The Gift Bag Chronicles (35 page)

“I know what it is,” she says archly. “And I know that Andrew is letting me handle the media end of things, so I’m telling you—” She pauses for a second. “I’ll have to call you back. Andrew’s on the line again.”

She hangs up.

“I told you so,” Steven says. “She’s a witch. Beyond bitch. Now hand it over. Five big ones.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, “although can I just say I have issues with the word
bitch
because there is no male equivalent? I mean,
bastard
doesn’t even come close.”

“Forget your issues with the English language. The point is,” he says, leaning forward on my desk, “that you feel a teeny, tiny amount of the pain I’ve been feeling thanks to her. So pay up.”

“See the cashier on the way out,” I say, waving him off. “I’m calling Oscar to —”

“Wait, you’re calling Oscar? For the first time since your big fight? I’m staying for this.”

“Out. I’m simply returning his call, and then let’s have a meeting with everyone in” — I check my watch — “half an hour to go over the list, and I’ll update us on our media coverage.”

“Okay, but I want the transcript,” he says, heading for the door.

I run my fingers through my hair, take a hit of water, and buzz Caitlin. “Call Oscar back, can you?” I say, going over a few scenarios in my mind — aloof, friendly, sad, distant but with a hint of wistfulness — and settle on strictly business. It’s the first time we’ll have spoken since our fight at the Scrabble party, but given that
C
’s party is in four days, I don’t really have a second to spend figuring out our relationship. Or if we even have one.

“Oscar, line one.”

I reach for the phone and feel my pulse jump. Shit. I take a deep breath. “Oscar, I was just on the phone with Patrice and—”

“Yeah, I know, she was dialing you as she left the walk-through with me,” he says tersely. In the background I hear hammering and sawing.

“Yeah, well, how’d it go?” I say, braced for the worst, although given his tone, I’m unsure whether his mood or Patrice’s endless complaints counts as the worst.

“Let me start with the fact that she’s insisting on seeing the DJ’s playlist.”

“What?” I say. “That’s absurd.”

“Well, she wants to see it. She also wants modifications to” — he pauses and I hear paper rustling — “the arrival lighting, the event lighting, the location of the generators, the florals, the sponsor’s display, and placement of the bar and catering stations. She
does, however, sign off on the café tables on the pool deck that I have lit, as she put it, ‘like a sea of stars around a sea of water.’”

“Very poetic,” I say. “But wasn’t all this in the CADs she and Jay signed off on?”

“‘
CADs’?
You mean as in computer-animated drawings that are normal standard operating procedure for every event producer? Well, no, they didn’t sign off on the CADs because Patrice couldn’t be bothered to look at the CADs,” he says, sounding even angrier.

“Sorry, I forgot. Well, if it’s any consolation, she doesn’t like our —”

“But my biggest problem is, and why I called you,” he says, cutting me off. “Is that she’s got a list that’s heading toward seven hundred, which, even given your usual RSVP–no-show ratio, is still way too high for the three-hundred-person event she’s contracted for. The three-hundred-person event, which I’ve permitted with the fire department, the police department, and the valet, bar, and catering staff.”

“Yeah, I know the list is a problem,” I say, reaching for another chocolate. “But I also know that it’s a complete wish list on her part. We’re going to be lucky to have forty people at this rate.”

“Forty is better than seven hundred.”

I sigh. “Look, I’m going into a meeting now about it. Let me call you afterward. Meanwhile, just know that we got our electronic finally nailed down. In addition to
Access Hollywood
, we have
The Insider.”

There’s a pause. “At least something’s going the way it’s supposed to.”

At least he sounds less angry.

“Look, it’s always bad at this stage, you know that,” I say, trying to sound conciliatory. I close my eyes. Oh, go for it. “So how was your Thanksgiving, by the way?”

“Actually, it’s not always this bad,” he says, ignoring my olive
branch. “This is
especially
bad, and after Friday, I’m out. You do another event with her, don’t call me. I’m serious. Life’s too short.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” I blurt out, and realize I am. Sorry. For all of it. For Patrice being so out of control. For the event being such a nightmare. But mostly for having thought we could move the boundaries of our friendship without losing something. If I could put it all back, go back to being friends and colleagues, I would do it in a heartbeat. Sex is easy; friendship is the killer.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, adding quickly, before either of us can say anything more, “Look, I have to go.”

The rest of the day, the week, is a blur. But then it usually is right before a major event. Like a NASA shuttle launch. Everything is in countdown mode. After my call to Oscar, we have our staff meeting to collectively bleat and moan about The List. It’s like Goldilocks. Too big, too small, at the same time.

“What exactly do they think this party is supposed to be?” Allie says, scanning Patrice’s latest memo. “The Oscars meets Fashion Week? Like we’re seriously going to get J.Lo and Tom Ford,” she says, looking up and shaking her head.

“Maybe Tom Ford,” I say. “But only if Andrew makes the call, and according to Patrice, he’s declining to call anyone.”

“For seventy-five grand, you’d think they might be willing to do a little more heavy lifting,” Jill says.

“Try
any
heavy lifting,” says Steven. “I mean, between their nonexistent budget, the no-cars no-hairstylist no-graft rule, we’re screwed.”

“Well, I think there’s only one answer,” I say, scanning the various lists — our original list, Patrice’s amended lists, and our RSVPs to date.

“Wrangler?” Steven says. “I mean, I’d almost pay the ten grand myself to drop this in someone else’s lap, to conjure celebs out of thin air.”

“Is there any chance they’d pay for that?” Allie says, tossing Patrice’s memo to the table. “I mean, I’m killing myself on my contacts, but almost everybody is already out of town.”

