Good. I really didn’t feel like talking any longer. Jill has already received two previous marriage proposals. She’s clocking them in at about one per year. The last time I came close to that, if you discount my current live-in relationship with Nate, was when I was dating Dave the Devout, and I was so afraid he would somehow suck me into his obsessive God thing that it makes me shudder to even remember those days.
Jill is about thirty pounds lighter than I am. She is thin, thin, thin, and would never believe it if you told her she needs to gain weight. The hell of it is: she looks pretty good by today’s unhealthy standards. She’s a few inches shorter than I am and a whole lot narrower. She’s cute and smart and pugnacious and when I’m standing next to her I feel like a water buffalo. We definitely attract different types of men, but hers always seem to be ready to tie the knot.
The phone was still in my hand. I fiddled with it. Maybe I should call Daphne for moral support. She’d been going through a romantic dry spell recently and needed tons of reassurance. Her problem is she always hankers after the wrong kind of guy. She’s like a magnet for losers. Currently she’s hankering after some guy she works with at Starbucks. Both Daphne and Mr. Starbucks are aspiring actors. Bad karma, I say. Never date an actor. Period. I suppose you can turn that around and make it sound as if I don’t want anyone to date Daphne either, but that’s not entirely true. Daphne is better than most actors. Less egocentric. Less needy. But then, I’ve done the dating-the-actor thing. I’ve even dated a so-called “famous” actor. It just doesn’t work. Too weird. I was at a party once, not long after Mr. Famous Actor and I broke up, and all I had to do was mention that I’d had a relationship with him and the guy I was speaking to suddenly started choking on his shrimp roll and was outta there faster than you can say Chinese Take Out. No one, but NO ONE, wanted to be the guy directly after Mr. Famous Actor. I’ve had to eighty-six that relationship from my personal history just to get guys to talk to me. As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Famous Actor is not a member of the Ex-Files.
I punched out Daphne’s number then hit the “send” button. A moment later I cut the connection. What was I thinking? I didn’t want to hear her moan about the Starbucks/would-be-actor guy again, did I?
I set the phone down.
The girl in the convertible removed her shades for a moment, then studiously put them back on. I did the proverbial double take.
It’s Carmen Watkins
, I thought, shaken. Carmen and I had met in college and she’d always been wealthy and snobby and gorgeous, apart from a rather prominent nose that she’d clearly had fixed in the intervening years. I’d truly thought the girl in the car was much younger than I was. It was a terrible shock to realize she was thirty-two as well. No way! She looked twenty-two.
How
could
she?
I’m not normally affected by the southern California overindulgence in plastic surgery but seeing the effects on Carmen got to me way down deep. Wondering if I needed therapy, I called Dr. Dick’s number.
His receptionist answered on the third ring. “Offices of Dr. Richard Malcolm,” she said smoothly.
“Hi, it’s Ginny Bluebell,” I said. Hearing my own name is easier now. For years I’d wondered if my mother had saddled me with this moniker from some primal need, maybe fueled by the same urge animals feel when they’re about to eat their young. But then, her last name is also Bluebell, so she was stuck, too. But
Virgin
-ia? No wonder her hair went when she caught me in bed with Jackson.
“Is he in?” I asked.
“He’s with someone right now,” she said. Was her tone as smug as I imagined? She’s never liked me. Probably because I, like many of Dr. Dick’s screwed up patients, I’m sure, tend to lose myself in a fantasy while on his couch. He’s just so great to look at. Tall, with long legs and pressed, light-blue denim jeans, a white shirt rolled up the forearms, serious blue eyes, dark, slightly wavy hair ... he’s gorgeous. Movie-star gorgeous in fact, but, well ... normal. Or as normal as any therapist can truly be, I suppose. I’ve tried for months to reveal my deepest, darkest secrets, but in his office I confess that all I manage to do is devise truly convoluted plots to get him into bed with me. He’s the guy with whom I’d really love to indulge in wild, illicit sex, but he appears to have scruples. He doesn’t want to screw around with one of his clients/patients. I’ve thought of quitting him, but that wouldn’t guarantee I’d ever see him again. Though I secretly and lustily drool over him, he seems genuinely disinterested in me.
