The Gift Bag Chronicles (34 page)

“I think you way overreacted when he invited the guy from
Variety,”
Amy says, blowing on her mug to cool her tea. “I mean, Oscar was only trying to help you out.”

“No, I think Alex was right,” Helen says. “It was a very passive-aggressive thing for him to do. Especially after he didn’t call her after their one date.”

I stare at her.
“‘Passive-aggressive’?
Mom, what do you know about passive-aggressive?”

She looks at me a moment. “Why, I thought I wrote the book on that.”

“Whoa, Mom,” Amy says, almost choking on her tea. “Excellent comeback.”

“Is everyone here on drugs except me?” I say, looking at them.

“I’m taking Plavix, does that count?” Helen says.

“More wine?” Jack says, nodding at my glass. I shake my head.

Helen taps her spoon against her mug. “Okay, we’ve heard enough. I think we should vote now.”

“You’re
voting?”
I say, looking at them all.

Helen ignores me. “All in favor of Alex getting together with Oscar instead of Charles say aye.”

“Oh, God, I’m leaving the room,” I say, getting up and heading for the sink with my glass.

A chorus of
ayes
wells up behind me.

I turn. “Seriously? I have a perfectly good boyfriend, not to mention reservations with him on the Big Island, and you still think—”

“Honey, you’re talking to three married people,” Helen says.

“Four,” Amy interjects, “if Barkley wasn’t passed out with Bevan in front of the TV.”

“What has that got to do with it?”

“Well, if Barkley was here, he’d be voting too,” Amy says.

“No, I mean what does the fact that you’re all married have to do with anything?”

Helen looks at Jack and then at Amy. “Should I tell her?”

Jack shrugs. “Go ahead, you’re her mother. You know more than any of us.”

“Honey, because after God knows how many meals together, we know more than anyone does: If you have a chance to wind up with a man who knows how to cook, you go for it.”

“They actually
voted?”

“I know, it was frightening,” I say, cradling my cell against my shoulder as I push my bag ahead with my foot. Sunday night on Thanksgiving weekend, the security line at the Philly airport is a battle of inches.

“More frightening that you actually told your parents about your life,” Steven says. “I think I stopped talking to Rita about anything serious when I turned five.”

“I don’t know, it’s like Helen’s a different person now,” I say.
“The whole conversation kind of just happened. Anyway, how’d the tofu-chateaubriand menu go over?”

“Not so fast,” he says. “So what are you going to do? Are you seriously going to break up with Charles because your parents gave the thumbs-up to Oscar, a guy they’ve never even met?”

“Hey, he sent Helen flowers. And no, I’m not. I’m not doing anything. At least, not right away.”

“Coward.”

“I’m not a coward. I’m
thinking
. About everything. I mean, part of me still thinks Oscar’s an asshole, but I also realize I was interested in Charles partly because I thought my parents would like him. That it would make things easier with them. I mean, after Josh, who they didn’t like. Well, not that they didn’t like him, just not as their son-in-law.”

“Honey, the heart wants what the heart wants. Not what the Social Register wants.”

“I know you’re quoting Woody Allen here, but I thought it was the penis wants what the penis wants,” I say, and a few heads in line swivel in my direction. “Anyway, enough about me, Dr. Phil, how was your Thanksgiving menu?”

“Didn’t.”

“Didn’t go over?”

“Didn’t make it. Caved and made a turkey.”

“And you’re calling me a coward?”

“Yeah, I know,” he sighs. “But I realized traditional is back. Besides, it was simpler to go with my wants than everyone else’s needs.”

“Usually is,” I say, peering down the line at the security gate. My flight leaves in thirty; this is going to be close. “So listen, in all my weeping and gnashing of teeth last week, I forgot to ask you again about Oscar and the Chinese Olympian Lucienne mentioned at lunch.”

“Oh, God, Lucienne’s such an idiot sometimes,” he says,
laughing. “Although I’d still take a pair of free diamond studs from her.”