“I’ll check with Amanda,” I say, “but let’s not get our hopes up.”

“So what are we going to do?” Maurine says, looking genuinely worried. So cute. So young. So earnest.

I shake my head. “Worry not, ladies. There’s a reason diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

In the end, which is to say less than twenty-four hours later, Lucienne comes through. Just like I hoped. Maybe she just gets it. I mean, her job is celebrity liaison for the whole diamond industry. Or maybe she just wants another two hours on the red carpet being photographed with Gwynnie et al., draped in her swag, especially since there’s no gift bag to remind everyone who really sponsored the evening. Whatever her reasons, she stepped up to the plate. Bumped up the “gift” for the six key host committee members from studs to a new “Third Eye” diamond pendant retailing for north of ten thousand dollars.

“Oh, my God, we can totally hit the whole Kabbalah crowd with this,” Allie said the morning Lucienne sent over one of the necklaces.

“Do we get to wear them too?” Jill says, fingering the necklace.

“Hardly,” I say, reading Lucienne’s accompanying memo. “We get diamond studs or drops — three-quarter-carat — or a solitaire pendant to wear during the party, all of which must be returned at the end of the party.”

“Cinderella, Cinderella,” Allie chants, trying on the necklace, which does look pretty amazing. “I’m feeling really,
really
centered with this on,” she says, closing her eyes and holding her forefingers and thumbs in the Om circle.

“Even you?” Jill says, looking up. “I can’t believe you don’t get to keep the earrings.”

I shrug. At this point, I just want to get this party over and out of our lives. Swag is the last thing I’m worried about. “Trust me, I do not need a piece of jewelry to remind me of Patrice.”

“I don’t know, I think I could live with her memory if I got to keep this,” Allie says, stroking the necklace.

“Sweetie, I hate to turn you back into a pumpkin, but we have to get moving,” I say, scanning the new list of potential host committee members. If we can get two-thirds of these names, we should squeak this one out. Whether the party is any fun or not is another matter entirely. In the end, all you need for a successful event is the perception of it. Which means the right people on the red carpet talking to the right electronic. “Okay,” I say, looking up. “Everyone work with Lucienne on this list and give me a status report by the end of the day, before we send out the next tip sheet.”

“Where are you going?” Allie says, unclasping the necklace.

“From the frying pan into the fire,” I say, turning for the door. “To the walk-through with Patrice and Oscar.”

There are actually three walk-throughs before Friday, an average of one a day, which is about right. Mostly these are Oscar’s dog and pony shows — “and here’s where the portable toilets go” — but given his dark mood, I’m giving him and them a wide berth until the last possible minute. I skip the Tuesday walk-through with Patrice and Jay. Ditto for the one Wednesday with Lucienne. And on Thursday, there’s supposed to be a final walk-through with all of us — Patrice, Jay, Lucienne, Charles, Andrew, if he chooses to attend. Except when Charles’s flight is delayed at the last minute or he’s delayed for some dinner he has to attend, that walkthrough gets moved.

“I’m not doing it twice because Prince Charles can’t make Thursday,” Oscar says. “I’m rescheduling for Friday.”

“Isn’t that cutting it a little close?” I say.

“Thursday’s cutting it close. What’s a few more hours?” he says. “I’ll see you guys at noon.”

Friday arrives like the eye of the storm. Cold, blazingly sunny, not a cloud in the sky. But then the actual day of an event is always strangely calmer than the days, weeks, leading up to it. You have your media or you don’t. You have your talent or you don’t. In our case, the media are no problem. I’ve already got Allie and Maurine set to spend part of the afternoon laying out the rope line and place markers where everyone goes.
The Insider
gets the lead position, followed by the other electronic, and then print. It’s like a seating chart, and while not every publicity agency runs events this way, we do. Just avoids confusion and fights, and there’s enough of that on the carpet without adding to it.

As for our talent, well, on paper we look good. Better than good. Lucienne’s necklaces really were the tipping point — a fistful of actresses who are this year’s Oscar contenders. Nothing like getting your diamond-bedecked mug on TV right before the Academy ballots go out. Still, I know you can have thirty celebs confirmed and no way of guaranteeing that any of them will actually show. It’s not like an awards show or the
Vanity Fair
and Miramax Oscar parties, when you know everyone will turn up and it’s only a matter of keeping people
out
. For any party lower down the totem pole, there’s always that come-to-Jesus moment, when you’re on the carpet, the media in place, and no one’s there yet, and you’re sweating bullets, just praying someone, even a C-lister, shows.

But that’s still hours off when I pull up to the house just before noon. With no valets and the driveway still jammed with trucks and vans, I park on the street and make my way up the drive. I haven’t been here in a few days, and Oscar’s really made headway.
The cherry red carpet is unfurled down the drive, and behind it, two of his crew are installing the step-and-repeat emblazoned with
C
s and the Diamond Council’s logos.

“Hey, you guys,” I say as I head up the carpet, my heels sinking into its cushiony recesses.

“The man’s inside,” one of them says, turning to me. “And by the way, he’s not happy.”

“Wouldn’t expect it any other way,” I say, giving them a cheery wave. Should only get more festive once Patrice and Charles show. I push through the front door and am greeted with the usual deafening sounds of sawing and hammering. The room is totally empty except for a huge white shag carpet, white sheers at the windows, and about three pieces of white and chrome leather furniture. For a second I flash back to Jeffrey’s wedding in September. It’s like thinking about first grade. How simple and easy Jennifer and her silly latticed tents seem compared to this. How simple and easy my job then seems compared to now.