A true conundrum. One that could send me straight to the Zoloft if I had any around, which I don’t, because Dr. Dick won’t prescribe it to someone as “frightfully well adjusted” as I am. Go figure.
“Would you like to make an appointment?” the receptionist asked briskly.
“Umm ... no, not now. I’ll call back later.”
She didn’t even respond. Just hung up. A true bitch, but she gets high marks for style.
The caterer—and restauranteur—I was supposed to be meeting was named Liam Engleston. I knew him by his reputation: wonderful food, but high maintenance to the point of ionospheric. I was really doing this as a favor to the crew members who regarded him as some kind of gastronomical deity, but it worried me slightly because I’m not good at stroking egos, and even worse at frozen-smile groveling. Plus, we have a minimal budget on the job for feeding the production crew. Craft Services provides Red Vines and candy bars, and those are available all day. Gourmet/schmourmet. Chances were the lunch and possibly breakfast would be too rich for our budget, but at least I could say I’d tried.
I strode into the building that housed Engleston’s restaurant, my fatalistic attitude all over my face. The restaurant was in the heart of the business district which meant it catered to the Suits. Spying several Suits twirling through the revolving door and riding the escalators to the mezzanine/restaurant level, I did a quick mental check of my own outfit. Not good. The business people were all as buttoned down as Wall Street bankers in this part of town while I was dressed in my jeans and turtleneck. I rode the escalator to the restaurant with an underlying feeling of anxiety. It was a rather stark atmosphere of black leather booths and ultracool, high-tech lighting. Glassware sparkled over the bar. Nothing about the place read “cheap,” so when Liam Engleston appeared I was already ready to say thanks, but no thanks, and vamoose.
He shook my hand and passed a quick look over my getup. His nostrils flared ever so slightly.
“Ms. Bluebell,” he greeted me with a stiff English accent, offering a handshake as warm and welcoming as an Alaskan cod. His lips had a way of curling around his words that had me somewhat mesmerized. I had to force myself not to stare. He wasn’t attractive in the
least
but I was fascinated anyway. It was kind of like stopping to watch a car wreck.
I didn’t waste time. “We’re shooting a Waterstone Iced Tea commercial at Venice beach at the end of the month. I’ve heard nothing but raves about your hors d’oeuvres and sandwiches. I just need to know the total price for lunches for a three-day shoot.”
He stroked his moustache. Did I mention that he had this kind of Fu Manchu thing going? Not quite the real thing, but close enough to send my mind wandering down red-lit hallways decorated with Chinese lanterns. I really try not to mind facial hair but it is such a turnoff. I can dislike a man on sight if he’s bearded. I hate to admit it. I truly do. But it’s one of those things I just can’t seem to get past. Don the Devout had a close-cropped beard, and I kind of associate facial hair with head-bowing over the dinner table amidst murmurs of Jesus and God and all that is holy. Don’s favorite meal was lamb and tiny roasted potatoes with mint jelly and I can’t face a menu with that combination listed without getting all reverent and nostalgic. (Actually, that’s a lie. Don’s devotion to his religion has left me a bit of an atheist, I’m afraid. Except that I believe in God. Sort of. Don certainly does. Many’s the time I remember him screaming, “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, oh, my GAWD ...” which was my cue that orgasm was imminent. Kind of like playing the
Star Spangled Banner
and then hearing, “Play ball!” I still meld the two events upon occasion.)
“What are the exact dates?” Liam Engleston said stiffly.
I pulled out my organizer. A Kate Spade rendition. I’ve thought about Palm Pilots or Visors, but hey, one step at a time. E-mail is great, buying airline tickets online even better. The cell phone’s a wonder, but I tread lightly into the full-blown electronic age. I do love my iMac.
I gave Liam the information and he rubbed his mustache a few more times. I pasted a polite, “I don’t have anywhere to go right now, you just take your time, honey, don’t mind me one little bit” look on my face and tried to imagine him without the scraggly hair around his mouth. Better. Not good enough though. He still possessed the weird lips and overall nebbishness and priggery. He’d sure as hell better be able to whip up something good in the kitchen. And it better not be traditional English food, I concluded with a slight shudder, contemplating boiled cabbage and potatoes. My California work crew would revolt. But, then, they were the ones who’d recommended this guy in the first place, so who was I to argue?
