The Gift Bag Chronicles (30 page)

“Those are people who actually show up at parties,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “And Jason happens to be one of the hottest managers in town. We do a lot of work with him and his clients.”

I can tell this means nothing to her. None of it does. And no one is going to talk her out of it. Oscar and I have laid the groundwork for a really fantastic party, but I swear if she doesn’t back off and let me — let us — do our job, she’s going to fuck it up. And it’s going to be my head on the line, not hers.

“Yeah, well, that may be okay for your other parties,” she says, flicking her hair, “but it’s not where we want ours to be.”

“Look,” I say, trying a different tactic. “Think of our list as not the final list, but a starting place. Once we get the host committee members nailed down with Lucienne’s help, which is why she and the Diamond Council are your — our — key sponsor, we can come up with a group of A-listers who are likely to attend. And then we can go from there.”

Patrice doesn’t say anything, just rattles the ice in her glass.

“Look,” Oscar says, leaning forward. “It’s all about building the word-of-mouth, and Alex and her team are really good at that. We wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t.”

I shoot him a look. Okay, at least we’re still colleagues. Still on the same team, professionally.

“Well, I want to go over my list one name at a time,” Patrice says, slumping back in her chair. “If you have such a problem with it, I want to hear the pros and cons on each one.”

I sigh, the afternoon stretching out in front of me. Endless. Endless and freezing. I will be a frozen, overcaffeinated corpse that will need to be pried off this chair and brought back to life with the ministrations of a hot blow-dryer if I’m to get through the rest of the day.

“Hulllooo.”

We all turn. Lucienne, in white shirt, white pants, shades, and diamond studs of Oprah dimensions, striding toward us. “God, you wouldn’t believe what I just escaped,” she says, bustling up and giving us all air kisses. “It was actually snowing in New York when I left. So fabulous to be out here in the tropics. All this sun.”

“It’s actually a Mediterranean climate,” Oscar says, rising out of his chair with a smile. “Not that we’ll hold that against you.”

“Oh, you,” Lucienne says, swatting him on the arm. “I swear, if I wasn’t already married. Who are you seeing these days, anyway?” she says, sinking into a chair and waving for the waiter. “Which soon-to-be-at-a-movie-screen-near-you-blond starlet is it these days? I thought I heard you were with that new girl, what’s her name?” she says, snapping her fingers. “The one who was in the latest
Scream?”

I look over at Oscar. So much for getting a room. So much for being on the same team. And how had I missed that latest rumor? Guess he barely broke his stride after our one night together. Okay, if that’s the way he’s playing it. At least I know where I stand now.

“Hey, I am way,
way
down on the totem pole in this town,” he says, waving her off. “Besides, I’m getting too old to be chick bait.”

“Really? I didn’t think that was possible in this town,” I say, leaning forward. Am I mistaken, or is he trying to avoid looking at me? At any of us? Suddenly, lunch is looking a lot more interesting.

“Oh, trust me,” Oscar says, shaking his head, fiddling with his coffee cup. “It’s more than possible.”

“Not you,” hoots Lucienne. “You’re legendary.”

“Well, at some age it just gets pathetic,” Patrice says, putting her iced-tea glass down with a thump, clearly miffed to give up the spotlight she held just a second ago. “I mean, Sean Connery is one thing, but Woody Allen is just an embarrassment.”

“I loved
Annie Hall,”
chirps Jay. “He and Diane Keaton were hilarious.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Who’s his latest romantic comedy costar, Dakota Fanning?”

“I think she dropped out,” Patrice says, completely missing my joke. “It’s someone else.”

“And I loved
Something’s Gotta Give,”
Jay says. “Diane’s hot. For an older woman.”

“Oh, it’s the same dynamic offscreen,” Lucienne says, reaching for a menu. “I mean, sometimes I think I’m the only woman I know in an age-appropriate relationship.”

“How long have you been married?” I say, trying to remember who her husband was. Is. Some Wall Street guy, I think.

