A Total Waste of Makeup (8 page)

Light-up dancers are spiritual?

“I’m thinking of becoming a kahuna,” Drew says, handing me a bowl of macadamia nuts.

“A what?” I ask.

“A kahuna. It’s sort of like a high priest in Hawaii.” He pops a nut into his mouth, grabs a Mai Tai for himself, then sits on one of the rocking chairs. “I’ve decided when I’m finished with the film, I’m going to move to Hawaii and study the religion of its people.”

“Which is what?” I ask, taking the rickety old rocking chair across from him.

Drew looks confused. “Which is what—what?”

“The religion of the Hawaiian people—the one you want to study. What’s it called?”

Drew considers that for a moment. “I’m not really sure. I suppose that will be my first question on my journey to self-enlightenment.

“Now.” Drew’s face suddenly turns serious. “We need to talk.”

Nothing good has ever come from a conversation that begins with, “We need to talk.” And, frankly, what it really means is, “You need to listen.”

Drew continues, “I met with a fortune teller in Maui, who was brilliant by the way, and we need to spend more time together.”

Uh-oh.

“We already spend sixty hours a week together,” I calmly point out.

“Yes. But that’s as employer and employee. We need to start hanging out as friends.”

I’ve never been so scared in my life. Is there such a thing as friendly harassment?

“Starting with Thursday,” Drew continues. “I’d like you to be a guest at my dinner party. Of course, I’d also like you to organize the party. Now, we’ll need a cheese course—I read somewhere that this year everyone’s doing cheese.”

I open my work notebook (not to be confused with my advice notebook) and jot down “cheese course” as I remind him, “You’re not allowed to have cheese.”

“I’m not?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

“No. Your doctor told you to cut down on your meat, and to cut out bacon and cheese entirely.”

Drew looks at me like this is the first he’s heard of it. “Why?”

“Because your cholesterol’s two-twenty.”

“Well, isn’t there a pill or something I can take for that?” he asks.

The question must be rhetorical, because before I can answer, he gets up from the rocking chair and begins pacing around the trailer like a caged jaguar. I can hear the grass mats crunching underneath him. “Get Phil to cater, and have him include Brie. I love Brie.”

I write down “Brie” in my notebook. “What if Phil isn’t available on such short notice?” I ask, hoping this will dissuade him enough to cancel the evening.

“Then get the sous chef he had—what’s his name?”

“Dante?”

Drew jerks his head toward me and stops mid-pace. “Dante? Seriously? Greek?”

“No. Upstate New York white bread, but with hippie parents.”

“Dante.” Drew stands lost in thought for a moment. “What do you think of the name Dante Stanton?”

“I think your mother would kill you.”

“I don’t mean for me. I meant if I ever had a son.”

“I think you’ll have enough to fight about with your son without adding his name to the list.”

“Olives!” Drew points to me accusingly, and I recoil, startled. He begins pacing again. “Greeks do the best olives! Let’s have an olive platter.”

I puff out my cheeks, and breathe out slowly, trying to relax as I write down “Olive platter.” This has red flags all over it. “What do you want for the main course?”

“I don’t know. What’s Dawn’s favorite food?”

“Martinis,” I say sarcastically.

Drew stops again. “You know, I’m picking up a negative vibe here.”

I put down my pen. “I’m sorry. It’s just…I’m not sure if Dawn is available Thursday night.”

“Oh, she is. I called her, and actually it’s the only night she’s available this week. So I booked her.”

Rats.

Drew pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket. “As a matter of fact…she said there was some reason for you to be the guest of honor.” He reads the scrap of paper. “Yeah, here it is! Turns out you’re turning thirty next week.” He says it like, “Wow—did you know fourteen percent of Americans go to McDonalds on any given day?”

He stuffs the paper back in his pocket. “Do you think I should get you a cake?”

What I want to say is, “I think you should get me a Valium the size of a donut.” But instead, I sit in a stunned stupor.

Drew points to me and says—in a tone I swear to God is exactly like my mother’s—“You know, you’re not getting any younger. It’s time we found you a man.”

That shocks me out of my silence. I stand up. “I hear George Clooney’s looking for a new assistant. Been nice working for you.”

