A Total Waste of Makeup (11 page)

“The middle layer is white cake, with a cream cheese filling,” Drew says as the caterer whisks the cake away (thankfully making it disappear into the kitchen so that it can be cut and served properly). “Who wants what?” Drew asks.

I end up eating a slice of each. Hey—I’ve had quite the evening, and no cigarettes. (Because God forbid whoever is interested in me find out that I smoke.) I deserve a treat.

Dessert goes by relatively quickly, and soon people are collecting their coats and purses from Jeeves, and saying their good-byes.

I take that as my excuse to bail.

I grab my purse and coat, and prepare to say good-bye.

But before I can, Drew comes over to me, waving his hands and shaking his head. “No, no, no. Wait,” he says, “The night’s young. Where are you going so soon?”

“It’s getting late,” I remind him, “and we both have an early day tomorrow.”

“Can’t you stay for one more drink?”

“I don’t think I should. I’ve had a lot to drink tonight.”

I am interrupted by the caterer, who hands me a white cake box. I look down at it, confused, then look up at the caterer questioningly.

“It’s the top of your wedding cake, ma’am,” he says, smiling.

“Birthday cake,” I correct him, maybe a little too vociferously.

“Maybe you can put it in the freezer for a year, and take it out on your thirtieth birthday’s first anniversary,” a voice behind me jokes.

I turn around, and there’s Jordan, laughing. I can tell he’s not making fun of me, he’s making fun of the cake, and I start laughing, too. Really laughing. It’s the first time tonight I’ve felt relaxed enough to truly laugh.

“I’ve never understood that ‘freezing the top of your wedding cake’ tradition. First of all, who wants to eat year-old cake?” I say, still smiling from his joke.

Jordan laughs. “That. And I know myself well enough to know that if the cake’s any good, it won’t make it through the first night anyway. I’d be eating it in the limo on the way to the honeymoon suite.” He turns to Drew. “Thanks so much for the job. I think you’ll be very happy with the pictures.”

“I’m sure I will be,” Drew says. “Should I write you a check now?”

“No. Let’s wait until Monday, when I can show you what I’ve got.” Jordan turns back to me. “And now, fair lady, I bid you a humble adieu.” He bows, and kisses my hand lightly. It’s so cute!

“Would you like to stay for one more drink?” Drew asks him. “I have a fifty-year-old scotch that’s supposed to be excellent.”

Jordan smiles. “Tempting. Maybe another time. I want to get into my darkroom and get to work.”

He shakes Drew’s hand, and I watch him leave, wishing he would have stayed. Wishing I was some other person—someone enticing enough to make him want to stay. Someone prettier, thinner, smarter, someone who didn’t smoke….

Smoke! Damn! Now I want a cigarette.

Dawn walks up to us, carrying her wrap and her purse. “Thank you for the lovely evening,” she says to Drew, and kisses him lightly on the cheek. “We should do this again sometime.”

“Okay!” he says, excitedly. “How about tomorrow night?”

“I’m afraid I have a night shoot,” Dawn tells him.

“Saturday?”

“Girls’ Night,” we both say simultaneously.

“Who’s having Girls’ Night?” Doug asks, coming up behind me.

“We are,” I say quickly, hoping to dissuade Drew from joining us. “Our friend Kate is getting engaged, and we hope to celebrate with her that night.”

“Or alternately,” Dawn adds, “comfort her when she breaks up with her boyfriend for having the nerve to propose.”

Drew and Doug exchange a confused look. Neither Dawn nor I bother to explain further. (If we did, it would take so long to explain Kate’s relationship that it would be Saturday night before we even left Drew’s house.)

“Well,” says Doug, taking my hand in his and swinging it playfully, “I’m sure she’ll want to spend the later part of the night with her fiancé. How about if Drew and I meet you then?”

A date! He’s asking me on a date! Ooohh, just the thought of it is making me happy and excited. I look over at Dawn, grinning from ear to ear.

She shakes her head “no” ever so slightly. I purse my lips and frown back at her.