“What is your job, exactly?” he asked.
“Mine? I’m the production manager.”
He waited.
“My job is getting everything lined up and ready to go,” I added patiently.
“Do you have—a superior?”
I stared. “You mean a superior attitude?” I said it with a smile, though, because I wasn’t sure whether to completely piss him off yet.
He stiffened. “Do you have the authority to make the final decision, Ms. Bluebell?”
I said evenly, “We’re asking you if you would like to cater the shoot. If it doesn’t work into your plans, or if you don’t think you can meet the budget, I won’t waste any more of your time. I’ve been given a list of names. Yours was at the top.”
He was mollified by my little flattery. The faintest of smiles touched those snarly lips. He reached up for another petting of the mustache and then muttered something about getting in touch. I gave him my card, half-inclined to tell him where he could stuff his British bangers. I left without knowing whether he intended to do the job, but I doubted it would matter. I could just tell we were going to get stuck on the price. I decided to call my own favorite caterer—Jill—and tell the crew I’d done my best with Liam. Let ’em howl and complain and blame me for not having Liam. My job isn’t about being popular; it’s about being underbudget.
I couldn’t quite get Liam Engleston out of my thoughts on my way back to Santa Monica. He seemed like a jerk-off to me, but at least he had a business going, which is saying a lot in a town where out-of-work actors are thick on the ground. Of course there are thousands of men with decent jobs in a city the size of Los Angeles—Nate being one of them—but when I’m on the dating scene I don’t seem to meet anyone with serious career aspirations. Not that a healthy bank balance is the absolute top of my criteria list for dating, but I sure as hell get tired of always paying at the end of the meal.
The thought made me wonder if I was being too hasty in throwing away a relationship that was working—or
had been
working—at several levels.
I sighed and asked aloud, “What’s the answer?” as I drove into my underground parking space in my condo complex. The gate moved slowly backward. There’s a schematic, black-and-white depiction of a person getting crushed by the gate with the words:
Beware of Gate!
underlined dramatically. This warning makes it sound as if the gate is hunched down, lying in wait, ready to sever your spine. Schematic Man has sharp lines jutting from all sides meant to indicate pain. His body is bent in half. I’m sure he’s in terrible, twisting agony. But as slow as the lumbering gate moves, you’d have to be in a coma to actually get squished.
I let myself inside and tossed my keys on the hall table, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror directly above. My dishwater blond-to-brown hair was tousled in a ragged way that was almost sexy. Or, it could be considered unkempt, depending on how you looked at it. It hung to just below my chin. My eyes are gray; my nose is straight and just a tad longer than I would like. I wish I were two inches shorter.
I thought of Carmen Watkins. Leaning forward, I examined the crow’s feet around my eyes. Practically nonexistent unless I smiled, but then they radiated out like bicycle spokes. Maybe I should give up smiling. Carmen had, by all appearances. I took out a pen and dangled it from my lips and tried to adopt her look. Then I thought of all the hands that had touched that pen and I yanked it from my mouth. I’m not normally so Jerry Seinfeldish about these kind of things, but I didn’t like the image in the mirror anyway. Smiling was still in. Crow’s feet were just a side effect I was going to have to cope with.
I cocked my head and listened. No one home. Nate and I currently have a part-time roommate, Kristl, who’s staying in the spare bedroom. She’s a friend from Oregon and when she’s in town she stays with me. She had arrived three weeks ago and I was initially thrilled at the diversion, but honestly I hadn’t seen a lot of her. I was just glad to catch her between marriages. Three, so far, and she’s only thirty-two. She graduated in finance, I believe, but as yet she’s never fashioned a career out of it. Currently she’s working as a bartender at a place on Sunset Strip. Can’t remember the name of it either. I’ve only been there once. It’s not Skybar, where all the staff wears white, and it’s not the Viper Room, where River Phoenix OD’d on the street outside. It’s got some funky, kooky name, I think. I don’t believe there’s a sign outside, which is the LA way.