A Total Waste of Makeup (21 page)

“I’m good,” Jordan says. “I just got your e-mail this morning. I’m sorry you got bumped offline. I should have waited for you to come back, but I was tired.”

The middle-aged man from the Craft Service truck yells, “Next!”

I turn to him. “Good morning, Juan. Can you get me a regular cappuccino, and a huge one for Drew?”

“Of course,” Juan says happily. “Nonfat milk, no sugar.”

“Thanks,” I say brightly, then turn back to Jordan. “So, what did you do with your weekend?”

I try to keep the question light and breezy. What I really wanted to say was “Where the hell were you?”

“I went up north,” Jordan says as he pours himself a regular coffee from a huge urn on one of the tables. “It was a spur-of-the-moment idea.”

“Did you have fun?” I ask, still lightheartedly. I want to grill him for details, but I don’t want to look too interested.

Jordan gives a weird look that I can’t decipher, and says, “Not really. It was okay, I guess.”

I don’t know what that means, so I don’t respond.

Jordan takes a sip from his Styrofoam cup and says, “Anyway, can you follow me over to my gear? I want to give Drew the proofs from his party.”

“Sure,” I say, taking my two cappuccinos and following Jordan over to his gear of cameras, tripods, lights and lenses, and various packs of film. Jordan pulls out a large white envelope and a medium-sized box wrapped in light purple paper.

“Happy birthday!” he says, handing me the purple box.

“Oh my God!” I say, beyond excited. “You shouldn’t have!”

“Open it.”

I rip off the paper voraciously. It’s a beautiful, antique silver frame. Inside is an 8" × 10" black-and-white photo of Dawn and me from the party. She’s saying something that’s making me laugh, and neither of us knows our picture is being taken, so we are totally at ease, and totally ourselves.

It’s an amazing picture. He’s somehow managed to capture a real moment in my life. You know how, with most pictures, you smile your stewardess smile for the camera, no matter how you’re feeling inside? Well, this picture isn’t like that at all. We’re both just being ourselves—this is just how we are when no one’s looking. And he’s somehow managed to capture the spirit of Dawn and our friendship in one split-second shot.

“This is the best present I’ve gotten in I don’t know how long,” I say. And I mean it.

“It’s just a little something,” Jordan says, shrugging. “I love how the shot turned out. You’re both so amazingly photogenic.”

I’m amazingly photogenic?
I think in disbelief. Me? I have hated almost every picture I’ve ever been in. But this one I love. “It’s really wonderful. I know just where I’m going to put it—on my fireplace mantle in the living room,” I say as I give Jordan a big hug.

He hugs me back, and man does it feel wonderful! We stay in the hug for a few seconds too long (well, define “too long”). He rubs my back lightly, and I feel like I could spend the rest of my life in those arms.

Finally, suddenly feeling a little nervous and self-conscious, I break from the hug. “Drew’s in Makeup. Do you want to follow me?”

“Sure.”

We walk over to the Makeup trailer, and open the door to the smell of lotions, powders, and hair spray, combined with lots of coffee.

Vic, Drew’s makeup artist, an effeminate black man in his early thirties, rubs concealer under Drew’s eyes.

Drew tells him, “I’m sorry, you have your work cut out for you today. I know I look like crap.”

“Honey, if I can make Barbra Streisand look good, you know I’ll have no problem with you.”

“Thanks,” Drew says, and puts his hand out to Jordan. “Hey man, how’s it going?”

“Good,” Jordan says, and they do the new handshake. “The pictures from your party turned out great.”

He hands Drew the white envelope. Drew opens it and pulls out the proof sheets as Jordan says, “I didn’t know which ones to blow up for you. I figured you would want to choose your favorites, then tell me which sizes you need.”

“These are excellent!” says Drew. “I particularly like the ones of Dawn.”

Thanks,
I think sarcastically.

Drew scans through the sheets pretty quickly. When he gets to the last sheet, he pulls it up close to his face and scrutinizes a particular shot. “Oh, I like this one of Dawn and Charlie.”

Drew hands me the sheet, and points to the shot. “Charlie, look at this one. You look amazing! Jordan, doesn’t Charlie look amazing?!”

I’m not sure I like the tone of shock that comes with the question (which, to me, sort of sounded like, “Can you believe such a Quasimodo could look normal?”), but I did like Jordan’s answer. “She was the most beautiful woman at the party.”