Before I can get to the door, Drew takes my arm and spins me back around. “Look, I’m not getting any younger, either. I’ll be thirty-three in a few months, and what have I got to show for it? One divorce, a broken engagement, and a mother who calls me once a week to let me know if she doesn’t get grandchildren soon, I’m out of her will.”

I look at him, confused. “Didn’t you buy her her house?”

“Not the point.” Drew pulls me back to my rocking chair, kneels down next to me like he’s going to propose, and puts both his hands over mine. “When I was in Maui, I was on a beautiful balcony by myself, watching this gorgeous sunset, and all I could think about was what Dawn would think of the sunset.”

He turns his eyes away from me, as though he’s embarrassed by this new vulnerability I’m seeing. “Don’t you want someone to come home to? Don’t you want to find someone who knows everything about you—even the stuff you wish to God weren’t true—and loves you anyway? Isn’t there someone you want seeing your sunset?”

He looks like he’s about to cry. I glare at him. “That’s a speech from your last movie,” I say accusingly.

Drew stands up, and his voice immediately changes back to normal. “Well, of course it is. But why is it such good dialogue?” He gestures emphatically with clenched fingers. “Because it resonates….” He looks around his trailer. “I think I need some wooden carvings. Maybe of Pele. She’s the fire goddess, you know. That would make the room more authentic, don’t you think?”

Drew walks around the trailer, and continues to monologue about authentic Hawaiian replicas. I tune him out, instead thinking about what he just said about finding someone (the fact that a writer wrote it for him notwithstanding).

The dinner is a really bad idea. And when Drew has really bad ideas, I’m the one whose job it is to bring him back to reality. To keep his life in order. To keep him grounded: get him to his appointments, meetings, and dinners in time for…what? For him to go home to an empty house?

For me to go home to an empty house?

I heave out a big sigh. “Dawn’s favorite meal is coq au vin.”

Drew turns to me, smiles wide, and kisses me on the cheek. “Chicken it is. I’m going to invite Doug Adler—he’s a manager who’s been after me to sign with him. He’s single, and I think you two might hit it off. I’ve also invited Jordan for obvious reasons. And then there’s this yoga instructor…a little crunchy granola, but a nice guy—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I interrupt. “What do you mean you asked Jordan ‘for obvious reasons’?”

“Oh, come on! You look at him the way I look at a Krispy Kreme. And, frankly, the only reason I’m speechless in front of a Krispy Kreme is because I’ve already got it in my mouth. Whereas you haven’t had Jordan—”

“Please stop,” I say immediately. “If you love me, you won’t finish that thought.”

Drew’s lips purse, and his eyes get wide. “I do love you. Just because I’d rather say things like that onscreen than to a real person doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.”

That’s the best compliment Drew’s ever given me—and I have no response. Saying “I love you, too,” to your boss sounds disingenuine.

But Drew waits for me to say it anyway.

“And you love me, too…,” he says with a “repeat after me” tone.

“And I love you, too,” I say awkwardly.

He gives me a self-satisfied smile. “Good. By the way, just in case things go well, I need you to go to the pharmacy to pick up some Viagra for me. I had the doctor leave it under your name.”

For a second there, I thought we were going to have a warm, fuzzy moment. Silly me. “Drew, isn’t it bad enough I had to pick up that rash cream for you under my name?”

Drew looks at me blankly, not following.

I continue. “I’m not really comfortable with the pharmacist thinking I have a sex problem.”

“As long as you’re out, why don’t you buy yourself a new dress for the party,” Drew says, pulling several $100 bills out of his wallet and handing them to me.

I immediately grab them. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

Drew puts his wallet back into his pocket, and turns his back to me, suddenly concentrating on his script.

This would be my cue to leave.

As I turn to go, he almost whispers, “I also realized in Maui that you are one of the nicest, most genuine people I know, and you deserve to be happy.”

He doesn’t say anything else, and his back is still to me.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, then leave him to his work.

Should I have stayed and pointed out that paying some guy $1,000 to be my pseudo-date for the evening probably wouldn’t make me happy? Of course I should have!

But I thought about a quote I would later put in my book of advice:

Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.—Albert Einstein

I mean, what I’d been doing so far hadn’t given me a soul mate. Why not try something new?