“Stan and I knew each other in college,” she says. “The only reason we’re still together is it’s too much effort to split up. Too expensive. I mean, one of us would have to give up the Hamptons house and the other one would have to give up the co-op, and that’s not going to happen. Not the way real estate is going these days. Oh, I know who it was,” she says, turning to Oscar. “I heard you were seeing Mai Chong, that adorable Chinese actress who just got a role in the new Quentin Tarantino film.
Kill Bill Volume
whatever it is.”

“You mean Lucy Liu?” Patrice says, sounding stunned as she turns to Oscar.
“You’re
dating Lucy Liu?”

“I’m not dating Lucy Liu,” he says, sounding embarrassed. “I’m not dating anyone.”

“Oh, I know who you mean,” Jay says. “Wasn’t she on the Chinese Olympic diving team, although I don’t think she actually medaled. We were thinking of doing a story on her in the magazine at one point.”

Patrice jabs at her ice again. “Well, whoever she is, we’d have to see the movie first.”

The waitress rolls up with another round of iced teas, all of which seem to be for Patrice.

“Okay, I’ll have the grilled shrimp salad, although it looks like you folks have already eaten,” Lucienne says, gazing at the table for the first time.

“Yeah, but go ahead,” I say, my mind reeling. Blond twenty-year-old wannabes are one thing, but this is different.

“Is that who you’re seeing?” I say, turning to Oscar. “The Chinese
Olympian?
Sounds like quite a catch. All those double somersaults and half twists.”

“I hear they’re double-jointed,” Jay says, reaching for one of the iced teas. “I mean, they totally dominate the sport.”

“Would that make you happy?” Oscar says, meeting my gaze for the first time.

“Does it make you happy?”

I look away. Across the table I catch sight of Patrice, chewing on her straw, eyeing us. For someone so clueless, she doesn’t miss a trick.

“Alex, how much older is Charles than you?” Lucienne says, reaching for the bread.

“What?” I say, startled.

“Charles? How much older is he? You two are about the same age, aren’t you?”

“He’s forty-five,” I say.

“Then you’re the same age,” Patrice says coolly.

“No,”
I say, turning to her. “He’s older. Almost ten years older.”

“Really?” she says like she’s mulling this over. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“You have an older boyfriend, don’t you, back in England?” I say, recalling something in my Google search about her seeing some polo player. Lord Something or Other. From the photos he looked about fifty. But then, most Englishmen look about fifty.

“Hmm?” she says, cocking her head like she hasn’t quite heard me.

“See, I
am
the only one in an age-appropriate relationship,” Lucienne says. “I’ve just proved my own point.”

“And I’ve got to go. I’ve got another event this evening, so I’ll leave you guys to hammer out the list,” Oscar says, rising to his feet and giving Lucienne a kiss on the cheek. “Great to see you. Whatever you need, call my office when you get back. Meanwhile, this crowd can fill you in. The event’s looking really great.

“So I’ll see you tonight,” he says, turning to me.

I look up. I can hardly remember when we were actually friends.

“Yeah,” I say. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“I could kill you. I could fucking kill you.”

I’m on my cell to Steven, driving home after the lunch meeting followed by my blow-dry.

“Oh, come on, all I did was tell him I couldn’t make the meeting and you were going to handle it.”

“Well, he
showed up.”

“Well, that was his own decision.”

“You never suggested it?”

“No, I swear. He called me with some specs on the furniture he wanted me to give Patrice, and I told him I wasn’t going to be at the meeting but you were.”

“I still think you suggested it,” I say, turning off Sunset onto Laurel Canyon.

“I didn’t, but even if I did, he made the decision to go himself. Obviously, he wanted to see you.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I say, eyeing the traffic ahead of me, trying
to decide if I should drive home through Mount Olympus, all those ghastly houses that look like apartment buildings, or if I have time to wind through the canyon. I check my watch. Almost 5:30. And I’m due at Barry’s country club by 6:30. Better take Mount Olympus. It’s going to be close as it is.

“Well, how was it, to state the obvious.”

“That’s a question, not a statement,” I say. “And it was a nightmare. Did you know he’s dating Mai Chong?”

