A Total Waste of Makeup

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  We wait in the check-in line, and Andy and I go first. As we approach the check-in counter, a pleasant woman with the nametag SUSAN smiles warmly, and says, “Hi. Welcome to Mandalay Bay. Are you checking in?”

  “Yes,” says Andy. “Andy Edwards and Charlie Edwards. We should have a room with two double beds.”

  “Great. Can I see some ID please?” Susan asks as she types our names into her computer. “I see we have you upgraded to a junior suite, compliments of Mr. Stanton. Will that be satisfactory?”

  Andy and I exchange a look.

  “Drew Stanton?” I ask, suspiciously.

  Susan types some more. “Yes, he’s already checked in,” she tells me, then gives me his room number. “You’re listed as his guests, along with Dawn Johnson and Kate Lopez, who have the room adjacent to yours.”

  I hear Dawn at the check-in counter next to us. “Charlie, get your butt over here!”

  I smile politely to my sister and walk over to Dawn and Kate.

  “This is Girls’ Weekend,” Kate says to me accusingly.

  “Don’t look at me. I didn’t invite him.”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t invite him,” Dawn snaps. “Why would anyone want the man they’re dating to be with them at a bachelorette party?”

  “I don’t know. But I also don’t know what we can do about it at this point,” I say to Dawn.

  “Guys, over here!” I hear Drew yell, and the three of us look across the lobby to see Drew, waving excitedly like a moron.

  “Go talk to him,” Kate says, pushing me in his direction.

  As I walk up to Drew, he gives me a great big hug, picks me up, and twirls me around. “I am so excited. I haven’t been here in ages.”

  “Ummm…about that. What are you doing here?” I ask, treading lightly.

  “Well, it was a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing. You know, the movie’s over, I’m bored, Dawn and you are gone, so I call Jordan…”

  “Jordan?!” I practically shout.

  “Yeah, he’s over there,” Drew says, cocking his head behind him. I look over his shoulder, and see Jordan in the casino, playing slots.

  No, no, no, no, no…

  “I knew you were bummed out about the wrap party, and him not calling you, so I called him, and we got to talking—” Drew says.

  “How did you know that?” I interrupt to ask.

  “Dawn told me,” Drew answers back innocently. “Anyway, we got to talking, and he tells me he’s just out of a five-year relationship, which is tricky. But, mostly, he thinks you’re in love with this guy named Dave. So I told him, she’s so not in love with him—he’s an asshole. And then he said—”

  “Wait,” I interrupt. “When did I tell you about Dave?”

  “Remember—the night of your thirtieth birthday. You were talking about hating to wait by the phone.”

  Shit. I knew that night would come back to haunt me. “Why can’t you use your special powers for good instead of evil?” I ask Drew.

  A middle-aged couple walks past us nervously, getting a good look at Drew. “We love your movies,” the woman says timidly to him.

  Drew turns to her and flashes that award-winning smile. “Well, thank you so much,” he says, as though no one’s ever complimented his work before. “What’s your name?”

  “Kathy,” the woman says, her voice cracking. “This is my husband, Bill.”

  Drew puts out his hand. “Drew Stanton. Good to meet you.”

  We spend the next minute with him signing autographs, taking pictures, and ignoring me. I’m finally ready to turn around and leave him in a huff, when the couple leaves.

  Drew turns back to me. “Anyway, Jordan and I start talking about Vegas, and I tell him where you’re staying, and he says if you gamble there you get free stuff—”

  “Comps.” I sigh.

  “Yeah, that’s what he called them!” Drew says, pointing to me in recognition. “So I call Mandalay Bay—”

  “You called?” I just have this image of him saying, “Hi, this is Drew Stanton—famous movie star–sex god extraordinaire, and I’d like to learn about this thing you call comps.” I was sure they would have hung up on him.

  I wish I could hang up on him.

  “What?” Drew says, clearly insulted. “Are you saying I am incapable of making a phone call?”

  “Drew, you can’t make a cup of coffee.”

  “I can’t make a decent cup of coffee. I’ve certainly learned that you can take a teaspoon of Yuban instant, and put it in a cup with water, and if you want espresso you add a tablespoon of instant—”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Dawn snaps from behind me.