I think I am starting to swoon. What does swooning feel like?

“Yes, she was,” Drew confirms, lying through his teeth. “And, can you believe it…she’s still single.”

“Drew…,” I say under my breath.

“I mean, Jordan, don’t you just wonder how it’s possible that some man hasn’t just snatched this woman up?”

“I know I do,” Vic agrees, brushing powder over Drew’s nose. “Beautiful woman like that. I’m telling you, straight men are just ignorant.”

“We are,” Drew agrees vehemently.

“Drew…,” I say, still under my breath, but starting to let a little anger creep into my voice.

Drew ignores me, choosing to address Jordan. “I ask you, how can a man chance letting a woman like this get away? I’m telling you, it’s a mystery, wrapped in a conundrum, cloaked in a riddle…”

“Oh honey, it is a mystery wrapped in bacon,” Vic says, “because that girl is so delicious, if I were a straight man, I’d eat her up. Know what I’m saying?” He snaps once in the air. “Oka-ay?”

Drew snaps in the air in agreement. “Oka-ay!”

“Okay…,” I interrupt, wanting to bitchslap both of them. “So, Jordan has to leave now, and go to work,” I say pointedly to Drew. “And you’ll pick out some pictures later, right?”

“Oh,” Drew says, looking at the pictures again and spouting off a list. “I can pick them now. One of each, in a four-by-six. Anything with Dawn or Charlie in it, give me doubles. I want the one of Dawn and me alone in a five-by-seven, and can you make a five-by-seven of the one of Dawn and Charlie?”

I got to hand it to him—the man knows what he wants.

“Charlie, can you give him a check for fifteen hundred dollars?” Drew says to me, then turns to Jordan. “The extra five hundred will cover prints, right?”

Honestly, some people don’t even vaguely live in the real world.

“That is more than enough,” Jordan says, and shakes Drew’s hand. “If you ever need me for a party again…”

“Oh, I might,” Drew says immediately, looking at me. “I think Charlie mentioned something about having Magic Johnson over for dinner….”

“Good-bye, Drew,” I say sternly, pushing Jordan out the door.

Drew yells after us. “Of course, Charlie would know! She’s at all my parties!”

The door closes, and we walk over to Drew’s trailer, so I can cut a check for Jordan.

The rest of the day I didn’t get to spend on set. Instead, I had to drive out to Drew’s cabin at Lake Arrowhead, two and a half hours away, to deal with a pipe that had burst over the weekend. Yeah—tell me I don’t lead a glamorous life working in show business.

There’s a story of a janitor who works in the circus, cleaning up the animal poop. When he complains to his friend about cleaning up poop all day, the friend suggests he quit. “What,” the janitor says, horrified, “and give up show business?”

Anyway, by the time I get back, it is seven o’clock, and they have just wrapped for the day. I look around for Jordan briefly, but he is gone, so I make my way over to Drew’s trailer.

Drew is out cold on a brand-new white couch. When I open the door, he bursts up into a sitting position. “I’m up!”

“It’s just me,” I say, throwing my stuff down on a white table and falling into a white chair. His trailer is now done in all white: white couches, white carpet, chairs, tables, lamps, walls. Everything’s white, white, white. “What happened to all the Ganeshes?” I ask.

Drew sits up. “I talked to a psychic on the phone today. She said the toilet thing was a sign. I need to be in harmony with my chakras. Hence, nothing but neutrals.”

I won’t even ask. “I just saw Madison. He’s ready to drive you home.”

“Wait. I have something for you,” Drew says eagerly, then walks over to his new white desk and pulls out a small, purplish brown box wrapped with a copper-colored string bow. “Happy birthday.”

I take it, and read the top of the box. In gold lettering are the words B
URKE
W
ILLIAMS
, B
EYOND THE
S
PA
.

I pull off the bow and open the box. Inside is a cream-colored card stating that this certificate entitles Charlize Edwards to a “Stress Therapy Day” compliments of Drew Stanton.

I stare at it and try to come up with an appropriate response.

When someone presents you with a gift, no matter how strange, do not respond with “Huh?” “Yikes!” or “What the hell is it?”