“Who?”

“That Chinese actress. Excuse me, that Chinese Olympic diver turned actress. The one who’s in the new Tarantino movie.”

Steven says something, but the static drowns him out.

“Hang on a second,” I say, heading up Apollo. “I’m going into the canyon.”

Steven says something more, but the static is even worse. Damn hills. You can never get a signal in them. “I’ll call you back when I get home,” I say, and click off, tossing the phone to the passenger seat. I speed up Apollo and turn onto Jupiter. This neighborhood is so ridiculous. Plus all the speed bumps. I’m going to have about five minutes at home to change and reach Steven again before I have to leave.

I’m just rounding the corner of my street when I see Brad’s truck still parked next to the garage. Oh, Christ. I totally forgot he was here.
Damn it
. After our little talk this morning, I have no interest in seeing him again. Besides, why hasn’t he finished yet? He’s been here for hours. I hit the garage door opener and pull in, the door shuddering down behind me. Clutching my bag and the mail, I hurry down the front steps. I try to let myself in with my key, but the front door is unlocked.

“Hey,” I say, stepping into the kitchen. The paint cans, drop cloths, his toolbox, and the ladder are still out, although judging from the walls, the actual painting is finished. “Hello,” I say, heading into the living room. “Brad?” Despite all his detritus, the first floor is completely empty. Where is he? Oh, God. I have a sudden
fear that he’s downstairs in my bedroom. “Hey,” I say, calling down the stairwell. “Brad?”

No answer. Screwing up my courage, I head down, but the bedroom is the way I left it this morning. Empty. Okay, I give up. Where is this guy? I check my watch. 5:45. Shit. I have got to get out of here in the next fifteen minutes. I head back up and out the front door. Maybe he left a note on his truck or something. This is totally strange and a complete pain in the ass. If he doesn’t show, I’m going to have to leave him locked out. Which means I’ll have to pack up all his paint stuff tomorrow unless I want to live in a construction zone all weekend.

I push through the gate and check his truck. No note on the windshield. I peer in the driver’s side window. It’s the usual workman’s mess. Food wrappers, soda cans, tools, God knows what else. I look up and down the street. Okay, I’m going to have to call him on his cell, not that he ever answers it, and then just leave. Tell him he can get his stuff Monday.

I’m heading back down the front steps when a light from Christy’s house catches my eye. I look over through the trees. She must have every light in the house blazing. Probably getting ready for another one of her all-night parties that always end with everyone on her deck. At least I won’t be home to hear it until after midnight.

I’m just at the bottom of the steps when I see them. Downstairs, in her bedroom, on her bed, which she has thoughtfully, for my viewing pleasure, shoved up against the glass French doors. With Brad, naked, his perfect abs poised over Christy, arching up below him.

Maybe I’m the one with the problem. Maybe we should all just fuck like rabbits and worry about it later. Or not, since nobody
else seems to. Or maybe I’ve got more of my Philly upbringing in me than I thought I had. Can take the girl out of the Main Line, but can’t take the Main Line out of the girl. Now there’s a depressing thought. And I thought Kristin Davis had been my favorite on
Sex and the City
because I envied her hair. Turns out I’m a total prude and never knew it.

This is my frame of mind as I speed across Ventura Boulevard toward Barry’s country club. Speeding because, of course, I’m completely late. After finding Brad in flagrante with Christy, it took me about two seconds to decide what to do — get his shit out of my house — and about a half an hour to move it all outside. I still had to clean up, change, and call Louise. Left her a rather cryptic message that Brad was finally finished and that I had no further need for any of his services, such as they were. I propped the front gate open a fraction, and once I was in the car heading out, with no chance of encountering him, I dialed Brad’s cell. Opting for discreet but pointed, I told him when he was finished giving Christy an estimate on whatever it was she wanted done, he could pick up the rest of his things in my front yard. Oh, yeah. And give my regards to his girlfriend. Now I can only pray he actually gets all his stuff tonight and that will be the end of Brad.