“Yeah, well, so what’s the deal? Are they an item or not?”

“Don’t you read Page Six anymore?” He snorts. “‘What up-and-coming Asian starlet just tapped by Hollywood’s hippest director has been making the rounds with L.A.’s hottest party planner?’”

“Guess I missed that one,” I say, feeling oddly calm. If the ship has sailed with the Olympian on board, then the ship has sailed. “Well, Elsa will be disappointed.”

“Then she — and you — are fools.”

“Thanks,” I say. “And why, he who knows all life’s mysteries, are we fools?”

“Because the Olympian, my dear, is a dyke.”

“I have
The Insider
on one, Patrice on two, and Oscar on
three. Who do you want?” Caitlin says, poking her head around the door.

“Like you have to ask,” I say, punching up one. “Hey, Cheryl, so tell me we’re good, because you know we went to you first, and I say that with the deepest respect for your colleagues over at
E.T
.”

“Yeah, I know, but yes, after some in-house horse-trading, we’re good.”

“Thank you, Jesus,” I say, flopping back in my chair and reaching for one of the Hershey’s Kisses that somehow wound up on my desk. Love the holidays. Chocolate arrives out of the air.

Of all the things I had to do today, nailing down
The Insider
as our lead electronic on the
C
party was it. God knows, the arrival of that show has made life so much easier for publicists. Not only is it one more place to get TV coverage but you get much more air-time than with its snarkier sister show, and also they don’t try to
ask your talent all sorts of tabloidy questions on the carpet. They play the game. Make it clear who the client is, give you good footage of the step-and-repeat, and best of all, because it’s considered part of
E.T.
, clients love it. No more freak-outs when you tell them that
E.T.’
s not covering their event because they always have to have the lead position on the carpet or whatever bee is up their ass that week, but that you do have
Access Hollywood, Extra
, and the entertainment reporters from the local affiliates. Now you say, “We have
The Insider, Access Hollywood, Extra
, and the entertainment reporters from the local affiliates,” and everyone goes home happy.

“Yeah, well, don’t celebrate too soon. I still think you guys are nuts to hold that
this
Friday,” she says. “I mean, the last weekend before Christmas, everyone’s already in Aspen or Hawaii — except those execs whose movies open on Christmas Day — and we won’t even go to air until Monday.”

“Look,” I say, dropping my voice. “You don’t have to tell me it’s a gamble. Let’s just say I was outvoted by our client.”

“Too bad,” she says, “because your tip sheet looks a little thin, which I know isn’t your fault.”

I sigh, resisting the urge to tell her our anemic list was like pulling rabbits from hats — even dangling the carrot of Lucienne’s half-carat diamond studs for our host committee members. Between Patrice and Jay and the holidays and
C
’s pathetic budget and sudden attack of morality — “no cars, no honorariums, no Sally Hershberger hairstyling” — it’s been a bitch to get the two dozen names we’ve got, and even a couple of those are pretty much pulled right off my own personal Santa list. All I want for Christmas is Will and Jada, Demi and Ashton, Gwyneth and Jack Black to show up.

“Yeah, I know,” I say, trying to sound as upbeat as possible, which isn’t that hard now that I’ve got Cheryl and her crew lined up. “But as always, we have more names to come. You see that right down there on the last line of ‘Who,’ right after Brad Grey
and Jerry Bruckheimer: ‘With More Names to Come.’ Trust me. There will be more names.”

I make a few noises about our ongoing talent outreach efforts, go over the details of the red carpet arrivals, promise to go out for drinks after the holiday insanity, and hang up. I’m just trying to decide if I want to call Patrice or Oscar with the good news when Steven heads in.

“I just got our amended list back from Patrice, and she and Jay have dinged at least a dozen more names,” he says, looking up. “I mean, just when I think they can’t get any more clueless and self-defeating, they get more clueless and self-defeating. They don’t like our list, but then look at these names they keep sending over — I think they’re up to almost seven hundred for a party that’s budgeted at three hundred — which now include most of the major fashion designers who are one, based in New York, and two, on vacation. I mean, we’re going to wind up with forty people at this rate.”