I’d been hinting for lots of things I’ll never buy for myself: a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes, a Prada bag, dinner at The Palm. Burke Williams is one of the hottest day spas in L.A. Anyone who even vaguely knows me knows that I’ve never been to a spa, I have no desire to go to a spa, and that I think they are a waste of…I read further: he spent over $500 on this!

You will always know people who have more dollars than sense.

As I continue to stare at the gift in silence, Drew looks at me and smiles, proud of himself. “You love it, don’t you?” he says confidently. “Dawn helped me pick it out. You get a private herbal bath, a full massage, something called an Emilee’s Intrigue—which includes another massage, a Hunter’s Retreat, and an Ultimate Facial—complete with foot massage. And I’ve included all the tips, too, so it’s totally free!”

All I can think is,
Dear God, I work for Niles Crane.
I feel like a mother who’s just been given crayons for her birthday from her three-year-old. I glue a smile onto my face and look him right in the eyes. “I love it.”

“I knew you would!” Drew exclaims proudly. “Well, actually, I asked Dawn, and she said you would.”

“Did Dawn happen to say
why
I would love it?” I ask.

“Yeah. She said you needed to do something about those clogged pores if you wanted to capture Jordan’s attention.”

“I don’t have clogged pores,” I say, bristling.

“She said you’d say that,” Drew tells me, “and that I’m supposed to tell you that you’ve had clogged pores since the day she met you. And not to get all huffy.”

Lovely.

“And she also says, and I am to quote her exactly, ‘And don’t be acting like this is some dumb-ass gift because, girl, you ain’t never been to a spa, so don’t be saying you don’t like something you haven’t even tried.’”

I look at Drew—the classically trained actor—and I am immediately suspicious. “She said ‘ain’t even tried,’ didn’t she?”

“Yes. But I didn’t think I could pull that off,” Drew admits. “Anyway, Dawn’s coming with me to the wrap party Friday night. You guys should go Friday afternoon, before the party. You can have the day off.”

“What do you mean ‘we guys’?” I ask.

“Well, I didn’t want you to go alone, so I got her a ‘Stress Therapy Day,’ too.”

Yeah, because I’m really going to want to be around her right now.

Drew hands me the spa’s “menu” of the services provided. I must say, it does sound rather indulgent. There’s a steam room and a Jacuzzi, too. And I do like Jacuzzis. Maybe it won’t be so bad.

“What’s an Emilee’s Intrigue?” I ask, reading the menu.

“Spelled with two
e
’s. It’s this thing where they cover you with eucalyptus leaves, wrap you in hot towels, and immerse you in steam.”

What am I? A tamale?

“It’s supposed to get rid of all the toxins in your body,” Drew continues. “Then they give you a full-body massage afterwards.”

I continue reading. “And then I get another body massage?”

“You can never have too many massages.”

Well—can’t argue with him there.

“Dawn says that spa days for women are necessary, the way golf is for men,” Drew tells me.

“Dawn also says, ‘So many men, so few who can afford us,’” I remind him.

“Well, she’s right,” Drew agrees. “Besides, when was the last time you had people putting all their energy into trying to make your day perfect?”

Hmm…Good point.

And I suppose I can always hint for a Prada bag at Christmas.

Eighteen

Parents should not make mistakes. They do anyway. Love them anyway.

This will be the only time I ever utter the following words: Dinner with my family that night was uneventful. I mean, the presents I got were indeed disasters, but I had been warned ahead of time, so it wasn’t so bad. And I suppose Frederik Fekkai beats Supercuts.

Kate and Dawn then gave me the birthday present of letting me cancel on our after-dinner drinks, so I could pass out that night.

I spent the next two days off the set, doing all those boring things you hear about celebrity assistants doing: picking up dry cleaning, going to business managers and lawyers and picking up financial papers, meeting the cable guy at Drew’s house, meeting the plumber at Drew’s house, setting up appointments with Drew’s dentist, shrink, and psychic (don’t ask).

Thursday, I spent the whole day at gyms, interviewing personal trainers for Drew. Each one was supposed to give me a “sample session” of what Drew could expect on a given day. That meant that I was theoretically supposed to work out five different times that day.

Uh, yeah.

No matter how successful you are, no one can work out for you.

Now, you would think that would be the kind of advice you would never have to give a person. But maybe my great-grandniece will be an ultrasuccessful mega moviestar, in which case she might also be an idiot who pays her assistant to go through five personal training sessions in one day.