  “Darling!” Drew says, taking her hand and kissing it. “You know, I’m pretty sure one of the guys here offered to introduce me to a hooker, but I said, ‘No,’ I wanted you.”

  Dawn looks at him blankly. Turns to me. “Make him go away.”

  “Do you know how to play baccarat?” he asks her, oblivious to her ire.

  “Of course,” she responds.

  “Good. Because I told them I’d bet a million dollars over the course of this weekend,” Drew says, then turns to me. “Do you know they gave me all three of our rooms just for doing that?”

  Before I can respond with, “Are you out of your fucking tree?” Drew turns back to Dawn. “But I’ve only been playing blackjack, and it’s taking too long. I won, though,” he says cheerfully, pulling out some thousand-dollar chips from his pocket.

  Andy and Kate come over to us. Andy hands me a plastic card room key and my driver’s license. “Okay, they sent a valet to take our luggage up to our rooms. Everything’s comped this weekend. Drew, you’re amazing,” Andy says. She looks at his hand, and sees the chips. “Wow. I’ve never actually seen that color chip up close.”

  “Yeah, I got a few more.” Drew pulls a handful out of his pocket, and holds out his palm to show her his winnings.

  “Can I see one?” Andy asks.

  “Sure,” he says, handing her a thousand-dollar chip like it’s nothing. “You can have one if you want. I got a bunch.”

  I can tell Andy doesn’t know if she should accept it or not. She stares at the little chip in the palm of her hand.

  I don’t have such issues. I mean, he just ruined my weekend. “Can I have one?” I ask.

  Drew gives me one. Sweet.

  “What about me?” Kate asks.

  “You’re the one who just broke up with her fiancé, only to get blown off by some guy at work, right?” he asks.

  Kate glares at Dawn.

  Dawn shrugs. “What?” she says innocently. “Mate rule.”

  Kate rolls her eyes at Dawn, then admits to Drew, “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Good,” Drew says, smiling. “Then you deserve two.” He hands Kate two $1,000 chips. “God, I wish my fiancée had broken off our engagement.”

  Kate’s face lights up as she stares at the chips. She turns to Dawn. “This is the best boyfriend you’ve ever had!”

  Dawn sighs and crosses her arms. “Yes, he’s a great boyfriend. But it’s Girls’ Weekend. He can’t be here. He has a penis.”

  “Thank you,” Drew says proudly.

  “For what?”

  “For noticing.”

  Dawn shakes her head, astounded at his obliviousness. He puts his arm around her and kisses her forehead. Then he gives his best “act cute” face, and offers her a chip.

  Dawn smiles, despite herself. “You’re a very hard man to resist.”

  He smiles, pleased with himself.

  Then Dawn sees Jordan at the slot machines. “Please tell me you didn’t bring Fuckface with you.”

  “He’s not a fuckface,” I say.

  “Who? Jordan?” Drew says merrily. “He’s my dog!”

  Jordan turns around, sees me, and waves. He’s smiling. I smile back, and wave a small wave—sort of a Princess Diana, hand barely moving, dignified wave.

  Oh, he’s so cute.

  “He’s not y
our dog,” Dawn reprimands Drew. “You are way to white to be saying that.”

  Andy turns to Drew. “Can I order room service?” We all turn to her. She glances at each of us, confused at the attention. “The woman at the front desk told me everything was comped. Does that mean I can order room service?”

  Drew smiles. He’s in. “You can have whatever you want, my love. Whatever they don’t comp, I’ll cover. I just want you to be happy.”

  Never trust a man who says, “I just want you to be happy.” What he really means is “I just want you to be happy—so I can get whatever it is that will make me happy.”

  “I think I’ll get an omelet,” Andy says, beaming.

  Yup, that’s my sister. Bought off by an $8.95 breakfast item. “So, do you want to come out with us tonight?” Andy asks Drew.

  “No!” Kate, Dawn, and I answer simultaneously, before he has a chance to get a word in edgewise.

