valet, but no, his father wants to find a space on the street. ‘No point in your company paying for us to park. It’s just a waste of money,’” Dawn says, imitating Drew’s dad perfectly. Then she turns to Jordan and puts out her hand. “Hi, I’m Dawn. Jordan, isn’t it?”
She says it like, ‘I’m not sure if we’ve met,’ and Jordan knows she’s lying. But he bows and kisses her hand. “Charmed. You are looking lovely tonight.”
Dawn looks at me and winks. “Love this one. Keep this one.”
When Dawn sees Drew and his parents walk in, her whole body deflates. “Oh God, round two.”
“They’re really nice,” I insist. “They’re just a little small-town, that’s all.”
“Do I look small-town?” Dawn asks me.
“No,” I admit.
She turns to Jordan. “When you see me, is there anything about my appearance, my attitude, or my demeanor, that says small town?”
“I would have to say no,” Jordan admits.
The bartender sets down our drinks, along with a full bottle of Merlot. Dawn throws down a five-dollar tip, takes her glass of wine, and thrusts the bottle at me. “Take this, bring it to a table where I can get at it, and keep ’em coming all night.” Then she gulps half her glass of wine and turns to face her accusers. “Damn—why can’t we meet parents on the wedding day? Then you only have to do it once.”
Jordan and I watch her cross the room toward Drew and his parents.
“Is she always this nervous?” Jordan asks. “She seemed so cool and confident at the dinner party. Almost conceited.”
As I watch Drew’s parents light up when Dawn gets to them, I smile. “Under that confident woman is a pretty insecure little girl,” I say, thinking I’ve just described every woman I’ve ever met.
Jordan picks up his beer between two fingers, laces the wine bottle between another two fingers, then takes me by the hand and leads me to an indoor table. “Well, I guess we better stay close by. You know, I don’t get why women are so afraid to meet the parents.”
He puts the wine and beer down on the table, and pulls out a chair for me(!). “I mean, you should meet my mom,” he continues. “She’s got to be the easiest person in the world to get along with.”
“Really?” I ask, pretending to be interested, although what I really want to say is a bitchy, “Yeah, easy for you to say, you’re not the one who risks a woman hating you and referring to you as ‘that slut my son is sleeping with.’”
“Oh, sure,” Jordan assures me. “You’d love her. You both like spa days, and you both like beautiful shoes. I’m sure you’d have a lot to talk about.”
My face immediately lights up, and I pull my legs out from under the table. “Don’t you love these? They’re Jimmy Choo. Dawn and my friend Kate got them for me for my birthday!”
“They make your legs look amazing,” Jordan says in a tone that is getting me nervous and breathless.
A waitress walks up with a silver tray of plastic squirt guns and plastic handcuffs. “Would you like a souvenir from the movie?” she asks.
“Hmm,” I say, grabbing a pair of handcuffs. “I may want to use these later.”
I give my Groucho Marx eyebrow raise, and take a squirt gun as well.
“Would you like one too, sir?” the waitress asks Jordan.
“No, I’ll pass,” Jordan says.
“When people start squirting you later, you might want ammunition,” I point out, so he reluctantly takes the plastic props.
We have an awkward few moments of silence again. More like a minute or two, which when you’ve got a crush on a guy is the equivalent to a month and a half. Jordan looks deep in thought. I wave to a few people, say hi to a few people. He does the same.
Think, girl. Think of something witty to say.
Finally, I take my plastic handcuffs and try to put them on him. He pulls back—but in a playful way. “Hey, lady!”
“What?” I say, smiling.
“You don’t know me well enough to be doing that,” Jordan jokes.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Let’s see. I know your favorite book is Auntie Mame—which I’ve read since the dinner, and I have to say, I loved it. And that you have a married sister. What else should I know about you?”
“You read Auntie Mame just because I recommended it?” Jordan says, surprised.
I shrug. “Yeah…,” I say, not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing. “I read a lot of books.”
“I’m flattered,” he says, taking a sip of beer. “Now I wish I had read something you liked.”
“Well, you’ve been reading our instant messages. I like those a lot,” I say.
We stare into each other’s eyes. The DJ slows down the music, switching to an oldie, “Save the Best for Last” by Vanessa Williams.