Rats. No date for Charlie.

“I don’t think Saturday’s a good fit,” Dawn says diplomatically. “I mean, what could be more boring than listening to a bunch of women talk about weddings?”

“Don’t be silly,” Drew says, cheerfully oblivious to the subtle hint that he’s not wanted. “If you start to get boring, I’ll tell you to change the subject.” He puts his arm around Dawn. “Now, where should we go?”

Dawn darts her eyes at me, hoping I’ll be more blunt with Drew. (As if.)

Drew uses our silence as an invitation to plan our evening. “We could hit Joseph’s, but that’s kind of over. That new place near Miyagi’s has a VIP room that’s pretty cool. Oh! What about that place in Hollywood with the aquarium?”

Dawn starts to interrupt. “Maybe we could see each other sometime next week…”

Drew ignores her completely. “Blue, no. Kafka’s, too snooty.”

Dawn looks to me for advice on how to handle him. I shrug. Finally, she relents. “Broncing Bill’s.”

“No,” Drew says, shooting down her idea. “I don’t like the food there.”

“Neither do I,” Dawn agrees. “But that’s where we’re going.”

“The tourist bar?” Doug asks, surprised and a little patronizing.

I flush in embarrassment for about half a second, before Dawn retorts, “No, not the tourist bar. The ‘I already go to the trendy clubs on Tuesday and Thursday nights, and I want to wear jeans and drink bourbon’ bar.”

Nice comeback. Man, I wish I could be like Dawn. She could out-attitude J. Lo.

Or Barbara Streisand.

Or Puff Daddy.

Doug smiles. I can tell from the look on his face—point taken.

“I can’t wait,” Drew says, then asks Dawn, “Can I walk you to your car?”

Yeah,
I think.
Because the walk out to his gated driveway can be so dangerous this time of night.

But she says yes, and they walk out together, leaving Doug and me to our lonesome.

Doug offers to see me to my car, too, and what with it being so dangerous and all, I let him.

We get out to my car, and I am relieved to see Dawn’s car parked so far away, she and Drew can’t see us.

“I had a really good time tonight,” Doug says.

“Me too,” I agree.

He puts his hands in his pockets, and I fiddle with my car keys, and stare at my cake box.

We continue that awkward “Is he going to kiss me, or should I just get into my car?” moment for a few more seconds before he says, “Maybe I could take you to a Lakers game some night.”

“That sounds like fun!” I say brightly, although honestly I have no idea what I said during the course of the evening that makes him think I would find it the least bit enjoyable.

Doug smiles, “Okay. We’ll talk about it more Saturday.”

And then he leans in and kisses me. His lips are so soft, and he’s close enough that I can smell his cologne (Lagerfeld? Calvin Klein? Something with vanilla—because he smells like a giant chocolate chip cookie.)

He pulls away, and smiles. “See you Saturday.”

Seven

Don’t go out with a man just because he looks good on paper. You’re not kissing paper.

On my way home, I check my messages. Five on my cell phone. I hit *86. The first one’s from Kate. “Oh shit, you’re not there, either,” I hear her say, and I can tell she’s been crying. “Can you call me back when you get this? It’s kind of important.”

Knowing Jack was proposing tonight, I don’t even bother to listen to the other four messages. I immediately call Kate at home.

She picks up on the first ring, sniffling. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s me. What happened?”

Kate begins crying aloud. She’s crying so hard, she can barely get the words out. “Jack and I broke up.”

I don’t say anything. I want to ask a million questions about how it happened, but I can’t even think of where to begin.

Kate stops crying long enough to say, “He proposed tonight.” Then she starts crying again. “Shit, shit, shit.”

I can hear her grab a Kleenex. “Charlie, what’s wrong with me? Why don’t I want to marry him?”

I stop at a red light, grab my pack of cigarettes, and hit the pack twice to pop one out. “I don’t know. Why don’t you want to marry him?”

