Perfect on Paper (19 page)

He whispered back. “Do you want to be Starsky or Hutch?”

I made a face at him. “I spotted him a few minutes ago, but then I lost him.”

I described Jake to Scotty, and he leaned over and whispered in my ear, “He sounds like a major dish. Maybe we could flip a coin for him?”

“I wonder if he’s here with someone,” I said. “I’ve gotta talk to him again, Scotty. The last time I totally blew it.”

“Leave it to me, precious, leave it to me. The night is young, and there’s lots of fun to be had.”

We spent the rest of the cocktail hour catching up and gossiping about all the famous guests. Scotty had a lot of good gossip.

“John Shasta, the Yankees pitcher? Seriously?” I said.

He nodded. “Pitches for the other team.”

“But he’s always doing those truck commercials.”

He put his hand on my cheek. “Don’t you live in San Francisco? Wake up and smell the rainbow dust, my dear.”

I looked over at the burly man drinking a glass of black paint. I mean Guinness.

“But John Shasta?” I said.

Scotty reached over and grabbed my nose. “Sweetheart, you should see the love letters I get from women all over the country who have no idea I prefer men. It’s all about portraying an image to a particular audience. You should know that, being the PR princess and all.”

Images
. What would mine have been if I’d become Mrs. Aaron Vaughn III? Would Mrs. Aaron Vaughn III have wanted the world to know about her dad’s home address? What would Mrs. Aaron Vaughn III’s conservative in-laws have thought about her friendship with Scotty Ryan?

I took Scotty’s hand and looked down at his perfectly manicured nails. Why couldn’t I keep my own nails that nice? I looked up, and the crowd behind him briefly parted. For a second I spotted Jake in the back corner of the cocktail area. He was next to the margarita bar.

I squeezed Scotty’s hand. “Oh my God, there he is.”

“Where?”

“Margarita bar, five o’clock. Charcoal grey suit, yellow tie.”

He stood up and finished his drink. “Did you say the margarita bar? Two margaritas coming up. How do you like yours, by the way?”

“Strong. And please be subtle, Scotty.”

“Beautiful, I’m always subtle. Now don’t move a muscle. I’ll be right back.” He set his empty glass on the table and walked away.

I watched him make his way through the crowd. The room was packed, and the margarita bar was way in the back, so it was hard for me to keep track of him without craning my neck and looking totally obvious. So I gave up and turned my attention back to wondering which other famous athletes were gay.

Five minutes later, Scotty reemerged from the crowd with two margaritas. He sat down and placed the drinks on the table.

“Well?” I said.

He frowned. “He’s with a brunette.”

“And?”

“And unfortunately, I’m pretty sure she’s his date.”

I smacked my forehead with my palm. “His date? But how am I going to seduce him if he’s with a date?”

He laughed. “Seduce him?”

I blushed. “Or whatever you call it these days. I’ve been off the market for a while. Are you sure she’s his date?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I saw hand-holding. I’m sorry, sweetheart. The nerve of him, with you here and looking so delicious.”

I was crushed. “But he makes me feel melty,” I said softly.

He patted me on the head. “C’mon, let’s head over to dinner. And is that even a word?”

We picked up our margaritas and followed the crowd into the Grand Ballroom. And it was even bigger. “I feel like I’m at the intermission of a Broadway musical,” I said.

As we walked into the dining room, I pulled my place card out of my purse. Like most little black party purses, it was way too small to carry anything I really needed, such as a wallet, or a phone, or an emergency Snickers.

“Hey, Scotty, what table are you at?”

He pulled his card out of his pocket and looked at it. “Thirty-five. What about you?”

“Fifty-three. Are you sure this isn’t one of Elizabeth Taylor’s wedding receptions?”

He shook his head. “Too small.”

“Hey, if you can find me after dinner, save me a slow dance, okay?” I pointed to my cast. “The Macarena and Electric Slide are out of the picture with junior here.”