Besides, I can’t remember the last time a man was so determined to make me happy, even if it was for his own selfish reasons.

Six

A hostess should always have a glass of something fabulous on hand to serve to her guests.

I’m paraphrasing Colin Cowie. I’m not sure I’m always the best hostess, but I have to say, I love the sentiment.

If you don’t know who Colin Cowie is—he is L.A.’s host extraordinaire! Imagine Martha Stewart being gracious, instead of condescending. Which reminds me:

If you ever want a good laugh, go find some old TV shows from a woman named Martha Stewart. She used to teach women in the 21st century such useless wastes of time as making your own wrapping paper, gluing seashells onto tissue boxes, and how to fold fitted sheets.

I hated her before the insider trading. I mean, why not just roll the fitted sheet in a ball and throw it in your linen closet like everyone else? And do you ever wonder who’s actually making aluminum foil Christmas ornaments using “thirty-six-gauge aluminum foil” and “tin snips,” then giving the ornament “a tarnished finish” with the use of extrafine steel wool and something called aluminum blackener?

But I digress.

Monday morning, about an hour after Drew and I talked, Dawn called to tell him that Colin Cowie’s catering company was my absolute favorite, and suddenly, Dante the Greek was out, and Colin’s people were in.

Then Drew took it upon himself to plan the whole event. I didn’t have to lift a finger. He invited the guests, planned the menu, even had his dining room painted—again. I am actually getting to show up tonight as a guest. A real guest.

It’s Thursday night, and I am dressed in a brand-new sparkly black dress (slightly above the knee, so as to be sexy, yet not trashy), black seamed stockings (I read it makes a man run his eyes up your leg) and FM pumps (just in case they don’t get the other two, more subtle, messages).

As I drive over to Brentwood on this cool, drizzly Los Angeles night, I feel glamorous, sexy, and hopeful. There is nothing that could bring down my mood.

Except the phone ringing.

I make the mistake of putting on my headset and taking the call. “Hello.”

“Put the scanner gun down, and no one gets hurt!” Andy yells into the phone.

“Hi, Andy.”

“Sorry.
Someone
was trying to sneak a set of barbecue tongs onto our registry,” she says accusingly.

“The nerve of some guys. Finally showing interest in the registry,” I respond sarcastically. “The man should be shot.”

“Will you just go over to linens and look at fingertip towels?” Andy says in irritation.

“Andy, as much as I’d like to listen to you argue with your beloved, I’m about to go into a canyon….”

“Okay, this’ll just take a second. I’ve decided on your shoes. I opted for the ones we looked at that looked like a tap shoe, only with a chunky wedge heel instead of the thin one, and also the two-inch strap across the top now has a fabric peony.”

“A what?”

“It’s a kind of flower.”

I cringe. “I suppose one that can be dyed to match the silver dress?”

“Absolutely! And they’ll do it for free, so you only pay the two hundred sixty dollars plus tax.”

“Two hundred sixty dollars for a pair of dyed-to-match shoes I’ll never wear again?!” I scream into my headset.

“They’re Italian silk satin.”

“They’re the ugliest things I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s because you haven’t met the groom’s mother yet,” Andy whispers to me.

“Andy!” I scream. Then I inhale—one, two, three—and exhale—one, two, three. “Andy,” I say, determined to sound calm if it kills me, “I love you. But I do not have two hundred sixty dollars to spend on a pair of shoes.”

“What about those Stuart Weitzman shoes you bought for three hundred dollars?”

“That doesn’t count. I was using Drew’s credit card, which he said I could after the camel incident, so it wasn’t my money. And besides…”

I stop at a red light, and don’t finish my sentence. I don’t have a “besides.” This is her wedding. She’s only going to do this once (or “twice at the most” as her wedding coordinator keeps reminding us), and how I act on this occasion could be held against me for many moons to come.

“Fine,” I sigh, “but I draw the line at the faux fur stole.”

“I totally agree,” Andy assures me. “We decided on real fur.”

“Dyed to match?” I ask through gritted teeth, my hands clenching the steering wheel. The guy in the SUV to my right, who had pulled around me to speed past when the light turns green, takes one look at my face and lets his car drift backward.