  Drew scratches his ear self-consciously. “Actually, I think since it’s a Girls’ Weekend kind of thing, we should let you go solo tonight.”

  Whew.

  “But do you think I could borrow Dawn for a little while? I need her help,” Drew says, lightly grasping Dawn’s hand.

  “Of course,” Andy says, a little disappointed. “But if you change your mind, we’ll all be at Red Square at six o’clock, having martinis at the ice bar. I’d love to buy you a drink.”

  Drew looks to me for approval. I nod ever so slightly.

  He smiles. “I’d like that,” Drew says to Andy. “I’ll see you at six.”

  Then he turns to Dawn. “Okay, we have a date with a baccarat table. Guys, we’ll see you later.”

  Drew and Dawn disappear into the casino. Kate heads up to her room. I ask Andy to go meet the valet up in our suite, and to order me a filet mignon from room service.

  Then, butterflies floating around in my stomach, I make my way over to Jordan at the slot machines.

  “Hey,” I say awkwardly as I stand beside him like a self-conscious idiot. “You winning?”

  “Hey. How are you doing?” Jordan asks, just as awkwardly, then kisses me on the cheek. “Nah, I’m out about twenty bucks so far. But I got a free drink out of it.” He holds up a bottle of Corona. “You?”

  “So far, I’m up a thousand dollars, and I haven’t gambled yet.”

  Jordan looks at me quizzically. “Drew was winning,” I tell him. “He gave me a thousand-dollar chip.”

  Jordan nods. “Oh.” Then, after a moment, “He told me he was the one who called you and interrupted our e-mail chat. How come you didn’t tell me it was him?”

  I shrug. “I have this confidentiality agreement I signed with him when I started working for him. Bosses calling you in the middle of the night…that can sound a lot worse than it is.”

  A waitress quickly marches over to me, her pencil poised over her notepad. “Can I get you anything?” she asks me.

  “Um…” I look over to Jordan to see if he would like the company.

  “The Coronas are pretty good,” he says, so I order one of those.

  Once the waitress is gone, I take a twenty-dollar bill out of my pocket and slip it into the machine next to Jordan’s. For the next minute or so, we both play slots. There’s dead silence, save the ding-ding-ding of the slots. I pull the handle, he just presses the button.

  Ding-ding-ding.

  By the time the waitress comes back with my drink, we’re both down about ten dollars. After she hands me the drink, Jordan hands her a four-quarter tip.

  When she leaves, we finally start talking again.

  “Drew’s a hard guy to say no to,” Jordan says clumsily, desperately trying to get the conversation going.

  “To quote Jeremy Irons in Reversal of Fortune—‘You have no idea,’” I joke.

  “You know, we got a suite with a dining room in it?” Jordan said. “And the living room is bigger than my living room at home.”

  “I doubt my room is as grand. But it is free—he got my sister and me comped.”

  Now it’s time for the other awkward part of the conversation. But I might as well get it out there. “Drew did explain that I’m here for a bachelorette party, right?”

  “Yeah. You and your friend Dawn, your sister, a bunch of other girls. No men allowed.” Jordan presses the button again. Ding-ding-ding. “Speaking of, how’s Dave?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I say decisively, then take a sip of my beer for courage. “He’s an ex. I don’t see him anymore, and I’m not the type to stay friends with exes who call me at one in the morning.”

  Jordan smiles and takes a sip of his beer. He presses the button.

  Seven. Seven. Seven.

  “Oh my God!” I scream. “You just won!”

  “Yeah,” he says quietly, still smiling. “Looks like my luck may be changing.”

  Twenty-Three

  What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

  I spend about ten more minutes with Jordan (and, after losing my twenty dollars, vow not to gamble anymore this weekend), then make my way up to our junior suite.

  Junior is a misnomer. The room is huge, and truly fabulous. It makes me think of the word romp—as in, one should romp around this suite while staying in it. Our view is spectacular, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip. Our beds are so big and so comfortable, I wonder whether the hotel realizes it is encouraging its patrons to never leave the bed long enough to gamble in the casino.