“You bet, sweet thing.” He winked and walked the other way.

Table fifty-three was definitely a singles table. Fortunately, however, it wasn’t THE singles table. Hell, the wedding was so huge that for all we knew there could have been an entire singles dining room and dance floor. The room was so enormous that I couldn’t even see where Cynthia and Dale were sitting, much less Jake. I focused on the wine glass in front of me instead.

From my initial superficial sizing up of my male tablemates, that glass was the only thing my lips would be touching that night. We all introduced ourselves and slid into the standard wedding small talk:

“So how do you know the bride?”

“Oh really? Then do you know (insert name here)?”

“So how do you know the groom?”

“Oh really? Then do you know (insert name here)?”

“So where are you from?”

“You are? Then do you know (insert name here)?”

“So where did you go to school?”

“You did? Then do you know (insert name here)?”

“So have you ever noticed how small talk inevitably morphs into the name game?” I said to no one in particular.

One thing that was a little awkward about our table, and the other thirty-five hundred in the room, was the flowers, which were white and beautiful and everywhere. And everywhere included the centerpiece, which was a huge globe of white petals about two feet in diameter. It was so big that it blocked my view of the people directly across the table, and theirs of me. Given that clearly no expense had been spared to make the wedding perfect, I have no idea how this rather important detail had somehow been overlooked.

Anyhow, back to the edible details. The entrées were spectacular: a choice of lobster, chicken, or sirloin, plus jasmine rice and a grilled vegetable medley lightly topped with a sweet cinnamon glaze, and the most delicious, thickest bread I had ever tasted. I ate everything on my plate. And the flowing wine was a nice social lubricant for our table of virtual strangers. Despite the visual impairment, we managed to engage the entire group in a hearty conversation that flowed from sports and books to movies and political scandals.

Then things shifted gears, and the real fun began.

Hank Fishman, a stocky, balding coworker of Dale’s, stood up and raised his glass. “Ladies and gentlemen of table fifty-three, I propose a slight change of subject to spice this party up.”

“What did you have in mind?” A curly-haired blonde named Dawn leaned around the centerpiece to make eye contact with him.

Hank took a sip of his wine and set it down on the table. “Well, since we’ve broached the general subject of dating, I suggest we delve into the more entertaining topic of dating disqualifiers. Shallow, plain, and simple.”

“Disqualifiers?” I said, leaning my head a foot to the right.

“Yep, things that will exclude any possible date from consideration, and the more superficial the better.”

“That sounds quite interesting.” Christopher Henson, a salt-and-pepper-haired friend of Cynthia’s, rubbed his hands together. “Who’s first?”

“I’ll take one for the team,” Hank said. “And for you ladies in the group, I’m quite aware that I’m short and bald, two attributes that often top the female disqualifier list. I take no offense at that, but for the sake of originality, let’s please try to come up with something new, okay?”

I raised my wine glass. “Hank, I’m in love with the self-deprecation. It’s a shame we can’t hook up though, because short and bald are two of my disqualifiers.”

“Ahhh, you’re killing me.” He pretended to stab himself in the heart. “And by the way, ladies, I also have a bit of a carpet growing on my back, so let’s keep back hair off the list to keep me from throwing myself off the roof tonight.” He clapped his hands. “Now, let’s get this game started.”

We all looked at him. Or around at him.

“For me,” he said. “I must admit that my top disqualifier would have to be the cheerleader. I don’t care how smokin’ you are. If I find out you once had pom-poms in your locker, you’re out on your ass.”

A small applause erupted from the group. Hank bowed his head. “And my apologies to any of you ladies who might have been cheerleaders, but it doesn’t matter because you probably wouldn’t hook up with a short, bald guy with a hairy back anyway.” He picked up his glass and raised it to the table, then sat down.

“Who’s next?” Christopher said. “Should we just go clockwise around the table?”