“Never mind that, we just got
The Insider
,” I say, leaning back in my chair.

Steven looks up from the list. “Great, let’s just hope they have someone to shoot once they get there.”

“Oh, come on,” I say. “This is a big get. Now all we have to worry about is the list, and we always have to worry about the list.”

“I’m telling you, the woman is a witch,” he says, shaking his head. “She didn’t like any of our party sites. Then she decreed they weren’t doing a gift bag this year. ‘Too commercial.’ Like that’s a negative? Now, she’s dinging more than half our guest list. Trust me, Patrice will find a way to bitch about it.”

“How can she possibly complain about
The Insider?
We just got our lead electronic, plus we already have commitments from
Access Hollywood
and the local affiliates. Plus all the rest of the media who’ve been credentialed, including both trades and the
L.A. Times
. I mean, a week before Christmas, this is right up there with turning the water into wine.”

“As much as I appreciate your seasonally appropriate Christ
metaphors, Patrice will find a way to piss all over this,” he says, tossing the list on my desk. “She who just dinged Megan Mullally, Bill Peterson, and the entire cast
of Desperate Housewives
because they don’t have, and I’m quoting here, ‘the
C
mystique,’ even though they’ve been on the cover of
Vanity Fair.”

“Fifty bucks,” I say, reaching for the list, ignoring for the moment the impossibility of disinviting celebrities who’ve already been invited.

“You’re on. Call her. Let’s do it on speaker,” he says, sinking into my office couch.

I buzz Caitlin and tell her to call Patrice.

“I just had her,” Caitlin says.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s get her back.”

I lean back and wait for her to put the call through.

“You might start making that check out now,” Steven says. “Although on second thought, I prefer cash.”

“Don’t be such a pessimist,” I say, tossing a Hershey’s Kiss at him. “Come on, get in the holiday spirit.”

“You’re only saying that because you haven’t been on the phone to her every hour for the past week,” he says, flopping back on the couch and shoving the chocolate in his mouth. “Got any more of those?” he says, nodding at my desk.

I toss him two more. “Better you than me.”

“Tho as I wasth saying,” he says, popping the chocolates like they were aspirin. “Every hour for the past week when I’ve also been on the phone to every personal assistant and manager who will still take my calls about wrangling their talent. I’m telling you, at times like this, I realize I should have given law school another shot.”

“Isn’t Allie helping you out? That’s what she’s best at, working the street.”

My phone buzzes. “I’ve got Patrice,” Caitlin says.

“Patrice,” I say, punching her up on the speaker, “I’ve got some good news.”

There’s silence on her end, then her plumy voice. “Alec, hang on, I’m just getting off the line with Andrew.”

I look over at Steven. He mouths, “See what I mean?” I wave him off. We sit there a few more minutes on hold.

“Okay, this is ridiculous,” I say, leaning forward to disconnect the line, when Patrice’s voice roars to life.

“Alec, I’ve been trying to reach you. We’ve got to talk about this list Steven keeps sending over. I mean, there are real problems here. I was just talking to Andrew about it. What are you people thinking?”

I look over at Steven and shrug.

“Hi, Patrice,” he says.

“Oh, Steven,” she says, not missing a beat. “Much easier to get this done in one call then.”

“Look,” I say, “we’ll get to the list in a second. I was calling to tell you we just confirmed our lead electronic, and I think you’ll be pleased.
The Insider
has agreed to cover it.”

There’s a slight pause. “What about
E.T
.? I thought you were getting
E.T
.?”

Steven leaps up, pumping the air with his fist. I give him the finger. He holds up five fingers and makes an O with his other hand. I give him the finger with both hands.

“Patrice,
The Insider
is going to give us much better coverage. I mean, as
E.T
.’s sister show they’re —”