  The all-marble pink bathroom has a Jacuzzi tub the size of an Esther Williams pool, a toilet with its own room, and its own phone. (Um, exactly who absolutely needs to take a phone call when they’re using the facilities?) And the pink marble floor is so shiny and slick, Andy and I decide to take off our shoes and skate around on it in our socks like little girls at an ice-skating rink.

  I am already having a wonderful time.

  When room service comes, the server sets up our food in front of the windows, giving us a view of a pyramid, a medieval castle, the New York skyline, and the Eiffel Tower.

  Then he pops the cork of a bottle of Dom Pérignon. I look at Andy, surprised. “Why did you order champagne?” I ask as the server hands Andy a full glass.

  Andy stares out at the magnificent view, sips her champagne, and sighs. Her mood has suddenly changed from frolicky to fickle. I chalk this up to pregnancy hormones.

  “Are you sure you want to drink that?” I ask as the server hands me a full glass, then puts the bottle in a silver ice bucket next to our table.

  “It’s my bachelorette party. I’m supposed to drink it,” Andy says with a touch of bitterness.

  “But what about the…” I look down at her tummy, then back up to her face, as if this is some code the server won’t figure out.

  “Oh my God!” Andy yells out. “I’m not pregnant! Jesus, you plan a wedding in less than three months, and everyone jumps to the same conclusion.”

  I continue to look at her, dubious. “Do I look pregnant?” she asks, irritated.

  “No,” I answer immediately, knowing the universal truth.

  It is rude to ask a woman if she is pregnant. But it is a death wish to answer “yes” if a woman asks, “Do I look pregnant?”

  As Andy signs for the food, she practically spits out at me, “I just want to have a good time, and not think about the wedding for a while. Is that okay?”

  “Um…yeah.” I say, still a bit taken aback. “Um…congratulations.”

  “On what?”

  “Not being pregnant,” I lamely attempt to joke. “Puts you ahead of Mom and Dad. And now you can drink at your wedding.”

  Andy glares at me. Maybe she’s just glaring, and not at me, but it hurts just the same. I hate fighting with my sister.

  The server leaves, and the two of us begin to eat our food in silence. Several minutes pass, and all I can hear are the forks clinking against the plates.

  I decide to tread carefully in these dangerous waters. “I know maybe I haven’t been as happy for you as
I should be,” I say tentatively. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just a little jealous.”

  “Thank you,” she says, finishing her glass of champagne and pouring herself another. “It’s not you, it’s me. I’m just mad at Hunter.”

  “Men aren’t very into weddings.”

  “It’s not that,” she says, and I know to be quiet and let her talk. “It’s that the only reason I’m having this fucking bachelorette party is because he’s out with his boys this weekend having a bachelor party.”

  Again, I am tempted to speak. To try to say something comforting, maybe give a good bit of advice. But I learned long ago:

  When a friend is in pain, usually all you need to do is shut up and listen.

  The hard part about that, of course, is training yourself to shut up.

  “Do you know who Shaquille O’Neal is?” Andy asks me.

  “Some Irish guy?” I guess. “I think Kate’s mentioned him. Is he the mayor of Boston, maybe?”

  Andy looks stunned.

  “I’m kidding,” I say. “He’s a basketball player.”

  “And he’s an asshole,” Andy informs me.

  “Oh,” I say, not sure where this is going. “Is he throwing Hunter’s bachelor party?”

  Andy sighs out loud. “No! A couple of years ago, when he was on the Lakers, they were playing in the playoffs. After one of his games, he’s being interviewed, and he keeps calling one of the opposing team members she. She did this, and she played like that. It was supposed to be this huge insult, and he thought he was being so damned clever, you could see it by the way he was smiling. And at some point, since none of the reporters were laughing, he said, ‘And you heard me right, I said she.’ Like that was the most clever insult someone could come up with—to call an opponent a woman. That is the worst thing someone could be called—a woman.

  “Now, mind you, if this same fuckhead had called the man ‘white’ as an insult, it would have been a top story on the news that night, or at least on ESPN. That’s what happened with that Rocker guy in Atlanta when he made those racist comments about New York. Everyone demanded apologies. But not one reporter, not even one of the women, asked for an apology from O’Neal. Not one.”