“Sure,” Hank said, and we all looked at the blonde to his left. Her name was Lisa.

She smiled. “Then it’s me, and it’s easy.” She lifted three fingers in the air. “Three words: personalized license plates.” She sipped her wine and put it on the table.

“Ooh, excellent choice.” I pointed at her and nodded.

The list grew as we continued around the table, and by the end I was dabbing my eyes with my napkin. Added to Hank’s
cheerleader
and Lisa’s
personalized license plates
, we had:

Matt:
Laura Ashley bedspreads or any type of waterbed

Dawn:
Jorts (jean shorts)

Kevin:
Former debutantes or beauty pageant contestants

Amanda:
Any guy who weighs less than she does

Greg:
Ivy Leaguers who unnecessarily drop their alma mater into the conversation

Eileen:
Sandals with socks

Me:
Tie between black Levi’s and bumper stickers

We all agreed the best disqualifier of the table belonged to Christopher, who cracked us up with
stuffed animals in the back window of the car.

Upon further discussion, we decided that guys with pinky rings, gold chains, or mullets were automatic disqualifiers, as were girls with muffin tops or photos of their cats in their wallets. Others that were close but didn’t make the A-list included guys with beer guts, unibrows, or mustaches, and girls with man hands, square and/or fake fingernails, or an annoying laugh.

Damn, we were one shallow table.

Hank motioned for a nearby waiter, who with blazing speed refilled all our wine glasses. Then Hank raised his in the air. “Table fifty-three, you are one hell of a bunch. Here’s to the goddamned singles table!”

“To the goddamned singles table!” We all raised our glasses and cheered, turning several nearby heads.

“Could we perpetuate the stereotype of the drunk singles table any more?” Dawn said to me.

I laughed. Despite my best intentions to stay sober, I had failed miserably. I sucked.

“Hell, we deserve to have fun too, right?” I said. “Table fifty-three is the Island of Misfit Toys!”

“You go, girl,” Hank said.

The band began to play, and before we knew it, the best man had delivered his speech, the happy couple had cut the cake, the open bar was open again (had it ever closed?), and the crowd was heading toward the dance floor. The party was going full steam ahead.

I stood up and hobbled to the nearest restroom to freshen up. It was gorgeous, with large marble sinks and more fresh flowers everywhere. I think there may have been soft classical music piped in, but it was drowned out by the sound of the swing band on the other side of the door.

I looked over at the tiny blonde in a red dress washing her hands at the sink next to me. We were the only two people in the room.

I opened my purse. “Thank God whoever designed this place had the foresight to include several women’s restrooms. There’s nothing more awkward at a fancy wedding than a long line of well-dressed drunk women waiting to pee.”

She laughed. “Tell me about it. I love your hair, by the way. Is it naturally that straight and shiny?”

“I wish.” I looked in the mirror. Man, Kristina really knew her stuff. Not a single frizz or strand out of place. My makeup was still perfect, and my smoky eyes and plum-colored lips looked sort of exotic without looking too made up.

I reapplied just a touch of lipstick and put it away, then laughed at how truly useless my tiny purse was. God forbid I might actually want it to hold something larger than a reservation.

I said goodbye to the blonde and wobbled out of the restroom, not sure what percentage of my limp was due to my cast and what percentage was due to the margaritas and the wine.

I spotted Scotty across the ballroom at what must have been table 35 and headed in his direction. When he saw me, he flagged me over by crisscrossing his arms in the air like a clueless father next to a wood-paneled station wagon in a high school parking lot.

“Waverly, over here, over here!”

I rolled my eyes. “Gee, Scotty, I never would have seen you without the full-body spasms. Thanks for going the extra mile.”

“My pleasure, sweetheart. Now let me introduce you around. Waverly, this is table thirty-five. Table thirty-five, this is Waverly.” He majestically swept his arm across the half-empty table, and my eyes met the gaze of three older adults who were clearly not amused by Scotty’s enthusiasm.