There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone. I can hear Kate taking deep breaths to calm herself. “Because he’s not the one,” she says sadly. “He never was. He was almost the right one. We almost fit. It’s just never been quite…I don’t know. It’s just…we don’t quite fit. God, I’m such a screwup.”

“You’re not a screwup,” I insist.

“I am. I threw away a perfectly good man because I can’t commit. God, Dawn’s gonna hate me.”

“Dawn’s not going to hate you,” I say as I light up my cigarette.

“Yes, she is. She helped Jack pick out the ring. She set us up, for God’s sake. She loves him. Hell, I love him. Charlie, what’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” I assure her. “As a matter of fact, I’m gonna tell you something in confidence. But I don’t want you repeating it to Jack, or holding it against me, if you two end up getting back together.”

“We’re not getting back together,” Kate insists. I’m silent, still waiting for my promise. “But, okay, even if we did, which we won’t, I won’t hold it against you.”

“All right,” I say. “This is the healthiest I’ve heard you in years.”

“Come again?” Kate says.

“Well, let’s face it, you’re not stupid. You knew there were a lot of things wrong in the relationship, you just chose to ignore them because there were so many good things you didn’t want to give up. Now, you’re at the point in your life where you’re strong enough to give up the good stuff. You’re strong enough to expect more from your life. I’m proud of you for that. Most women aren’t that strong. They’re so terrifiied of being alone that they stay with the wrong guy, rather than risk loneliness waiting for the right guy.”

There’s silence on the other end. “Thanks,” she says.

More silence. More sniffling. “I’m used to talking to him nine times a day. I don’t know how I’m going to get through tomorrow. Hell, I don’t even know how I’m going to get through tonight. I know this sounds really stupid, but can you come over? I really can’t stand to be alone right now.”

“I’m already driving towards you,” I say. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Thanks. I know I’m being stupid. It’s just…I don’t even know how I’m going to get through tonight. He’s my last phone call.”

“You’re not being stupid. You’re being human.” My phone beeps. “That’s me. Can I get it?” I ask.

“Okay,” Kate says.

“I’m not leaving. Stay on the phone. And, remember, I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Kate says.

I click over. “Hello?”

“Jack left me a bunch of messages,” Dawn says. “They broke up.”

“I know. I have her on the other line. She’s afraid you’re going to be pissed at her.”

“What? Why?” Dawn says incredulously.

“She thinks because you set them up, you’re gonna hate her.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Dawn says. “Tell her I’m driving over there. She shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“I’m on my way there, too. Can you pick up some snacks?” I ask.

“Sure. Booze, too?”

Never drink when you’re depressed.

“No. That’s the last thing she needs right now,” I say.

We say our good-byes and hang up, and I go back to Kate to tell her we’re coming over.

Dawn and I were up with Kate until about three in the morning. She couldn’t sleep, and who could blame her? It’s hard to give up your college boyfriend anytime, but to do it at thirty? Now that takes guts.

I was proud of Kate, because she followed a tenet of advice some people spend their whole lives terrified to follow:

Don’t ever be afraid to be alone.

Eight

Some days are a total waste of makeup.

Friday, bleary-eyed, I spent most of the day on set looking for Jordan (who, it turns out, wasn’t even called in that day), trying not to answer too many personal questions about Dawn from Drew, and trying to dodge my family’s phone calls, a series of cat-and-mouse that began after the following exchange with my parents at six
fucking
A.M
. in the morning:

My phone rings, and I make the mistake of answering, assuming that if anyone is going to call me this early in the morning, either someone’s pregnant, or someone died. Or it’s Drew.

I pick up the phone and answer “Hello,” while straining to unglue my eyes and read the clock.

“Did I wake you?” my father says cheerfully.

“Huh?” I grab the clock. 5:58. No, not even six. “Dad, what’s wrong? Is Mom okay?”

“She’s fine. Are you still asleep?” he asks in astonishment, like everyone else in L.A. has already had their morning jog and breakfast, and I’m being lazy.

“Yeah, I’m still asleep. It’s not even six o’clock.”

“What are you going to do? Waste the whole day in bed?”