“Would you like to dance?” Jordan asks me.
“I would love to.”
He takes me by the hand and brings me to the middle of the dance floor. He takes my right hand in his left, puts his right hand around my waist(!), and leads me around the floor.
I’m in heaven. Never has a dance gone by so quickly, and yet gone on forever. Oh, and does he smell good! What is that? Lagerfeld? Chanel for Men? Old Spice? Who cares—I just want to stay in this moment forever.
The song ends, and Jordan stares into my eyes. This is it—the first kiss. That magical, delicious…why is he staring past me—what’s going on?
I turn around, and Drew is at our table, madly waving at us to come over.
I swear, I’m going to go over to that man’s house one night, and smother him with a pillow.
The next three hours were fine. I mean…they were fine. I shouldn’t complain. I got to see people I’m not going to be seeing anymore who I’ve been working with for months. I got to help Dawn get through the “Meet the Parents” night. I got to see Drew’s parents, who really are a nice couple.
But I did not get to have one more romantic moment with Jordan. I mean, really, how can you have a romantic moment when squirt-gun fights are breaking out all over the ballroom?
Around midnight, Drew’s parents say they’re tired, and the four of them decide to go home.
Jordan and I say good-bye to them, I make promises to call everyone tomorrow, and they leave.
Thank goodness.
Now’s the time. Without giving myself a moment to chicken out, I say to Jordan, “Do you want to take our drinks outside, and look at the view?”
“That sounds great,” Jordan says, taking me by the hand and walking me outside. We walk to the fence overlooking the water, and sip our drinks in silence. A full moon shines over the harbor, reflecting off the black water and making everything sparkle. It’s so romantic. I wish I had the nerve to just lean over and kiss him.
But I don’t.
But this is the last time I may ever see him—so I have to do something.
“So—who on the crew would you sleep with?” I blurt out.
Think before you speak.
Jordan nearly chokes on his beer. “Excuse me?”
“You know how Keenan does that pool among the guys about who on the crew you would most want to sleep with. Who did you choose?”
He smiles, and takes another sip of beer. “Did you talk to Keenan?”
“No. Why?”
Jordan glances over at the party inside. He takes my hand again, and silently leads me around the corner, behind some trees. Then he takes the plastic handcuffs, and puts one around my wrist. I move my drink to my other hand.
This can’t be happening! This gorgeous, stunn
ing, spectacular man might kiss me! No, I gotta be wrong.
“I thought we didn’t know each other well enough,” I say stupidly.
Jordan smiles, puts the other cuff on his hand, and stares into my eyes. “Now we do.”
We both pause, cuffed together, waiting for the kiss. Maybe I’m supposed to lean in.
“This must be one of those awkward silences you always read about,” I say, looking down nervously at my shoes.
Jordan smiles even wider, and leans in to kiss me. As his lips touch mine, I feel like sparks hit my mouth—my lips get all tingly. Then the rest of me starts to get tingly.
We kiss for a minute, five minutes, an hour, who knows? Oh, this is one of those times when it’s great to be single. Every time we stop kissing, if only to take a moment to breathe, I grin from ear to ear, looking like an idiot.
After a while, I ask him, “Do you want to go back to my house and have a drink?”
“I would love that,” he says. “Is it nearby?”
“No. Actually, it’s in Silverlake. About thirty minutes from here, in no traffic,” I stammer. Shit—why did I even say anything? Now, he’s going to think I mean “spend the night,” which I don’t.
I mean, I don’t think I do.
No, I don’t. I definitely don’t.
“That sounds great,” Jordan says, uncuffing our hands and finishing off his beer. “Meet me in the parking lot in ten minutes. I’ll follow you in my car.”
Hmm, maybe I do mean spend the night.
Sometimes, when you’re single, it’s good to make your married friends jealous.
Okay, I may let him spend the night, but I am not going to sleep with him! Just kiss. For eight or nine hours. Now that would truly be perfect. No over-the-sweater action, no letting his hand rub my stomach (because then, you know, if he moves his hand up, you’re sweeping your hand over his in such a way as to sweep his hand back down, but if he goes too far down, then you’re really toast). No kissing of the neck or ears—well, maybe a little.
A Total Waste of Makeup Page 20
